by Lynn Turner
“I’m coming with you,” he said.
“Non, you can’t. You can’t just leave in the middle of—”
“I can. I will, if you want me to.” He said it with absolute confidence, as if he had a plane waiting right outside Alex’s brownstone to carry him halfway around the world at a moment’s notice.
“But how?”
“Let me worry about that, petite. Have a safe flight. I’ll see you soon.”
His flight was arriving little more than an hour after hers, and Mina still had no clue how he’d managed it. She landed in Paris at six on Saturday evening, and a car took her straight to Hôpital Pitié-Salpêtrière. Noémie met her in the lobby shortly after receiving her text. She’d been her mother’s assistant for a decade and had become like an aunt. Looking as tall and put-together as ever, there wasn’t a strand of dark hair out of place, and only faint circles were visible beneath spare makeup and a perpetual red lip, her black heels clicking on the tiled floor.
“Oh good, you remembered to change.” Noémie spoke in French, looking Mina over with approval.
“Oui.” It was silly, worrying about her clothes and hair at a time like this, but it was comforting, too, to know her mother would probably fuss over her appearance even from her grave. Enfin, it was comforting until that last thought.
“It’s good to see you, chère,” Noémie said. “I’m sorry for the circumstances, but the operation was successful. If all goes well, your mother can go home in a week or so.”
“So long?” Mina walked at double Noémie’s pace to keep up with her brisk steps, skillfully weaving through people coming and going—visitors with flowers, nurses and doctors rushing back and forth, and departing patients being wheeled to their waiting taxis.
“Oui. No other organs were damaged, but bullets are dirty, so they’re pumping her with antibiotics to prevent infection. She lost a lot of blood, too, so I don’t want you to be shocked by the tubes.”
Mina took a deep breath, steeling herself. “Is she awake?”
Noémie nodded. “And she knows you’re here.” She took Mina’s elbow gently when they reached the elevators. “There’s something you should know, before you see her.”
“Tell me.”
“Your mother will skin me alive—She hates when you worry. She didn’t want you to see her like this, but I wanted to give you some…reassurance…before we go up there.”
“Go on, s’il te plaît.”
“After surgery last night, they gave the bullet to ballistics. This afternoon, they confirmed the bullet is exactly like the ones they found in Monsieur Bernard, and from…from…”
“Étienne.” Her heart stopped—She actually felt it stop beating—right before it made a slow, sickening drop to the pit of her stomach. “H-how could they know…and so quickly?”
“It’s a big case. Bigger than we were initially told. Apparently, they’ve been collecting evidence since the…for almost a year now. The bullet they took from your mother was the last piece they needed. They’ve already made several arrests.”
Mina felt dizzy, which hardly ever happened, given the fact she twirled around in circles for a living. “Several?” She pressed a hand to her stomach. “But who? Who are they?”
“Four so far, but I have strict instructions not to stress you with details right now. Judging by the color your skin just turned, I’ve already said enough.” She pushed the button for the elevator. “For your protection, I’ve made arrangements for you to stay outside the city tonight.”
“For my protection? I don’t understand.”
“It’s just a precaution. It’s been a little while, but la police are aware that you were mugged…that your apartment was also burglarized. There’s little evidence to suggest they’re connected, but the odds seem slim that they aren’t.”
Mina started to protest, but Noémie was firm. “It’s what your mother wants, chère.”
Mirielle brooked no argument. Ever. It would be a waste of time. So, without another word, Mina followed Noémie into the elevator. There was a uniformed officer outside her mother’s recovery room. Inside, there were fresh-cut flowers on a table near the window. A nurse administered pain medication and checked Mirielle’s staples. After giving her a new dressing, the nurse nodded at Mina and quietly made her exit.
“Minette.” Mirielle’s voice sounded tired and small, and exactly like she’d just had major surgery. “Come here, let me see you.” There were IVs in both her arms, and even the slightest movement had her face twisting in obvious discomfort. “You look well. Strong.”
“Ça va, maman?” Mina kissed her freckled cheeks, then sat in the chair next to her bed.
Mirielle sniffed irritably. “Truthfully, I’m in agony, and these drugs make me feel like I’ve been hit by a train. I’d rather be miserable at home, but I’m stuck here watching soap operas until your mémé comes.”
“I’m so sorry, maman.” Mina tried to keep her voice steady, but it was dreadful seeing her formidable mother so pale and run through with tubes. “I’m glad mémé is coming. Someone should be here to take care of you.”
“Oh, minette. You see? This is why I didn’t want you to come. You always worry. You can worry from New York. It does no one any good here.”
“You’re right.” Mina touched her mother’s arm, trying to work up the courage to ask the million questions in her head. “Maman—”
“Not now, Wilhelmina.” She used a remote to turn off the television, wincing at even that small motion. “When Monsieur Coen arrives, you’ll get your answers.”
Mina nearly fell out of her chair. “P-pardon?”
“Enfin, he’s here, is he not?”
“Not yet.” Her face felt hot. “How did you know he was coming?”
“I checked Noémie’s phone while she was asleep in that chair. She spent the night here, which was completely unnecessary.” Mirielle didn’t look the least bit ashamed. “She was giving Monsieur Coen the hospital address. I don’t imagine many directors take impromptu international flights to check on their actors’ ailing family members, so there’s obviously something going on with you two.”
Mina stood and started pacing. “It’s complicated, maman.”
“It must be. In any case, I’m glad. Stop pacing—you know it drives me mad.”
“You’re not going to lecture me about propriety?”
“Non.”
Mina folded her arms over her chest. “Why not?”
“Because I’ve just been shot. Because I’m tired, minette. And because that man might be pushier than me.”
“You spoke to him?”
“Oui, I called him from Noémie’s phone last night. I hate texting, and it would have been rude not to reply. He sounded very worried…about you, I imagine. He seemed confident I’d make a full recovery—he sent a card with the flowers.”
Mina walked to the window to see the vibrant bouquet up close. Tucked beneath the vase, was a small white card:
As organs go, spleens aren’t so important. After negotiating with you, I’m convinced you’ll live to be 100 without one.
-Zachary Coen
Laughing tearfully, she replaced the card, then hugged herself.
“Yesterday morning, Noémie and I were meeting a former client.” Mirielle’s voice was shaky.
Turning around, Mina met her mother’s eyes. Were those tears? She rushed to her side. “Maman?”
“I’m fine, minette. Just…let me finish.”
Mina sat in the chair and waited.
“The client was Madame Lansac, the one who owned that Roman-era statue we sold for twenty million euros? Anyway, on my way out, the thing I forgot was…the proofs you sent me, from the photoshoot for your show. I…wanted to show them off to Madame Lansac—She’s always bragging about her grandson, and I wanted to brag about you.”
“Dieu, this is all my fault.” Mina’s heart was already in her stomach. Now it turned and turned.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Did you
make me forget them? Did you send that bâtard to shoot me? I’m not telling you this to make you feel guilty. I’m telling you because…I don’t tell you enough, minette, how incredibly proud of you I am.”
The meaning of the words hung heavily in the air. Not the words themselves, exactly, but the fact she’d said them aloud. Her mother seemed to show the same excitement for Mina’s accomplishments as she showed for a good espresso, or a perfectly baked pastry. It wasn’t something Mirielle typically celebrated. It was expected. Hearing her say this now, after so many years starving for just such acknowledgment, somehow didn’t hurt. Somehow, it was exactly what she needed to hear.
“You hate boasting, maman.”
“I do. It’s tacky.” Mirielle carefully reached for Mina’s hand, and Mina took it readily. “But I couldn’t stand to hear her going on and on about her mediocre grandson who’s been funneled into Oxford from his father’s prep school—not when I manage the third-highest-paid ballerina in the entire world, who got there with hard work.”
“Fourth-highest, remember?”
“I had my spleen removed, not my brain. Since the Tonys, we’ve had offers for two beauty campaigns, an athletic ad, and several perfume contracts. Obviously, you’ll need to decide which you’ll want to accept, but just one bumps that Tanya Rutskaya from number three, to number four.” Yawning, she writhed subtly, like she was trying to get comfortable.
“Maman, you should rest. We can talk about this later.”
“Oui. I need to sleep, but I wanted you to hear it from me. You really are exceptional, Wilhelmina. I love you, very much.”
“I love you too, maman.”
“When Monsieur Coen arrives, Noémie will drop you to the train. You’ll stay in Burgundy tonight.”
“Wine country? But—”
“Wilhelmina, I’m tired. Please don’t argue.”
Sighing, Mina kissed her mother’s forehead, and quietly left the room.
Zack got there two hours later, filling the lobby with charisma made of finger-raked hair, baby-soft T-shirt and jeans that stretched over his thighs like they were made of leather. She didn’t protest when he let the bag drop from his shoulder, pulling her into a fierce hug.
Her whole body flooded with relief. “You came.”
“I told you I would.”
“But h- “
“Ssshhh, I’ll tell you later, petite.”
She stayed like that for a minute, tucked into him with no space for Jesus, letting his warmth settle over her and her frazzled nerves. People were looking when she pulled away, and when he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. For once, she didn’t care. Well, only about Noémie and the quirk of her curious brow.
“Monsieur Coen,” she greeted him with a nod—and a noticeable flush.
Noticeable, because the woman worked for Mirielle, and Mina was certain one of the skills on her resume read, Rarely flustered.
“Enchanté,” she said. “The flowers were thoughtful.”
“Least I could do. How is she?”
“Dictatorial, which is a good sign. She sends her apologies for not seeing you, but she’s already gone to sleep.”
“Of course. Sorry I’m late.” He squeezed Mina’s waist gently. “Took a while to get squared away in New York.”
“No need to apologize.” Noémie’s eyes briefly fell to his arm still looped around Mina, his fist full of her blouse. “You must be tired, so forgive me for rushing you, but if you have need of a restroom or the café, best to do it now. Otherwise—”
He shook his head. “I’m fine. I hope we haven’t missed the train.”
“Non, we can still make this one. I’ll have the car come around now. Pardon.” She walked away with her phone held to her face.
“It was Vera, wasn’t it?” Mina asked, drinking in his face.
He sighed, and she realized how tired he looked, but, Dieu, he looked good. “Yes. But don’t worry about it right now, okay?”
She twisted away at that. “Why does everyone keep saying that to me? As if I’m nothing more than a twig and worry will snap me in half? This is a perfectly appropriate time to be worried. In case you haven’t heard, my mother was shot, probably by the same psycho who killed Étienne. We’re leaving now on the chance that someone wants to shoot me, too. So, bordel, as you can see, I have every right to worry.”
“Petite—”
“The car is ready.” Noémie eyed them warily.
People were openly staring. Mina blinked rapidly, silently counting backward from ten. “Bon,” she said calmly. “Allons-y.”
The high-speed rail to Dijon lasted only an hour and a half, but after the eighteen hours Zack just had, it felt longer. Mina was sleeping, thank God. After their initial reunion, she’d turned icy towards him, speaking in clipped tones and only when absolutely necessary. He couldn’t blame her. He deserved it, even if deep down he knew most of her ire was pure stress and lack of sleep.
Gently adjusting her head so it nestled in the curve of his shoulder, he eased the awkward angle of her neck. His heart did a little flip at her sound of contentment. At least she could be content in sleep. It had been a surprise to get her call last night, and he’d answered it for that reason—he knew something had to be wrong for her to break their silence first. She’d sounded hysterical on the phone, terrified her mother would die with an ocean between them and no chance to say goodbye. She’d already lost one parent. The thought of her losing the other had been just…
Eighteen hours worrying about her wrecked him worse than the eleven days he’d spent being flayed alive by her eyes. He tried not to think it. He really did. Because it was dick-ish, and completely insensitive…but he was human, goddamn it, and it had felt so good to hold her, to let her take comfort in him for a minute before she went back to resenting him again. He’d hoped the composition notebook burning a hole in his travel bag might help with that, but after seeing the strain she was under…it just wasn’t the right time. Letting his head fall back on the seatback, he watched the scenery rush past in a blur like impressionist paint strokes on the window.
Another car waited for them in Dijon. The driver took the back roads, and it was a mostly silent trip from the historic town full of tourists and deep into the heart of Burgundy. “Bourgogne,” the driver called it, the “Côte de Nuits.” The landscape was beautifully untamed, full of rolling hillsides with high vines and brambles, charming little villages and country roads. It was achingly romantic, and more than once, Zack wished this had been a planned getaway—or a surprise, where he’d whisked her away for a long weekend of wine tasting and making love until neither of them could walk, or speak, or think, or move.
Instead, Mina was perched stiffly on the other end of the seat, staring out of the window. They rode for half an hour, then through the gates of a sprawling vineyard. From his vantage point, Zack could see they were at the bottom of an incredible hillside overlooking the rows and rows of twisting green vines…with a fucking castle at the top. There were towers on all its corners, and a pin-cushion roof of spires and chimneys. Mina jerked, as if someone had touched a nerve in her back.
“S’il vous plaît, is this a hotel?” she asked the driver in a strange tone.
“Non, mademoiselle,” he answered. “It’s a private residence.”
She seemed anxious looking out the window now, as if trying to place where they were.
“Have you been here before, petite?” Zack asked gently.
“I-I don’t think so,” she said, not looking at him. “But it seems familiar.”
It could have been a park, there was so much land—all of it manicured into geometric patches of green, its borders overflowing with colorful flowers. By the time they reached the top of the hillside, the last of the sun’s rays caught the courtyard, casting a shadow across its white-washed walls, briefly illuminating a small oval-shaped plaque that sat atop a pair of burgundy colored gates that said, Domaine de Bernard.
Mina gasped. “I-is there a mistake?
” she asked the driver.
“Non, mademoiselle,” he said. “This is the address I was given.” He let down his window to push a tiny button beside the steel gates.
Zack leaned closer to Mina. “What’s wrong, petite?”
She looked even stiffer, if that was possible. Her chest rose and fell heavily, and her honey-brown skin took on a sickly color. “I…I know the man who owns this vineyard—knew. I knew him. His family makes some of the finest wine in the world. I just don’t understand why we’re—”
“The guests for the evening have arrived,” the driver said into the intercom.
“Yes, please deliver them around front,” a deep, heavily accented voice replied.
The gates buzzed open, and they entered the courtyard, pulling up behind another car parked in the semi-circular driveway. The driver “delivered” them and their bags to the front door.
Holy shit.
Zack couldn’t even see to the top of the chateau anymore. They were too close. A doorman greeted them in French, taking their bags. He exchanged a few words with Mina, and she turned to Zack to translate.
“He says to follow him, please. We’re to meet our host.”
Zack lifted both brows, looking around. The outside looked ancient, but the inside was modern. It had white walls and vaulted ceilings, a double-spiral staircase and checkered marble floors, and the most lavish furniture he’d ever seen. It was exactly the kind of place that would require a tour guide. “Just let me know when I’m supposed to bow.”
At her cutting look, he simply nodded and followed quietly behind her and the nice man in the monkey suit. They walked for maybe two minutes before being led into a room flanked by two men in all-black. There was a fireplace, a mix of modern and stately furniture, and a lean, very well-dressed man standing at its center who was either an identical twin, or a fucking ghost.
Mina cried out and stiffened like a marble statue.
“Bonsoir, ma bichette,” the man said with a shit-eating grin.