Our intern team of fifteen came from all over the world, and I think I was chosen because I'd actually worked in construction; I'd spent a summer at Prudhoe Bay, Alaska, when the pipeline was getting a spiff-up. I sincerely hoped that after I graduated I'd finally get to work on a project building something new instead of fixing someone else's old stuff.
Meanwhile, I lived the Left Bank dream, perfecting my French while drinking wine in St-Germain-des-Prés, where the likes of Hemingway and Jean Paul Sartre drank theirs while debating deep, philosophical ideas. Unless someone else was fronting drinks, my budget didn't cover getting whacked enough to wax too philosophical; instead, I sipped one glass of over-priced house red over a couple of hours, but hey, that's also tres French, non?
The highlight of the summer came with an invitation to attend a fellow student's wedding at the legendary George V Hotel on Bastille Day, July 14. I spent an entire week's food allowance on a secondhand gold silk Yves Saint Laurent frock that was obviously designed for someone with no boobs. It was a good thing I couldn't afford much food for the two weeks before the event because I barely squeezed into the designer's creation as it was. I sincerely hoped that no one from YSL was invited to this society "do"; they'd probably tear his creation from my bod. Just in case, I wore fancy black silk underwear.
I never knew if it was my red hair, my being a Texan—considered by the French as exotic for some reason—or the amount of leg and décolletage escaping golden silk, but the best looking guy in the room, who turned out to be one of the bridegrooms, honed in on me like a duck on a June bug.
Jean Luc d'Ormesson wove such an irresistible web of sophisticated nonchalance—after all the French invented the word, did they not?—and charm around me, I was powerless to reject. Not that I tried, mind you. I was a fish out of water, totally ignoring all the warnings I'd heard about Frenchmen when it comes to matters of the heart.
When I later asked him why he picked me over a bevy of dazzlers vying for his attention, he said it was my Texas sense of humor. I took it as a compliment at the time, but wondered later if he couldn't have at least mentioned my dress.
A few years older than I, and obviously completely at ease in such opulent surroundings, he had no problem whisking me to his suite for an after-reception party he hosted. More bubbly flowed as I yukked it up with all my new BFFs, then when we were finally alone, Jean Luc and I went for a tipsy stroll through damp Paris streets gilded with the early morning light.
I fell head over heels in love.
For all my travels during my twenty years of life, I was still pretty naive when it came to men like him. I'd never dated anyone close and was totally unprepared when after a month of hot nights in more ways than one, he dumped me.
Just flat disappeared.
While I fell hook line and sinker for his charm, I didn't realize he was more interested in the art of catch and release.
Jean Luc's unceremonious dumping of my precious self was the reason I'd visited the beach city of Gruissan before; I was trying to track him down.
By the time I made another bowl of coffee after Jenks left for Lille, another damp dawn tinged the sky. Fiddling with the crappy boat radio's dials, trying to learn more of the Paris attack, I finally found one station, but it was too scratchy to make anything out. I decided I'd go to a nearby brasserie later, despite Jenks's warning to stay on the boat and away from the plaza or anywhere else people might gather.
He needn't have worried, as Castelnaudary no longer bustled. The normal morning foot and car traffic was nonexistent. I could see the brasserie from the boat, but judging by the lack of the usual outdoor tables, they hadn't opened yet. No surprise there.
Oddly enough, I saw the woman from the other boat strolling down the quay alone, apparently unaware anything at all was amiss. With her head down and purse loosely hanging over her shoulder, she personified what I call a walking victim: someone wholly unaware of their surroundings.
I stepped out on deck and called out in French, "Bonjour, madame. Have you any news of Paris?"
She stopped dead in her tracks, frozen like the proverbial deer in the headlights. "What?" she blurted in English.
I switched to English myself. "I asked if you had more news from Paris. My radio reception is terrible, and I don't have a television."
She walked over to my boat. "What about Paris?"
"There was a major terrorist attack there last night."
She turned so pale I thought she might faint. "Oh, no! Rousel is in Paris."
I jumped off the boat and grabbed her arm before she hit the cobblestones. "Whoa, there. Hang on to me and let's get you inside before you conk out."
Holding her arm tightly, I steered her into my galley settee. "Sorry I startled you. Uh, I'm sure whoever Rousel is, he's fine. Want some coffee?"
"Sure. Uh, is that brandy over there?"
Brandy at dawn? I was gonna like this broad.
Chapter Twelve
After I guided Rhonda inside and poured her a bowl of brandy-laced café au lait, she cupped it and sipped slowly, hiccupping back tears while staring at her ominously silent cell phone on the table.
To distract her, I tried to lighten her stress. "You know, don't you, that a watched phone never rings?"
She did manage a wan smile.
"I surmise this Rousel is your boat mate? You know, I saw you two on the beach at Gruissan last week. What a coincidence we are both cruising the Canal du Midi. I've dreamed for years of taking a barge on the canal and rivers in Europe."
"You saw us in Gruissan? Isn't that just a super place? I'm sorry, I don't recall...oh, maybe I do. You were with a poodle?"
If Charles weren't such a handsome hound, I might have taken exception. "Yes, he is a fine-looking dude, that Charles. Your Rousel, by the way, ain't no slouch. No wonder you didn't pay much attention to me and Jenks, my boyfriend. Ugh, that boyfriend thing sounds silly at my age, huh?"
She shook her head and smiled. "Not to me. Want to hear really silly? Rousel is my first boyfriend since high school, and I'm pushing forty. Well, I guess that's more pitiful than silly."
I didn't want to agree, but it was, indeed, pitiful. "Some of us are late bloomers."
Rhonda snorted. "Late bloomer? I never budded."
For some reason this cracked us up, and when she laughed I could see she was actually pretty, just worn beyond her years. Jan could do wonders with this gal.
"So, you two rented a boat on the canal. Spur of the moment, or a long planned-for trip? I think—"
My phone rang. Jenks said he was in the air on the way to Lille, and I asked him about the latest from Paris. He filled me in about the stadium attack and the hits on restaurants and bars, and told me the president of France was closing the borders, and that Paris was in lock down.
Rhonda sat quietly, listening to my end of the conversation, and after Jenks and I said our love you's and goodbyes, I told her what I'd learned.
She picked up her phone and hit redial. "All I get is a beeping sound."
"My guess is the phones are jammed with people trying to talk with loved ones in Paris. But what are the odds Rousel would be in the stadium or any of those restaurants and bars during the attack? I'm sure he's just fine and can't get out on his phone."
"You're probably right, but I wish he'd call."
Her statement took me back to the weekend when DooRah told me he had to attend a family reunion in Gruissan, but he'd call me when he returned. I didn't have a cell phone in those days, but the studio apartment came with a land line. I'm embarrassed to say I sat by that phone, not even leaving the apartment, for five days. I called in sick to work and had a friend drop off food and a lot of wine. That call from Jean Luc never came and, three weeks later when my project ended, I took the train to Gruissan.
"Hetta?"
Jerked back to the present, I said, "Huh? Sorry, I was daydreaming. What did you say?"
"I asked if you wanted to have lunch with me today on my boat. I mean, since
we're sort of on self-imposed house, uh, boat arrest."
"Sure, why not? I'll bring the wine."
"Good. I don't have any on board. Rousel doesn't like me to drink."
Hooboy.
She'd pulled together a large platter of cold cuts and fruit for us, and we got better acquainted while eating lunch and doing in a bottle of wine I brought.
When she told me she'd only known Rousel for three very intense weeks, warning bells went off. Been there. However, I was trying very hard not to say anything to rain on her parade. Maybe hers would be all sunshine and light, but something she said earlier ticked a box. Three weeks into the relationship and he's telling her she can't drink?
"So, where did you meet Rousel? In Gruissan?"
"Not exactly. Well, technically, I guess. My friend Rhea, who came with me to Europe for the summer, and I were playing lounge lizards on the beach at Cannes when I first spotted him coming our way. What with that beautiful hair, great tan, and a loose white shirt and pants setting it all off, he was hard to miss. Rhea and I sighed and speculated whether he was a movie star or something. He and a friend, another good-looking guy, took a table right by us, but never even gave us a glance. Not that we were surprised, you know?"
I did know, but felt it impolite to agree. "I would've figured they were gay."
She giggled. "It did cross our minds, but Rhea and I are perfectly aware we aren't exactly dude magnets. Anyway, we went back to picking out our next stop in France and agreed, after some discussion, on visiting Gruissan."
"So, is your friend Rhea still around here somewhere?"
"Oh, no. She left Gruissan a couple of days after I met Rousel. We'd both taken a leave of absence from the charter school where we teach and skipped the first half of the academic year, but she had to go back to work."
"And you stayed here. Because of meeting Rousel?"
"Well, that certainly sealed the deal. That day on the beach when we decided on going to Gruissan, I also told her I'd just about decided to stay in France at least through Christmas, because I didn't have to return now that I had a bundle of money. I lost my mother this year, and wasn't looking forward to the holidays back in that empty house."
"Oh, sorry."
"It's all right. At least now it is."
"So, how did you finally meet Rousel?"
"It was the weirdest thing. There Rhea and I were, once again sitting on the beach, this time at Gruissan, and I did a double take when Rousel walked by."
"What a coincidence." I said it sarcastically. I do not believe in coincidence, but my sarcasm went right over her head.
"I know. We were surprised at first, then stunned when he stopped, looked at us and asked, 'Haven't we met?' in that sexy accent of his. I mean, Rhea and I, well, we look like what we are: middle-aged school teachers."
While I wanted to object to that middle-aged thing, since I was a little older than Rhonda, if anyone fit the bill, it was she. "So, what happened then?"
"We spent a little time, the three of us taking in the sights, with him as a guide. Turned out he was staying in our hotel and knows all these great little restaurants in Gruissan."
Hmmm. I'd spent time on Mykonos witnessing Greek pretty boys—I dubbed them all Yanni—working flocks of summering American teachers.
After Yanni worked his charm for a couple of days, he'd escort the woman to the ferry landing, and when she got into the departure line, he'd peck her cheek, and trot over to the incoming pigeons and, like a wily fox, zero in, pluck out the weakest and neediest one, and turn on his seductive act. The chick ends up dumping a bundle on an upgraded hotel room so she and Yanni can be alone—away from her nosy friends—and wining and dining in the most expensive places in town, with maybe even a side trip or two to a couple of upscale clothing establishments for men. She gets a goodbye kiss and he gets a kickback from enterprising local business men.
Summer is short, so the Yanni's have to work their prey fast.
These thoughts inspired me to take a nosy tack. "I really liked Gruissan and want to go back one day for a longer stay. Which hotel did you stay at?"
She named the same one Jenks and I zeroed in on for the one night before we rented the beach cottage.
"That's where we stayed. Nice, huh? How did you pick it?"
She mulled a moment. "We asked a waiter in Cannes for a suggestion."
Perhaps within hearing distance of Rousel and his friend?
"Were the restaurants in Gruissan very expensive? We never ate out there."
"I don't know. Rousel insisted on paying for all of us."
Hmmm, there's a twist. But then again, Jean Luc never cost me a centime, either. Just my heart.
"So, your friend Rhea left for the States and you stayed in Gruissan."
She blushed. "Like a love-sick teenager."
"Hey, it happens to us all if we're lucky. You've definitely decided not to teach this year?"
She nodded. "I called and told them I wouldn't be returning. I had intended to stay on another year, but I'd been taking care of Mom for so many years, and when she died...well, now I have real money. When I met Rousel...."
"Carpe diem, and all that stuff. I'm glad your mother was able to leave you enough so you can make that kind of decision now," I said, but I was thinking: the old lady is probably spinning in her grave.
"She was a needy, stingy, manipulative woman, but she was my mother. Little did I know, after scraping by on my salary for all those years, she had a bundle in the bank. Imagine my shock when the lawyers told me she was worth several million dollars, and it was now all mine."
I almost choked on my wine. "Holy crap!"
She smiled and raised her glass, and once again I realized what Rousel probably saw in her; she had a wonderful smile and beautiful eyes hidden behind those bottle glass lenses. Oh, man, what Jan and Elizabeth Arden could do with this one.
However, a dark thought crept in. Did Rousel overhear Rhonda and her friend talking on the beach at Cannes and follow them to Gruissan? And did she and Rhea discuss her windfall within his hearing distance? Call me cynical, but...okay, just call me cynical.
Rhonda broke into my distrustful thoughts by raising her wine glass. "To Mom!" she toasted.
I clinked my glass against hers. "Indeed, to Mom."
"You got any more of that wine?"
"Is there a grapevine in France?"
Jenks called again late in the afternoon, waking me from a Merlot-induced nap. I have just got to learn not to drink at lunch. And keep drinking after lunch.
"Wha..."
"Hetta? Are you all right?"
"Uh, yes, I guess I fell asleep. What time is it?"
"Five."
"A.M. or P.M.?"
"It's evening. Little early for your bedtime, isn't it? What have you been up to?"
"I was visiting a sick friend."
"Huh?"
"Just kidding. I spent the afternoon with that woman on the other boat, you know, the one we saw on the beach at Gruissan? Her guy upped and left her here, as well, so we're hanging out."
"Hetta, you know I didn't want to leave you."
"Oh, sorry, I didn't mean it that way." Oh, yes you did, Hetta.
"Well, I'm glad you have someone to keep you company. Where'd he go?"
"Paris, of all places. The day before the attack. Rhonda hasn't heard from him and she's worried, but what are the odds he'd get caught up in the assaults?"
"One in twenty-five million."
"Leave it to you to know. He'll call when he can. Uh, they're starting to release the names of victims if you want to give her the link to check." He gave me the name of a website. "Some of our employees are using it…they haven’t heard from relatives, either."
"What a mess. When Rhonda tries calling Rousel all she gets is a fast beeping sound."
"Things are starting to settle down, but I don't think he'll be back in Castelnaudary anytime real soon. I hear they've shut down the train system in order to catch the bad guys sti
ll on the loose. My guess is most of them are already dead by suicide, but the ones who do the planning? They're holing up, plotting a new attack."
"How about Lille? Would that be a target?"
"The whole country is on high alert, so we've beefed up our perimeter."
"Perimeter? I love it when you talk military, Sailor."
He chuckled, then sighed. "Hetta, I may be here longer than I thought. The State Department has notified American companies doing business in Europe to take extreme care. No one knows yet how extensive these attacks might get. I'm glad you're in the south. According to my sources, you should be safe, but don't go hanging out in bars, okay?"
"Moi? Hang in bars?"
"Yes, toi. I don't want to have to worry about you. Just stay close to the boat, and keep your head down."
"Aye, aye, mon capitaine!"
He laughed. "You know what I mean."
"Okay, I really didn't want to tell you this, but if it'll make you feel better, I have my .380 on board."
Silence.
"Did you hear me?"
"Oh, I heard you, all right. I'm just trying to figure out how and why that happened."
Expecting to get chewed out, I told him about picking up the suitcase from his apartment and not realizing until I was in the air that the gun was packed inside. I left out the part about the Valium.
He absorbed this news and surprised me with a loud snort. "Well, of course. I mean, doesn't everyone pack a pistol in their boot?"
"Maybe just us Texans?"
"I should be pissed off, but the truth is I'll rest a little easier knowing you have heat on board. Just please, Red, try not to start World War Three down there, okay?"
Chapter Thirteen
After my talk with Jenks, I had the whole night in front of me and a two-hour nap behind me. With no television and no desire for another drop of wine or bite of food, I turned to my inner thoughts. This is rarely a good thing.
Okay, so here I was in the South of France, on a boat, parked at one of the coolest cities in France, but with little to do. With Jenks gone, I was left to my own doings and historically, when left on my own with no purpose, I invent one.
Just Pardon My French (Hetta Coffey Series, Book 8) Page 7