Tangled Ashes

by Michele Phoenix

  If the tradesmen were in any way put out by having an Américain giving them orders, none of them showed it. This was a big job that would result in big paychecks, and it was obvious that they were motivated to begin.

  Once the meeting was over and the men had dispersed to tend to their responsibilities, Beck moved with two carpenters to the grand staircase. He briefly explained the cuts that needed to be made, and after they’d asked for clarifications and stopped just short of questioning his methods, they went out to their van to get the necessary tools.

  Thérèse stood by, biting her lip and looking up at the graceful expanse of wood. She cleared her throat twice before actually speaking. “So . . . you’re really going to cut that segment of the staircase out?”

  Beck turned toward her, both hands on his hips. “Would you like to voice an objection? Every other female in the castle has, so you might as well chime in too.”

  Thérèse swallowed convulsively, clearly torn between insult and concern. “It’s just that . . .”

  “I know,” Beck said, holding up his hand to halt her. “It’s beautiful.” She nodded. “It’s old.” Another nod. “And you’d hate to see it damaged.”

  “Yes. Precisely.”

  “Take a good look, Thérèse,” he said, motioning toward the charred remains of railings and steps. “This staircase isn’t exactly in prime condition anymore!”

  Thérèse dropped her head. “I understand.”

  Her change of attitude did more to disarm Beck than her badgering usually did. He climbed up several stairs, making sure to stay away from the most damaged segments, and pointed to the sections to be removed. “We’re just taking this out,” he said, trying to sound conciliatory. “This part of the railing, these decorative pieces, and those eight steps.”

  Thérèse moved forward, paying close attention to what he was saying. “And the . . . underbelly?” She was referring to the masking wood on the underside of the staircase that followed the structure’s curve and hid the steps from view. It was one of the design details that made the staircase seem so grand, as it provided a smooth expanse that curved around toward the landing above.

  “We’re not touching that,” Beck said. “Just the steps.”

  “All right,” she said, patting the hair around her tight bun. “I was just . . . wondering.” And with that she turned and walked toward the dining rooms, her high heels clicking pertly on the marble floor.

  Castle life began to fall into a routine after that. There were, of course, occasional delays and miscommunications that required immediate action, but the craftsmen Thérèse had hired were generally good workers who seemed to love their trade. Thérèse came and went several times a day, alternating being a nuisance at the château with harassing other workers on other sites, and, truth be told, providing more help than hindrance. Her background wasn’t in construction, but it did give her a finer appreciation of the work being done, and she was an efficient and competent—albeit annoying—asset to the project.

  Becker had started his own renovation routine in earnest. His office had taken on the look of a workshop. When he wasn’t supervising the progress in the rest of the site and making adjustments where necessary, he was bent over the pieces of cherrywood he had bought to repair the staircase, meticulously carving out the shapes that would match them to the centuries-old woodwork in the entrance. It was laborious and finicky, the work so minute that he sometimes had to take a break just to release the tension he felt in his arms and head and stomach. Still, it was good work—satisfying work—and he found less need for distraction when he was engrossed in re-creating art. But the flip side of drinking less was that his hands were shaking more. He’d resigned himself to keeping a stash of bottles in his bedroom and retreating for a quick drink when the shaking started to interfere with his carving.

  Jade continued to bring his meals to the office, and the clothes he regularly left on the washing machine turned up neatly folded on his bed several times a week. The stench in his quarters was nearly gone, though he still slept with the window open, and he was feeling less and less like running when the children were around. They still weren’t the best of buddies, of course, but he was okay with that, too.

  It was on another rare sunny day that the sound of voices in the kitchen finally forced Becker out of his comfort zone. He’d spent part of the night researching the mortar that had been used to cement the massive stones that formed the walls of the castle, trying to determine what would be the best way to clean the stones and reinforce the mortar without causing further damage. As he had suspected, the solution would have to be a compromise between primitive and progressive. He had Thérèse out gathering information from experts on historical reconstruction and hoped they’d have a solid plan in place by evening.

  There was enough to do that his mind should not have been wandering, yet he caught himself staring at the same carving he’d already been staring at for well over twenty hours, incapable of focusing. He finally turned off the light above his workbench, pushed back the large suspended magnifying glass he used for the smallest details of his craft, and headed to the kitchen. He told himself that it was nearly lunchtime anyway and that this would save Jade a trip to his office.

  When he entered the kitchen, he found Eva sitting on one of the long countertops, licking a wooden spoon with gusto. Philippe stood on a plastic footstool by the counter, a giant rolling pin in his hands, trying to flatten a big chunk of stiff cookie dough. Jade stood beside him, giving him instructions and laughing in a motherly way at his failed efforts.

  “It’s too hard,” Philippe said, a little out of breath from the exertion.

  “But it’s good.” This from Eva, the human powder puff. She was covered from head to toe in flour and seemed not in the least concerned about it. “It’s really, really good. Can I have some more?”

  “You,” Jade said, poking at the little girl’s stomach with a spatula, “can have one of the cookies when they’re done, but no more dough for you!”

  Eva giggled and scooted away from the spatula, her eyes darting toward the arch where Becker stood. She waved happily. “Hi, Mr. Helmet Man!” Her voice was as bright as the sunshine streaking through the window and casting dancing patterns on the kitchen floor.

  Philippe didn’t turn from his labor, but he chimed in too. “Hi, Mr. Crawls-under-the-Patio Man!” He blew his bangs up and kept trying to roll out the dough.

  “Mr. Eats-in-His-Office Man,” Eva said, the sugar she had just eaten fueling her boldness.

  “Mr. Needs-to-Get-to-a-Bar Man.”

  Jade put a restraining hand on top of Philippe’s head, but Eva wasn’t finished. “Mr. Poopy-Head Man!” she said triumphantly, clearly the victor of her own one-upmanship.

  “All right, kids, enough,” Jade instructed, but the firmness in her voice was contradicted by her laughter. She glanced at Becker, still laughing. “I promise I didn’t put them up to that!”

  Beck leaned against the archway and cocked his head as he contemplated Eva’s final moniker. “Mr. Poopy-Head Man?” he asked.

  Eva ducked her chin and looked sideways at her nanny, a mischievous smile on her lips and in her eyes.

  “Say you’re sorry to Mr. Becker, Eva. It’s not nice to call people poopy-heads.” She looked at him with an even if they’ve earned it addendum to her statement.

  Eva said a very halfhearted “Sorry.”

  Philippe was having a terrible time with his job. He’d finally had enough and shoved the rolling pin away, sending it careening across the counter and into the wall behind it.

  “Philippe,” Jade said, voice raised. “There’s no need for that.”

  “It’s stupid. It won’t roll!”

  “And what exactly does taking it out on the rolling pin accomplish?”

  Philippe stood at the counter, his arms crossed tightly across his chest, his shoulders hunched, his eyebrows drawn downward in a fierce frown.

  “Go sit in the time-out chair,” Jade
instructed softly. “I’ll let you know when you can come back.”

  Philippe stalked over to a chair just outside the pantry door, and Eva looked at Becker, her eyes wide. The time-out chair was apparently a big deal in the Fallon household. Jade took over where Philippe had left off, rolling the dough into a circular shape with ease. She looked over her shoulder at Beck. “Anything you need, Mr. Becker, or is this just a social call?”

  Beck had a sudden urge to return to his office. Or to the entryway. Or anywhere other than the kitchen, really, as this seemed to be a place of awkward silences and time-out chairs. “I was just wondering what time lunch would be today,” he said, grasping at straws.

  Jade propped a floury hand on her hip. “The same time it is every day,” she said pointedly, glancing at the clock above the archway. “But the lasagna might be ready now. If you’ll just give me a minute to cut the bread and get some coffee made, I’ll bring it right in.” She grabbed a hot pad and opened the oven.

  Beck was discovering, as he had on some previous occasions, that the downside of being an intentional recluse was trying to become less of a recluse. It appeared to be one of those character traits so closely associated with a person that, unless there was consistent evidence to the contrary, it became indelible. The thought that he might be there for company had clearly not crossed Jade’s mind, and short of saying, “Actually, I’d like to talk,” he couldn’t think of any expedient way of altering her expectations.

  “Actually, I’d like to eat here with you today,” he heard himself say. Shock froze him. Some small part of him must have known that he was going to say it, and that part had been sadly devoid of the kind of internal filters he liked to think he possessed. Three pairs of eyes—one at the oven, one on the counter, and one in the time-out chair—converged on him. “If—that’s okay,” he added.

  Philippe was released from the time-out chair just in time for lunch. Jade had asked Eva to help “Mr. Becker” set the table, and the little girl had shown great patience in instructing him on the location of plates and cutlery. He was pretty sure she’d set the knife on the wrong side of the plate, but, given his inefficacy so far, he wasn’t going to risk pointing it out. As Jade brought the pan of steaming lasagna to the table, Becker once again questioned the impulse that had landed him here. He sat across the table from not one, but two children, and he was about to spend lunch with them and their nanny. A businesswoman? A debutante? A calculating witch? Any of those wouldn’t have shaken his confidence. But two children and a kind woman? He was out of his league and suddenly feeling much less hungry.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you how your spelunking expeditions have gone,” Jade said as she was serving up the pasta.

  Beck got suspicious. “Why do you ask?”

  “Use your fork this time, Philippe,” she said as she served. “And please blow on the food so you don’t burn your mouth again.”

  Philippe nodded and used the edge of his fork to annihilate the previously perfect square of lasagna in front of him. He probably figured that kind of ventilation would cool it off all the faster.

  Jade served herself last and sat at the end of the table, next to Beck. “I just ask because I wasn’t aware that spelunking in pajamas was a recognized sport.” She held up her hand. “At least, not in France. But is it very widespread in America?” She smiled sweetly and took a bite of food.

  Beck pursed his lips to squelch his smile and nodded at the sarcasm. She’d obviously been a little surprised to find his muddy pajamas in the laundry, and he didn’t blame her. “It’s a growing trend,” he answered her question. “Mostly just reserved for the incredibly wealthy, but they’ve allowed common folk like me to join their secret society.” He took a bite and waved his fork, adding, around the hot food in his mouth, “As long as I go along with the human sacrifices and drinking of animal blood.” He swallowed. “Wanna join?”

  While Jade tried really hard not to laugh, Philippe and Eva let loose with a simultaneous “Eeeewwww!” and made gross-me-out faces at each other.

  Jade put a hand on Philippe’s arm to stem any further dramatics and turned on Becker, attempting—and failing—to be stern. “Mr. Becker,” she said, “in the future, when you’re trying to pull some adult legs, it might serve you well to remember that there are also children’s legs in the room!” She turned her eyes on the twins. “Mr. Becker was joking when he talked about drinking blood and making human sacrifices. Weren’t you, Mr. Becker?” She raised an eyebrow at him.

  “I was,” he conceded, shoveling another large forkful of pasta into his mouth.

  “So, Mr. Becker—Becker,” she said after they’d eaten in good-natured silence for a while, “to what do we owe this . . . pleasure?” She smiled again, that quizzical smile that seemed to indicate she was having some fun at his expense.

  “Uh . . .” Becker wasn’t sure how to respond. Getting into the kitchen and inviting himself to lunch had been a big-enough hurdle, and he hadn’t contemplated the conversation that would have to happen next. It had been so long—so long—since he’d engaged in any form of casual small talk that he wasn’t sure how to be natural. More important, he was suddenly unsure of the consequences that conversation might have or of the promises it might convey. He didn’t need the expectation of a repeat performance, and he didn’t want a new friend.

  “Is there room for one more?” Thérèse entered the kitchen in a cloud of expensive perfume, her burnt-orange cashmere poncho somewhat louder than her voice. The twins gave each other a meaningful look while Jade smiled and motioned to the empty stool next to Beck.

  “There’s always room for one more,” Jade said, smiling at Thérèse, then swinging her eyes to Becker, a message in their depths. “Isn’t there, Mr. Becker?”

  “Beck,” he grumbled.

  “I’m sorry. Beck,” she corrected herself. “I don’t know why I have such a hard time calling him by his first name,” she said to Thérèse.

  “Maybe because his first name is really his family name—or a chopped-off version of it,” Thérèse said, a certain amount of disapproval mixed with her enjoyment at berating him. “Can you imagine calling me Gallet? Or just Ga?” She tsked and took the plate Jade handed her, then sat on the stool. “This looks wonderful. Thank you.” She glanced over at the two children, both of whom were eyeing the cat-shaped brooch on her shawl. “And what have you two been up to this morning?”

  “We made cookies,” Eva said, then, without pausing, added, “Can I have your cat?”

  Thérèse touched her brooch and looked toward Jade, who laughed. “Your brooch is safe, Madame Gallet. Eva—we’ve talked about this, right? You can’t have things that don’t belong to you unless they’re given to you.”

  Philippe jumped in without hesitation. “Miss Thérèse, can you give Eva your brooch?”

  Thérèse covered her mouth to stifle a disapproving gasp, and Jade jumped into the conversational void with a sharp “Philippe!” before launching into a lecture on the finer points of generosity and greed. Becker found himself dwelling a little too long on the light in her eyes, the dimple betraying a smile she tried to dissimulate with sternness, and the genuine kindness in her voice.

  With Thérèse’s appearance, the pressure for Becker to participate in the lunchtime discussion had lessened. He was happy to concentrate on his meal and listen to the banter of the children and the two women, answering when directly addressed but otherwise sticking to the outskirts of the conversation. When the children spoke with Jade, it was with a kind of reverence that took him aback. He’d seen her discipline them and teach them, and he knew she was firm when she needed to be, yet there was something simple and trusting about their communication. He wondered why her mothering gifts were being spent on the children of others while she invested her time in this less-than-profitable career.

  Thérèse, on the other hand, pursued the children like there would be prize money for gaining their affection, and though the twins played along, it was fair
ly obvious that theirs was not a mutually enjoyable relationship. Becker wondered if it might make working with Thérèse easier if he were to revert to a more childish version of himself. Based on some of what she’d seen from him so far, of course, Thérèse might suspect that he’d already done so.

  Jade caught him looking at her and smiled, offering him another piece of lasagna, but he declined. “I’ll leave the leftovers in the small fridge—just in case you get a craving later,” she said, motioning to the smallest of the three fridges that lined the wall by the door.

  “Uh . . . sure. Whatever.”

  She sighed and rolled her eyes. “There’s no obligation to eat it,” she said. “I just don’t want you starving to death up in your little apartment.”

  “I get plenty to eat.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said curtly, covering the leftovers with tinfoil. “Sometimes I wonder if I shouldn’t just bring what we don’t eat to the gatehouse. I’m sure Jojo would be more than happy to accept the kindness.” She put extra emphasis on the word kindness, and Beck knew that was for him.

  “Jojo?” Thérèse asked.

  “The man in the gatehouse,” Eva answered. She and Philippe were standing on stools by the sink just outside the archway, rinsing their hands with enough water to end the drought in Africa. The sink had a view of the front half of the castle property, and on previous occasions, while they scrubbed dirt from their hands, Beck had heard the kids planning the elaborate stories they would reenact in the guard towers and around the stables.

  “Yes, of course,” Thérèse said. “I knew there was someone who lived out there, but I had no idea he had a name.”

  “That’s what the ladies at the butcher shop call him,” Jade said, heading back to the table from the fridge. “It might just be made up, but it seems to suit him.”