Tangled Ashes

by Michele Phoenix

  Beck wasn’t sure who Jade was, but he was convinced that a beer would make it matter less. Or a glass of red. Anything to dull the drumming in his skull and the ache in the small of his back. “Sure . . . whatever, kid,” he said absently, moving with his mattress toward the narrow corkscrew staircase that led down to his apartment. He peered over his shoulder before taking the first step. The boy was still standing there, arms crossed, glaring at him, and the girl stood just behind him, peering around her brother at the scary stranger carrying his bed down the castle stairs.

  He had just dropped his mattress back on the bedsprings and pulled off his T-shirt to head to the bathroom when light footsteps ran up the stairs and past the door to his apartment. “Philippe! Eva!” It was a soft voice, nearly a whisper, but it commanded attention. “What are you doing up here? I told you to wait in the kitchen!”

  The children launched into simultaneous loud reports as Beck stepped onto the landing to hear what was going on.

  “There was a man on the floor . . .” Beck was fairly sure that was the boy.

  “With a mattress and a blanket . . .”

  “And he was mean to me.”

  “Really, really mean.”

  “And then he got up and said, ‘Get out of my way!’”

  “Yeah, just like that!” the little girl chimed in.

  “And then he carried his bed downstairs. He has a really lot of hair.”

  “And he’s not happy.”

  The other small voice repeated with emphasis, “Not—happy!”

  Beck tried to duck out of sight as the trio came into view, but the boy saw him before he could retreat. “That’s him!” he yelled, pointing at the disheveled and now mildly uncomfortable Beck. “He’s the one who was mean to me.”

  The woman descending the stairs with one child’s hand in each of hers seemed as discomfited by the encounter as he was. She paused briefly and glanced in his direction. “I’m so sorry, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Becker.”

  “Mr. Becker. I instructed them not to come up here and bother you, but . . .” Her dark ponytail bobbed with the sincerity of her apology. Her wide-set brown eyes and small, upturned nose accentuated her youthful look, and Beck found it hard to believe she’d be celebrating her fortieth birthday in just over two months.

  Realizing he was standing there in his flannel pajama bottoms, bare chested and unshowered, Beck figured it might be best to postpone official introductions. “No problem, Mrs. Fallon,” he said gruffly, gradually closing the door to his apartment as he spoke. “No harm done. . . .” She opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off. “Just have to—” he motioned over his shoulder toward the bathroom—“take a shower.”

  He closed the door and leaned his forehead against the wood, the stench of the rear bedroom nearly distracting him from the awkwardness of his first encounter with his boss’s wife. “Nice job, Becker. Brilliant.” He bounced his forehead against the door a couple times, a sort of penance for his self-humiliation, then padded off to the bathroom on bare feet. His first day as an official castle renovator was starting off pretty inauspiciously.

  It was a clean, shaved, and dressed Marshall Becker who strolled into the kitchen several minutes later, his mood only slightly improved by his shower in a space that was too confining for his large frame. He’d followed the smell of coffee to the kitchen, his need for caffeine overpowering his aversion to early-morning conversation.

  “Beck, my boy!” Fallon exclaimed when he appeared. “Come,” he said, patting a stool next to the stainless-steel table in the middle of the kitchen where he sat. “Pull up a stool. We’ve got some introducing to do!”

  The two children sat across from Fallon, each dipping a buttered piece of French bread in a large bowl of what looked to be chocolate milk. There was a butter slick on top of the brown liquid, but that didn’t seem to be bothering anyone. Fallon’s wife sat next to the boy, instructing him to use his napkin on his chin. Only a small amount of the hot chocolate the bread was absorbing was actually making it into his mouth.

  “You’ve met my children, I hear.” Fallon beamed, his chest puffed out with pride.

  “And your wife, yes,” Beck said, taking a seat next to his employer, reaching for the pot of coffee in the middle of the table and hooking the empty mug next to it with his finger. “We ran into each other upstairs.”

  Fallon’s wife ducked her head and blushed, shooting a look at the children, who were suddenly hiding giggles behind their hands. Fallon himself wasn’t quite so subtle. He roared so loudly that it made Beck jump. And then he smacked him on the back with unbridled joviality, his guffaws subsiding into chuckles.

  “Something I said?” Beck asked.

  “Becker, my boy, I’d like you to meet Jade Loubry. My children’s nanny and our family friend.”

  So this was the Jade the kids had mentioned earlier. Jade wiped some milk off the little girl’s chin with a napkin and smiled up at Becker from under thick, straight bangs. Her voice had the melodious lilt of the French language, but her English was nearly flawless. “I would have explained earlier,” she said quietly, still a little embarrassed, “but you seemed in a hurry to shut your door.”

  Becker dropped his chin and rolled his head back and forth. This day was starting off just swell. Not that the night had been anything to brag about. Its only saving grace had been the absence of dreams.

  “Tell Mr. Becker your names, children.”

  Becker looked up and met two pairs of curious eyes.

  “Philippe?” Fallon prodded.

  Philippe looked at Jade, who nodded. “My name is Philippe,” he said. Then he poked his sister with his elbow.

  “Ow,” she whined.

  “Can you tell Mr. Becker your name?” Jade coaxed.

  The pale, freckled redhead rubbed her arm where Philippe’s elbow had connected with it and looked cautiously at the stranger across the table. “Eva,” she said. Then, on a courageous streak, she added, “I’m six. Philippe too.”

  “So you’re twins?” Beck asked, trying to appear friendly.

  Eva looked up at Jade as if the question were too ridiculous for her to waste her time on. “Yes, they’re twins,” Jade said.

  “But you’d never know it to look at them, would you,” Fallon said. He was right, of course. Philippe’s light-brown hair and blue eyes were a stark contrast to his sister’s red hair and direct brown gaze. He was as stocky as she was delicate and, apparently, as little-boy as she was little-girl. Beck had the feeling that the average woman would have oohed and aahed all over herself at the sight of these two kids, but all they inspired in him was prudence. It wouldn’t be a good thing to antagonize the boss’s children.

  “Come on, you two,” Jade said, standing and motioning the children out of the kitchen. “Time to get some work done. We’ll clean up later.”

  They grabbed their large bowls with both hands and downed the last of the buttery hot chocolate. Eva reached for her napkin to dry off her chin, while Philippe opted for the elbow of his long-sleeve T-shirt instead.

  When they’d left, Fallon moved to the other side of the broad stainless-steel table and pushed a basket of bread toward Beck. “The children usually study at home in the mornings, then have the afternoon for other activities, but now that Sylvia is expecting our third, we’ve had to somewhat change the arrangement.”

  Beck felt surprise cross his face and quickly schooled it into something looking more like idle curiosity. “Your third, huh?”

  Fallon leaned in conspiratorially. “It was my wife’s idea at first, but I’m quite delighted about it now.”

  “Yeah? Congratulations.” Beck focused his attention on buttering his bread and not imagining a forty-year-old pregnant woman posing on his grand staircase on her birthday.

  “The timing is actually quite convenient,” Fallon continued. “Sylvia is getting more and more tired as time passes and would prefer some peace and quiet around home, so it seemed like a perfect solution to
have Jade and the kids spend their days here. The grounds are safe and secluded, and the castle is every child’s dream playground.”

  Beck swallowed the chunk of buttered bread lodged in his throat. “They’re going to be here?”

  “Yes, of course. But they’ll be doing lessons with Jade during the morning—probably right here, as it’s out of the workmen’s way. And in the afternoon, they’ll play on the property.”

  “Every day?” Beck had never tried to complete a major renovation while a child-care facility operated on-site, and he wasn’t too enthused about this first experiment of the sort.

  “Most days. That won’t be a problem, will it, lad?”

  “I guess it’s fine.” His tone held little sincerity or confidence, despite his greatest efforts to sound accommodating.

  “Right, then. And your reward for so much flexibility will be Jade’s cooking. She needs to feed the children anyway, so I’ve suggested that she just make a little more to feed you, too.”

  At this, Beck raised an eyebrow and gave the arrangement a second chance. If Jade was any kind of cook, her meals would be a welcome change from the restaurant and takeout food on which he’d lived for the past ten years.

  Beck and Fallon spent the rest of the morning discussing the finer details of the renovation as they pored over the drawings and blueprints Beck had brought with him from Boston. They wandered the castle, this time in daylight, comparing ideas and reaching compromises that both preserved the authenticity of the site and increased its profitability. The local company Fallon had hired to redo the wiring and plumbing had started two weeks before with Beck’s apartment and were well into the mammoth operation. With Fallon’s wealth and renown—not to mention the prospect of additional jobs in the future—companies seemed to be tripping over themselves for a part in the project, deploying large crews and doing the work in record time. That was just fine by Beck. The more of the grunt work they did, the freer he’d be to concentrate on the historical details of the daunting renovation. Once the new wiring was in place, Becker would be able to begin work in earnest. That left him with just a couple days to settle in, gather supplies, finish sketching his plans, and begin the process of turning a centuries-old château into a modern enterprise.

  Thérèse arrived at noon, looking exactly as she had the day before. Her graying hair was in its tight, formal chignon, her clothes impeccable and her face set in a haughty and mildly condescending expression. None of the nervousness he’d witnessed when he’d arrived was evident. She seemed more subdued, though she still moved with the speed and energy of a woman half her age. In the States, someone her age would have been eyeing her 401(k) and planning a move to Florida. But Thérèse seemed to have no such plans.

  Beck stood with Fallon and the interior designer in the entrance of the castle and read aloud the list of “assignments” for Thérèse that he’d jotted on a notepad. Beck was pleased to be able to pass a few of the responsibilities off to her. They included ordering materials, renting power tools, hiring labor for basic tasks around the castle—like painting, stripping wallpaper, and sanding floors—and getting the château connected to the Internet. He’d need it for research, communication, and consultation with Gary. One of them was big on that.

  He ticked off each of Thérèse’s assignments as he quickly and curtly explained them to her, lapsing into the construction/renovation jargon that was his bread and butter. He was nearing the bottom of the first page when Fallon cleared his throat in a very deliberate manner. Beck stopped midsentence and glanced up at his employer, a little put out by the interruption.

  “Lad, I know you know what you’re talking about,” he said, one hand in the pocket of his cashmere pants and the other held up, urging caution, “but . . .” He looked pointedly at Thérèse, who stood wide-eyed next to Beck, still staring at the list of duties he held in front of him. “It might be helpful to slow down a little and allow for some questions,” Fallon suggested in a mildly insistent tone.

  Beck had been so intent on getting through his list and moving on to the next item on his own agenda that he hadn’t been aware of the growing discomfiture of the woman standing next to him. Though her poise was unaffected, there was a small muscle twitching at the corner of her mouth, a subtle symptom of the nervousness he’d seen the evening before.

  “Sorry, Thérèse,” he said, feigning good nature. “Let me slow it down a little for you. I know it’s early in the day and all.”

  It was far from early, and she was far from slow—and the statement had the desired effect. Her composure crumbled a little around the edges as she pulled herself up straighter, the muscle spasm more pronounced. Her face seemed to shrink into a pointed mask of pursed lips and narrowed eyes. “There’s no need to slow it down, Mr. Becker,” she said, darting a glance at Fallon. “All I require is more ample information. I am not the imbecile you suggest, but this is all rather . . . outside my realm of expertise.”

  Fallon stepped in before the situation could escalate, giving Becker’s arm a warning squeeze. “Miss Gallet, would you mind making a couple calls to the Internet company and seeing what they’ve come up with? The phone number for my contact with Wanadoo is on the desk in the office. Henri, I believe, is his name.”

  She marched off in the direction of the office, her heels clicking primly on the castle’s marble floor.

  Beck dislodged Fallon’s hand by reaching for an imaginary itch on the side of his neck.

  “What was that?” Fallon asked, not so much angry as confused.

  “We, uh, got off to a rough start yesterday,” Beck said, scanning the notes he’d jotted down earlier.

  “Well, do what you have to do to unroughen it, Mr. Becker. I leave for England in the morning and don’t want to return to a war zone in five days.”

  Becker hung his head and bit back an unnecessary retort.

  “Listen,” Fallon said, lowering his voice. “Thérèse appeared on my doorstep a year ago and offered me her services based solely on hearing that I’d acquired the château. This is her dream project and she was a godsend—I wasn’t even in the market for an interior designer at the time. Her résumé is impeccable and her expertise in the field is well established. I assure you that Miss Gallet’s assistance and connections in the community are going to be important for your work.”

  Beck nodded. “I understand.”

  “Just . . . give yourself some time to get used to her, lad. And try not to hurt her feelings. I get the impression they’re rather . . . fragile.”

  “Of course,” Beck said with just enough conviction to assuage his employer. He turned his attention to the staircase that rose with sweeping grace from marble floors to molded ceilings.

  Fallon took the hint. “One more thing before I leave you to your craft,” he said, motioning for Beck to move with him to the entryway doors. He pointed at the dilapidated gatehouse attached to the tall wrought-iron fence that guarded the entrance to the castle grounds.

  “You want to remodel that too?” Beck asked, starting to wonder if his boss had delusions of grandeur.

  “Oh, no! Heavens, no. You just need to know that Jojo lives there. A strange old fellow who sort of . . . came with the property.”

  Beck gave his boss a questioning look. “Jojo?”

  “The old boy has lived in that poor excuse for a house since as long as anyone can remember around here, and no one seems inclined to evict him. I briefly raised the issue in one of our negotiations for the acquisition of the castle, but the reaction was so strong that I decided to let the poor soul stay put.”

  Beck squinted at the old building, noting the broken windows, the rotten thatched roof, and the overgrown path that led to its peeling door. “Well, as long as he stays out of my way . . .”

  “That’s why I’m telling you about him, actually. He tends to . . . wander. Usually at night, mind you. And he isn’t much for talking either. The townsfolk seem to think he’s either mute or a ghost.”

  Beck reme
mbered Thérèse’s remark about finding alternate lodging and wondered if this “ghost” was what she’d been referring to.

  “Either way,” Fallon continued, “he wouldn’t hurt a fly, but he could scare the wits out of you if you didn’t know to expect him!”

  “Well, now I know.”

  “Just consider him another historical feature of the Château de Lamorlaye,” Fallon said dramatically, tracing an invisible marquee in the air in front of him.

  “Sure, I’ll do that,” Beck said. But he still planned on sleeping with a crowbar near his bed.

  WITH THE TWINS out playing in the park, Jade had put some elbow grease into scrubbing the smell out of Becker’s apartment. When he entered his quarters after a long shopping expedition with Thérèse in search of the perfect wood to repair the main staircase, he found Jade backing out of the room, spraying an air freshener as she went.

  She heard him coming and turned, smoothing the fabric of her khaki skirt over her hips. “Mr. Becker—I’m just finishing up here. . . .”

  Beck tossed his coat and wallet onto the chair just inside his bedroom door, then moved down the hall to where Jade stood.

  “I scrubbed the room with vinegar and soap. Including the walls. And I used bleach in the corner with the . . . pee in it.” She seemed embarrassed to have to use the word. “I read online that baking soda helps, so that’s what you see on the floor over there. It’s supposed to sit at least overnight. And you might want to leave the window open too. Just to air it out. I’ll be back in the morning to mop up the soda.”

  She’d scarcely made eye contact with him while she spoke. She’d taken in his faded jeans and the white T-shirt he wore under an unbuttoned plaid shirt but had merely skimmed his face.

  “I didn’t expect you to—”

  “It’s nothing.” She smiled a little and bent over to toss her supplies into the yellow bucket on the floor. “Mr. Fallon doesn’t like his employees to complain that their rooms smell like urinals.”