Hat Trick

by Morris Fenris

“And I do believe we have sightseen every cathedral, every small church, every basilica within twenty miles of the city limits,” Kate continued with a smile. “If there are any other religious institutions we’ve missed, I’ll eat my hat.”

  Twinkling, Christophe refilled her sherry glass and leaned back comfortably with a creak of leather. “And why should you want to eat your hat, mon cher?”

  “An Americanism, Papa,” Chantal sweetly informed him from over her shoulder. “It means—”

  “Merci, my dear daughter,” said he, with an air of great forbearance mixed with slight testiness, “the meaning has not escaped me. I hope you realize I am not quite so lacking in experience as that.”

  “Pay no attention to your father’s mood,” Kate laughed. “I believe he’s feeling the effects of today’s hike every more than I am. A good night’s rest will put you right again, Chris.”

  He considered that. “Oui, you may be correct.”

  The musical concert indoors went on softly and sweetly, as a backdrop to conversation, lulling the room’s lethargic occupants nearly to slumber; outdoors, raindrops hit with steady force against the windows and the roof overhead. Such complete coziness tempted one never to stir again.

  “Oh, Chris, I do so love this place of yours,” Kate murmured, her wide-arm stretch and cat-like yawn deliberately abandoning decorum. “And I’ve so enjoyed our time together. But now I really must pack up my things and head home.”

  He was quiet for a moment. “I understand how the business world must, of necessity, intrude upon private time.”

  “Absolutely. And my assistants, both Lisette and Barbara, are getting quite insistent. I think they’re about ready to hire someone to hoist me bodily onto a plane for the States.”

  Chantal stopped playing, mid-note, and turned with disappointment from her harpsichord. “Must you really leave, M’amselle? It’s been wonderful having you here; Papa has even been treating me more as an adult than a spoiled child.”

  Both adults burst out in laughter.

  “What have you?” the girl pouted. “It is true; you must see that yourself.”

  Putting aside her glass, Kate rose and padded on bare feet to the girl in her wheelchair. “I see that you and your father have given me more warmth and welcome than I might have expected, cher,” she said quietly, trailing the fingers of one hand through the skeins of Chantal’s silky brown hair. She had come to care deeply for these two Beauchenes, and she would miss them just as deeply. “You have made me part of your family, for the brief time I’ve been in your country, and I appreciate it more than you will ever know.”

  Chantal looked up, her face shining with hope. “Then you will stay longer with us? Please?”

  Standing beside her, Kate sent a regretful glance across the room. “No, I’m afraid not. I’ve been away far too long as it is. But you won’t forget me after I leave, will you?”

  The girl suddenly wrapped her arms around Kate’s waist, holding tight. “Never!” she pledged.

  “You have made us so happy, especially mon pére. He would never admit it, you understand, but he has been lonely. It has been good for him, having you to be with.”

  “Chantal!” Christophe’s tone held mild reproach. “Hush, child. You will cause embarrassment for our delightful guest.”

  “But I have the perfect solution!” she exclaimed. “Perhaps we might go visit Kate, and visit this San Francisco where she lives, as she has visited us! This would be wonderful, yes?”

  Christophe’s posture visibly stiffened. “Have we taught you no manners, my child? In this household, one waits to be invited, instead of inviting oneself.”

  “Hmmmm.” Kate smiled down at the excited girl. “I agree, that does sound like the perfect solution. How about if your father and I talk about it, later this evening, and see if we can work out some details?”

  Eyes shining, Chantal nodded. “And shall I be able to see your American cowboys in action, and a dude ranch, and perhaps a gun battle or a stage holdup?”

  With a chuckle, Kate ruffled the child’s hair. “We’ll see what we can do.”

  * * *

  Chapter Four

  Details were discussed, during the next two days while Kate packed and made arrangements for her return flight, and tentative plans made. Christophe would clear his schedule of ongoing legal matters and finish whatever cases might be hanging fire. He would stay in touch and consider flying in to San Francisco for Christmas. Since neither he nor Kate had been blessed with immediate family members, it seemed logical to spend the holiday together. However, he couldn’t completely conceal his reluctance to complete those plans, which made the whole thing questionable.

  Strange, that both Kate and Christophe pussyfooted around the subject of what looked like a more permanent commitment. Painful memories abounded for each; once burned, twice shy. It was a time for caution, not for a madcap flinging to the winds.

  Even while she stuffed two suitcases’ worth of wardrobe into a case meant to hold one, Kate toyed with the idea of setting up some sort of scholarship for Chantal. Better yet, a certificate could be prepared, and placed under a Christmas tree, beautifully wrapped, with other gifts. She decided to contact her friendly Boston lawyer, Timothy Lord, and have a consultation, once she had returned and settled in.

  “You look stunning as always, my Kate,” said Christophe, as he manhandled the heaviest baggage pieces onto a cart.

  The hotel where she was staying in Toulouse had offered the services of their valet, but Christophe had insisted on taking charge himself. Kate, much amused, suspected it was an ego thing; like many lesser mortal men, he was eager to show off his admirable muscles.

  “I believe you’ve approved of every outfit I’ve worn from my Boston boutique. Maybe another shopping trip there will be necessary, what do you think?”

  He was leaning into the trunk, moving things around and grunting a little with the effort of maneuvering all her cases to fit. Finally finished, he turned to face her with a smile. His hair was mussed, his jacket slightly disheveled, and his forehead dampened. Amazing. So far she had never seen him in any condition less than immaculate, and she found this unusual untidiness quite endearing. Would he appear so in a more intimate situation?

  It was then and there that Kate realized how much this man meant to her, and how much she was leaving behind, and how much she would miss him.

  Her heart lurched. Off all things, she had fallen in love with Christophe Beauchene. Who would have expected that? And where would they go from here?

  He must have rightly read the expression on her face. Throwing caution to the winds, he reached out, pulled her into his embrace, and kissed her long and hungrily, in front of God and the world.

  It had been far too long since she had felt the heat, the passion, the undeniable resolution of an aroused male, and she felt her own body responding in kind, beginning to come alive again. Inside, some barrier seemed to slide out of place, and things shifted, and a dam broke. As Christophe finally released her, gently and regretfully, her eyes filled with tears.

  “Mon cher,” he voiced an immediate protest, “what is it? I have hurt you? Angered you? Please, what is it?”

  “No, no—of course not. It suddenly hit me that—that I’m leaving. Leaving your wonderful country. Leaving your wonderful daughter. Leaving your—leaving you.” Another minute, and she would be blubbering full-force.

  “Ah, I see. Come, my Kate.” He urged her into the front seat of the Peugeot, out of public view, and, once settled alongside, handed over a couple tissues to mop her face. “There. Much better, yes? I’m sorry for any actions of mine that might have upset you.”

  Somewhat calmed now, despite an eerie quivering in her middle, she shook her head. “It’s just—saying goodbye, I think. It’s very hard.”

  “Indeed?” He raised one hand to brush away a last tear with his thumb, then let his fingers drift to tenderly twine a lock of hair behind her ear. “More so than usual?”

&nbs
p; It must have been the emotional moment that parted her lips and opened her heart. “My mother left me with a neighbor, said goodbye, and left. I never saw her again.”

  He sucked in a sharp shocked breath. “Kate! How awful! I can’t begin to imagine—”

  “No. Most people can’t. That’s why I never mention it. I was six at the time.”

  His hand moved, without volition, from her cheek to her shoulder, clasping firmly and supportively, and he muttered a few phrases that she couldn’t identify but guessed might have been a curse. “Incroyable! Kate, words cannot tell you my sorrow.”

  “I know, Chris,” she whispered, resting her head against the back of the seat and closing her eyes. His nearness, his sympathy, his obvious concern washed over her like the slow liquid warmth of a tropical waterfall. “Someday I may tell you more of that time in my life. But not now. I want to enjoy whatever time we have left.”

  “Of course, mon cher. That is my wish, as well.” He shifted, turned on the engine, and eased his purring Peugeot out into the street and its churning, raucous traffic.

  Kate had said her goodbyes to the gatehouse staff, and to a dejected Chantal, with promises—and hidden crossed fingers—of a reunion in the near future. Now Christophe was engaged in the drive, of an hour or so duration, taking her to the airport in Bordeaux.

  Much as her head demanded that she go, back to her usual routine and her responsibilities, her heart whispered that she stay. It was, in fact, being slowly torn in half by this parting that she already knew would be painful. Were it not for Cachet, and everything involved in the business, she would be seriously re-thinking her decision. Duty stood clamorously offstage, however, and she must heed its call.

  The late July mid-morning sun, as they headed north and west, shone blindingly through dappled trees en route, enough to color the car’s interior with golden sprinkles and incite the beginnings of Kate’s headache. Its cause might have been the day’s brilliance; it might have been her upcoming departure.

  She knew only that she had found the love of her life, and now she was leaving him behind.

  He had at least planned ahead. At his request, Jocaste had prepared a picnic lunch for two. A short distance out of Toulouse, along the bank of the Garonne River, Christophe pulled into a roadside park, turned off the engine, and shifted about to smile at her.

  “We have so little time left together,” he said softly. “I thought, perhaps, we could spend it quietly, in a peaceful setting, if that meets with your approval.”

  She gave him a shaky smile. “It does, indeed, Chris. That’s a fine idea.”

  Under the wide friendly limbs of an ancient oak planted at the end of the Peninsula War, Christophe spread a lightweight quilt, held out a hand to Kate to assist her to the ground, and opened the traditional basket. Boiled eggs, fruit and cheese, crusty baguettes with pats of butter, a pot of terrine, a tray of fresh cut vegetables, and, of course, a bottle of cool crisp wine.

  “Why, Chris, this is a feast,” Kate approved, removing plates and honest-to-God damask napkins. “We might just as easily be seated around your dinner table, instead of out here in the fresh air. What a treasure your Jocaste is!”

  “Yes, I am very fortunate with the people who run my household. Here, let me pour you a glass of our finest Chardonnay.”

  For the next few hours, they nibbled on this and nibbled on that. They chatted about the warmth of the day, the bikers and the hikers passing by, the depth and width of the river and the use of it throughout history. As time went on, the conversation grew more personal, more intense.

  Eventually, Kate probed for a firm answer, either yea or nay, to her earlier, casual question about a Beauchene visit to San Francisco, come Christmas. She couldn’t leave France without knowing for sure where she stood.

  Christophe was leaning against their tree trunk, legs outstretched, completely at ease as he gently swirled his goblet of wine to watch the bubbles explode. “I hesitate, dear Kate, not out of reluctance to see you again, but because…”

  “Because?”

  He looked up to offer her a slow, poignant smile. “Dare I admit to you that my finances have been stretched to the breaking point? A flight to California, and all that would entail, for the three of us—for, of course, I could not leave Bernadette behind—would cost more than I could possibly afford. I must regretfully decline your kind invitation, my dear Kate.”

  The idea formed instantly, so instantly it might have been lurking in her brain for weeks, just to spring forth at this moment. She put aside her own wine glass to lay a light touch across his wrist.

  “I’ve been thinking,” she told him, her voice fringed with excitement, “of opening a Cachet spa somewhere in France—just where, I’m not yet sure. I would like to consult with you as to a location, the local regulations and restrictions, all the legal aspects, and so on. That would require that you travel to my business headquarters. In which case, my corporation would be responsible for any and all expenses.”

  “Ah, non, non.” Chuckling, he wagged one finger back and forth at her. “Attempting to save my pride, at a cost to your own. Not so easily done, that.”

  Why was she surprised—and disappointed—that he could see through her subterfuge?

  “You don’t believe in my plan to open a branch here?”

  “Mon cher,” Christophe murmured with a slow, lingering brush of his lips over the back of her hand. “I believe you can do anything you choose to do. Whether this plan you have is absolutely essential—well. That is another thing entirely.”

  In the distance, several children scampered across a grassy expanse, shouting and tossing a ball; someone strolled past, walking a tiny white dust mop of a dog that fairly danced with excitement; swans created a picturesque scene on the mirrored surface of the river; overhead, a small flock of birds suddenly took flight with a great rustle of wings and a great cawing of sound.

  Still, in the midst of all this activity, they might have been alone; just they two, with their concerns, their hopes, their tentative talk of the future.

  This was a fine hunk of French manhood, Kate decided, studying him with a sidelong glance. And wondered how to have him capitulate. Should she play up her femininity? Flutter her lashes like a southern belle? Drip sunshine and sugar-sweet molasses?

  She decided to try another tack. “Chris, you are my attorney, are you not?”

  Comfortably but elegantly sprawled lengthwise, he responded with lazy grace. “Your solicitor, mon cher.”

  “Oh, very well, then—my solicitor. Doesn’t that mean giving me legal advice?”

  “Certainly, my Kate, should you require it.”

  “There you are, then. I require it.”

  The amusement in his green eyes might have been sparks from some internal flame. “Do you?”

  “Obviously my grandmother trusted you implicitly, and so do I. Why not use part of the funds she left me to further my own interests? That means covering all your expenses for a trip to the States. After all,” she said reasonably, “you’ll need to look over my operation, inspect the books, talk to employees and vendors. And so on. To do that, you’ll have to be on the scene, not halfway around the world.”

  Suddenly, he burst out laughing, swept up onto his knees, and wrapped his arms around her in an exuberant, boyish hug. “Ah, my Kate, to beat me down with irrefutable logic—how can I fight that?”

  The emotional joy of success mixed in with the physical joy of being held and savored; Kate, delighted, wanted this wonderful moment to go on forever. “You mean you’ll come?”

  He was looking down at her with an indefinable expression. Pride? Yearning? And what else? “How could I refuse, mon cher? Of course I shall come to visit you, along with Chantal and my essential Bernadette. At Christmas week, yes?”

  “At Christmas week,” she agreed with a contented sigh.

  For some delicious time they lingered, nibbling on leftover fruit, finishing the wine, conversing in disjointed sentences about
her work and his, about her life and his, with the underlying question of how both could mesh.

  “I have much concern for my daughter,” he admitted at one point.

  By now they had progressed to the position of a couple at ease with one another: he had returned to his reclining against the tree’s rough bark and she was reclining beside him, curled against the support of his ribs with her head resting on his shoulder. With a deep sigh, Kate had closed her eyes and relaxed from top to toe. What she felt, held so closely by the man she loved, was providing more benefit than any therapy from any masseuse at her spa.

  Startling thought. Drowsily she wondered if such a consideration could somehow be worked into Cachet’s business model, painted on a wall, included in brochures. She should contact her marketing department and discuss the idea with Lisette and Gigi…

  “Her health, Chris?” she diverged to ask.

  She felt his free hand stroking the loosened hair away from her cheek, and then his lips pressed against her temple. “Indeed, yes. We have come great strides since her birth, believe me, thanks to advances in medicine and the care of good doctors. Still, I worry about her future.”

  “She’s such a bright, charming child, one any parent would love without hesitation.” An instant’s pause, as color flooded her fair skin.

  “And my only heir, alors.”

  “Really?” Shifting position, she crossed both arms over his chest, rested her chin upon their support, and studied him with eyes as blue as the flag of France. “I’m not sure I understand your concern.”

  “I am the last of my lineage, Kate, coming from a rich history of noblemen dating back to the fourteenth century.” He lifted one shoulder in a small what-will-you shrug. “Although, monetarily, my title is worth very little, and means not so much more since the revolution, it belongs to me, and to my child, when I am gone.”

  “Title?” With a slow, sensuous smile, she touched the slight cleft in his chin with one finger. “As if you needed anything else to add to that awesome pedigree of yours.”