Hat Trick

by Morris Fenris

  Her train of thought led inexorably to the morrow, and her appointment at Francesca Carrington’s law firm. For too long every day’s schedule had been bound by the usual business routine. It had become—well, not exactly boring. Not exactly humdrum. Just accepted, as a condition to the lifestyle she wanted. Excitement meant tracking down and acquiring the location for another of her Cachet spas. And, lately, even that incentive was beginning to fade.

  What else could there be waiting for her, somewhere out beyond self-imposed barriers?

  For the first in a very long time, she was visited by a sense of anticipation. It kept her eyes sparkling at dinner, and her insides queued up with roaming butterflies, and it kept her awake far into the night.

  Mr. Timothy Lord, Kate discovered, after a cab had discharged her at the offices of Whitney & Lord just before ten o’clock next morning, was all that she had expected him to be. Tall, silver-haired, formally dressed, and eminently respectable, he greeted her in the reception area with a firm handshake and some casual conversation about her visit to Boston.

  “First time here, eh?” Ushering her into his office, he indicated the client’s chair and then resumed his own. “Well, if you have time for some sightseeing, you really must take in…” and he named off several local tourist attractions that might appeal.

  “Thank you, Mr. Lord.” Kate crossed her ankles off to the side and smoothed the fabric of her butter-gold skirt. “I’m not sure what my schedule will allow, but I appreciate your interest.”

  From behind his immense hand-carved desk, he was surveying her with admiration and approval. “May I just add a compliment, Miss Waring. You are all that your grandmother said you are, and then some. Please, tell me about your enterprise in California.”

  Pleased by this show of interest from someone of discernment, she briefly described her path from the beginning of Cachet and its multiple outlets to the demanding labor involved in running a successful business.

  “I can certainly appreciate all you’ve put into your dream,” said Mr. Lord after a while. “Anyone who’s ever operated as an entrepreneur understands some of the pitfalls. Now, before we get started with your own reason for being here today, may I offer you some refreshment? Hot tea, perhaps, or a cold soft drink?”

  Hot tea it was, in that air-conditioned slightly chilly office. As she sipped from an exquisite bone china cup, Kate watched while Mr. Lord spread out various documents from a bulging file and listened to his description and explanation of each. Confusing, to say the least. She was relieved there was someone knowledgeable to serve as guide through the forest of legalese.

  “I’ve inherited—everything—?” she finally said blankly, once the attorney had finished.

  “Everything. You are, after all, the sole heir.” He seemed slightly amused by her confusion. “Mr. Carrington was quite wealthy in his own right; and, over the years, Mrs. Carrington added to that wealth. A quite handsome stock and bond portfolio, properties here in Boston, a few small companies that had been purchased. And, of course, the estate in France.”

  “I’m—overwhelmed…” Silence for a few minutes, which he did not interrupt that she might have all the time she needed to absorb. Timothy Lord’s most winning trait was his patience. “I wish—oh, I wish I had known her…my grandmother!” Kate suddenly burst out.

  Carefully Mr. Lord cleared his throat. “I know that she wished the same. May I just say, Miss Waring, I think she would be very proud of you. Not only of where you are in life, and how you present yourself, but of what you’ve accomplished.”

  Looking across at him with those oh so blue eyes, Kate offered a wan smile. “Thank you. I appreciate your telling me that.”

  “So, what do you think you’ll do now?” He was gathering together all the necessary documents to re-file into their padded folder. “Stay over here in town for a few days? Return to California and your own business interests?”

  “No. I am going to France.”

  Clearly surprised, he glanced up with silver eyebrows raised. “Indeed. Are you, now?”

  “Mr. Lord, in the ten years involved in creating and expanding Cachet,” she told him slowly and thoughtfully, “I have rarely taken even a Sunday away from the business. No brief getaways, no vacations. Any of my few close associates at home could tell you I am not an impulsive person. I am practical and pragmatic to a fault. But today—today I have decided, on the spur of the moment, that I am going to France!”

  In her lifetime, she had rarely let down any barriers enough for anyone to see her true personality. Such laxity was neither wise nor safe. Yet here, at this instant, she did so, in a spurt of freedom to match that which called her from an ocean away.

  Abruptly she put down her empty tea cup and rose, and he rose in tandem.

  “My dear Miss Waring,” he smiled with genuine good will and understanding, “then I can only wish you well on your voyage of discovery. I will let Mrs. Carrington’s solicitor know that you are on your way, but please feel free to call upon me at any time in the future that I can be of assistance.”

  Physically she accepted his outstretched hand in a farewell clasp, but it was plain that her spirit had already taken wing away, and she was anxious to catch up with it.

  “Thank you, Mr. Lord. I shall certainly do that.” With a brief flutter of laughter, she filled her tote with all the papers being transferred to her possession. “Wonder of wonders…I have to buy a map!”

  *

  As it turned out, Kate spent a few extra days in the city after all. Since this visit had come as a turning point in her life, she took her attorney’s advice and actually did some of the sightseeing he had recommended. The Back Bay, for one, with so many historic churches; and the waterway, where the U.S.S. Constitution lay at anchor; and the Freedom Trail, that began with Boston Common and included the Paul Revere House, the Old Corner Bookstore, the statue of Benjamin Franklin, and the site of the Boston Massacre.

  She made travel arrangements, shopped for some essentials—more for the pure pleasure of browsing through fine department stores and quirky little boutiques than actual necessity—and checked in with both Barbara and Lisette.

  On a conference call, she assured them that she was fine, the weather was fine, her newly acquired lawyer was fine.

  “What’s going on?” Lisette demanded suspiciously from some two thousand miles away. “Have you met someone?”

  “Met someone? Of course not! Where would you get that idea?”

  “I don’t know. There’s a note—something—in your voice that I haven’t heard in a long time. Maybe I’ve never heard it. Almost—giddy.”

  “That’s true,” agreed Barbara. “Very different, boss lady. What are you up to?”

  “You two old mother hens,” Kate scoffed affectionately. “Here’s what I’m up to.” She went on to describe Mr. Lord, and his helpfulness, in glowing terms, along with a brief update as to her changed financial situation. “When I get back home,” she promised, “we’ll celebrate like crazy. But, until then—”

  “Until then what? Are you going off half-cocked, Kate?”

  She chuckled. “I’m afraid I am. Girls, tomorrow I’m heading to France.”

  Stunned silence for just a moment. Then ripples of laughter and a couple of cheers came over the line. “I’ll be damned,” Lisette crowed. “You’re gonna kick up your heels. It’s about time.”

  “Don’t do anything we wouldn’t do,” added her counterpart.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it. Meanwhile, Lis, you’re in charge while I’m gone, and Barbara, please give her the same great backup you’ve always given me. I have so much faith in you two, and Del and Gigi, as well. Besides, I’m only a cell phone call or email away, so feel free to contact me if you have any questions.”

  It seemed not the most satisfactory way to take off on this unplanned junket, leaving behind a thriving, demanding business with less worry than if it were a massage table set up in her home. Yet, she had never felt more compe
lled to do so. Something new and exciting waited for her in that country she understood so little about. She knew it in her bones.

  Kate slept restlessly and uncomfortably during her flight across the Atlantic. The seats did nothing to promote healthy slumber, no matter their padding or position, and the dry air made for scratchy eyes and throat. After stumbling groggily off the plane at Heathrow for a four-hour layover, she made her way to a lounge and dozed until it was time to board yet another 747 jumbo jet to Paris.

  She emerged, tottering a little with weariness, to push through crowded hallways at Charles De Gaulle Airport and on to retrieve her luggage. Then it was out into brilliant summer sunshine for one of the clean yellow taxicabs so conveniently lined up. While the driver gallantly collected and stowed her belongings, Kate fell into the back seat, overcome by gratitude that she had somehow made it this far. No wonder seasoned travelers took plenty of time to recuperate from each trip. No wonder they looked like a bag of wet sand upon arrival. She was exhausted!

  The Hotel Fleur welcomed her with much gilt and glamour but very little fanfare. By the time she had wobbled like a weak-kneed babe into the lobby and checked in, she was ready to collapse on the richly carpeted floor, then and there, never to move again.

  In her room at last, she kicked off her pumps, stripped away her suit jacket, dropped flat onto a canopied bed, and slept for a solid seven hours.

  The subdued chime of a telephone stirred her somewhat back to life.

  Dazed and befuddled, she shifted position under the thick poufy comforter and managed to scrape her eyes open. Awareness of time and place took another minute or two. Finally she was able to fumble for the receiver and croak out a ragged, “Hello.”

  “Mademoiselle Waring?”

  “Uh-huh.” Laboriously clearing her throat, Kate pulled herself into a sitting position and shoved her hair out of the way. “Yes. Ahem. I’m sorry. This is Miss Waring.”

  “Ah, I apologize, I have disturbed you.”

  “Um…no, not at all. Well—” a small laugh, “actually, yes, I was sleeping. But it’s time I was up.”

  Way past time. Dusk was sneaking little shadowy fingers into the unlighted room, laying a shroud upon all its charm and grace; only the streetlamps and blinking signs of Paris outside provided a scene of illumination, and that colorful enough to draw one window-ward where a kaleidoscope view might be enjoyed.

  Kate reached out to snap on the bedside lamp as her caller once again expressed regret for his intrusion, in a warm, pleasant, chocolate-syrupy kind of voice and just a slight tinge of exotic accent. Fitting for someone whose native tongue was not English.

  “I am so sorry. Mr. Lord informed me of your arrival date, and where you would be staying, but the time zone difference always confuses one, does it not? My name is Christophe Beauchene, Mademoiselle, and I am—or was—your grandmother’s solicitor.”

  Ah. Someone familiar in an unfamiliar land.

  For a few minutes they chatted, mostly about her flight and what she might expect in the way of experiences, now that she was here.

  “Your first visit to our fair nation, yes, Mademoiselle? Such a fine time of the year to see all that France has to offer. Should it meet with your schedule, I would enjoy playing tour guide.”

  “Tour guide? Why, that’s very generous of you, Monsieur Beauchene, but I hardly think—”

  “My time is at your disposal, I assure you.” The voice deepened with amusement. “And I happen to be here in Paris, this very night. May I suggest luncheon tomorrow, at Café Pistache?”

  “Well, I—yes, of course, that would be fine.”

  “Alors. I shall come to your hotel at noon and convey you from there. If this meets with your approval?”

  In for a penny, out for a pound. On impulse, she had booked travel arrangements and flown across any number of time zones to arrive in a country she had never seen before and had never expected to sojourn into. For the short time she would be here, why not drift like a leaf on the wind, taking advantage of whatever adventure came along?

  “It does, indeed,” she assured him firmly. “Till tomorrow, then, Monsieur.”

  He wasn’t at all what she had expected.

  Much younger, for one thing. Given her grandmother’s advanced age, she had thought the family solicitor would be a contemporary, in keeping with wisdom and experience. Christophe Beauchene was, however, closer to her own range, from mid-to late-thirties. During the course of their conversation it was revealed that the position of Carrington counsel had been handed down, from father Jules to son.

  He was waiting in the sumptuous lobby when Kate emerged from the elevator, rising courteously to his feet as she approached. And an attractive man he was, too, wearing a casual business suit of loose summer linen with such flair as only the French can attain. Tall and broad-shouldered, he carried himself with an ease of form that bespoke supreme self-confidence. His chestnut-colored hair had either not been cut for some time, or was worn in a habitual style, for it fell forward in tumbled loose waves and downward almost to his collar. Not very lawyerly-like, at all.

  His eyes captured her attention first: of a dark hazel, glinting with good humor, that met hers forthrightly; and then his hands, capable, muscular, long-fingered and square-palmed.

  “Mademoiselle Waring,” he greeted her warmly, after this instant of each sizing up the other, and reached out one of those interesting hands to clasp hers. “I am so pleased you were free to meet with me this morning.”

  “I’m so pleased you invited me,” she replied, smiling.

  How very odd. His appearance, his personality, his touch had affected her in some unusual, inexplicable way; she was feeling as gauche in his presence as a schoolgirl. Kate, so accustomed to and dismissive of the foibles of puny men, having dealt with them on a much lower level for so many years, must suddenly reconfigure her own attitude. Such a mental and emotional screech of brakes on normal feminine response surely gave one pause.

  If he were similarly affected, he gave no indication, other than the deepening of his own smile, and a tightening of his grasp before release.

  “The café I mentioned is just a few blocks away,” he told her now. “This being a fine day, I hoped you wouldn’t mind the walk, and the scenery. With a little exercise, you will then be ready to sample our famous cuisine.”

  “I think that’s a wonderful idea, Monsieur. Thank you.”

  The solicitor extended his arm, so that she could tuck her fingers into the crook of his elbow, and they set off into the miracle that was a perfect spring day in the entrancing City of Light.

  Could Kate have been wearing anything more romantic than the Retro cherry-pink dress she had found back in a Boston boutique?

  Its square neckline, fitted bodice, wide-belted waist, and flirty full skirt compared as a polar opposite to her usual attire of cool, touch-me-not business suits—aloof, remote, and devoid of the slightest hint of sexiness. Whereas this coy little number simply exuded sensuality, like some exotic floral bloom flashing its pollen for every bee to taste.

  As did her shoulder-length hair, thick and full and the color of sunshine. Its usual style was to be confined in some way, as a twist or a chignon. Today had brought another change, as a casual, loose, curly coif that swung lightly with every step.

  Indeed, a number of male passersby on the street actually stopped and turned to watch as she swished along, in company with her own attractive Frenchman, however temporary a state that might be.

  How had she so quickly reached this pass, leaving behind her strict standards for the easygoing ways of someone she had thought tucked away and gone long ago?

  By the time they had partaken of an ambrosial lunch in delightful surroundings, both had decided to forego formality for the use of first names, and “Kate” and “Christophe” were being tossed casually back and forth.

  “But you don’t actually live in Paris?” Kate gently swirled a spoon into her cup of café au lait and scooted her chair a
little closer to the table.

  It was a lovely place, furnished in eclectic style of light-toned oak, ancient brass scrollwork, and white upholstery and fittings, whose whole plate glass window stood open to sweet June-scented air. Indoor and outdoor, all at the same time.

  “No. I came here merely to introduce myself and, as I mentioned, serve as a possible tour guide. No, my family home is in Toulouse, not far from the Château Broussard and its estate.”

  “I know so little of France,” she confessed. “But, what tiny little bit I’ve seen of Paris, so far, makes me want to explore and find out more.”

  Christophe leaned forward, supposedly to move aside the inevitable candle but actually for a closer gaze into her eyes. “Then, indeed, we can plan to have a great meeting of the minds,” he told her with his charming smile. “Because it shall be my duty and my pleasure to help you explore.”

  Kate had no words. What was there about this man that caused her mouth to go dry and her bones to melt like the wax of their guttering candle?

  “Especially,” he went on in lowered tones, “due to the safety factor, and the fact that you have been traveling alone.”

  Tourists were at great risk of crime in this fair city, he explained. Pickpockets, mainly, quick to snatch up unattended bags or valuables. In some areas, such as the northern suburbs of Saint-Dennis, Saint-Queen, etc., gangs prevailed; and it was advised to avoid such places after dark.

  “For such a captivating lady as yourself, even one’s casual smile can be interpreted as an invitation for some uncouth stranger to make advances.”

  With a little shiver, she inched closer to the table. “You’re frightening me, Chris.”

  “Ah, no, no, ma cher, my apologies. I meant no such thing. A warning, only, to make sure nothing untoward happens.”