by Susan Finlay
Paulette giggled and clapped her hands together like a little girl.
“I think the momma dog was called Gigi. Are the puppies boys or girls?”
“One girl, two boys.”
“All right, we’ll call the girl Yvette and the boys Rupert and Fredric.”
“Those are people names. Don’t the French have dog names?”
She pouted. “I don’t like dog names. My papa had a dog when I was a little girl. I must have been three or four. The dog had some stupid dog name. I couldn’t pronounce it. She got hit by a car and died before I got big enough to play with her. Never had another dog.”
“Okay. It’s settled then. We’ll use the names you picked.”
He continued into the kitchen and got his drink of water, then carried a dish with water into the living room for the dogs. Watching them lap up the water made him smile, but smelling the stink that surrounded them, making him want to hold his nose, he decided to check out the bathtub. Somehow, he was going to have to bathe them all.
Heading into the bathroom, he checked the tub and shower head. Hmm, that was definitely not going to work. However, if he had a shower head with a long sprayer hose, he might manage bathing them. Probably would make it easier for Paulette to bathe, too, now that she was less stable on her feet because of her illness. Yep, that’s what he would do.
Back in the living room, Josh said, “Mind if I head into town and leave the dogs with you? I’m gonna buy a new shower head and then give the dogs a bath.”
“Go on. I’ll get acquainted with our houseguests. Oh, can you bring me some lotion, too. My skin’s getting dry and itchy. And we’ll need dog food.”
“Sure. Back in about an hour.”
He checked his wallet. Yep, still had some of the cash Paulette had given him, enough to get what he needed.
ISABELLE CLOSED UP shop and trudged wearily up the stairs to her flat. Most days, she began work at four o’clock in the morning, baking, and then opening the shop at seven. Closing time, unless a special occasion, was one o’clock in the afternoon. In Mythe, most businesses stayed open during the lunch hours, unlike many of the cities and towns in the area. She’d kept those hours all the years she’d run the business, giving her time to attend to her brother, Henri, after work. When he was alive, he usually slept until around nine o’clock. She would take him breakfast, when she had a lull, usually around half past nine. Henri spent most his day listening to the radio, watching television, or on occasion listening to audio books. Since Henri’s death, it had been hard to break herself of old habits. On several occasions Isabelle had followed her routine, preparing his breakfast, climbing the stairs and suddenly, realizing her error, started crying all over again over the loss of her brother. She’d tried several times to go into his room and box up his belongings, but found she couldn’t bear to do it. The door to his room remained closed, as was the door to their parents’ room. Maybe one day she would have the courage to do what needed to be done.
She plopped down on the sofa and picked up the paperback novel she’d been reading. Apollo sauntered into the living room from Isabelle’s bedroom, mouth open wide, canines visible, yawning. He jumped onto her lap, rubbing up against the binding of the book. When she set it down to rub his neck, he laid down on top of her book.
Isabelle smiled down at him, picturing the bundle of fur the way she’d first seen him. Four years ago, when he was only twelve weeks old, he would race all around the house, jump up on furniture, climb up trouser legs, yet he wouldn’t walk down the stairs to the shop. He would sit at the top and look down, rarely attempting even one step. One day, she’d left the door to her flat slightly ajar by accident. Apollo had apparently pried it open with his tiny paws. When Isabelle took a quick break from work and started upstairs to fix breakfast for her brother, she’d found Apollo rolling down a step, picking himself up, then rolling down the next one.
“Silly goose,” she said as she reached over to the side table and picked up the pet comb. Her gentle combing elicited loud purrs and paw flexing. “Such a laid-back life you have, my baby.”
Apollo, apparently now fulfilled of attention, jumped down and sauntered into the kitchen. Crunching sounds from his food dish echoed into the living room.
Isabelle glanced down at her book but wasn’t really focused on reading. Bits of conversations from her day at work popped into her mind. Mostly, she’d heard the usual town gossip, including tidbits about the wealthiest family, whose youngest son—if one could believe the gossip—had spent the night in jail after a hit and run accident. Oftentimes, the gossip was made-up or exaggerated. It had been that way around here for years. She should know—her family had certainly been popular subjects for the gossipers. Now, she had to keep a stiff upper lip, as the Brits would say, whenever the worst gossipers frequented her shop.
The phone rang, startling her. She answered and wrote down an order for another wedding cake, the caller having seen her latest cake in the bakery’s window this morning.
After she hung up, her thoughts migrated to that hunky American man who’d bought chocolates for Paulette. He was way too young and good-looking to be working as a handyman, especially in a sleepy town like Mythe. Why would someone like that come here and take on that job? It didn’t make sense. Of course she’d heard a number of rumors about him today, too—how he’d come here in hopes of getting into Paulette’s will. She didn’t know if that was true or not, but decided she would reserve judgment. One thing she did know about him—he was a flirt and wasn’t beyond complimenting women to try to win them over. Well, I’m not like Paulette. That’s not going to work on me.
CHAPTER FIVE
JOSH GLANCED AROUND his bedroom looking for a place to dump his dirty clothes after his shower. No laundry hamper, basket, or even cardboard box was to be found. He remembered Paulette’s dirty clothes which had littered the tile floor downstairs and that he’d dumped into the washing machine this morning. Now it was evident why she’d left them down there. The floors up here were wooden. His family’s home had wood floors when he was a child, and being like all children, he had deposited his dirty clothes wherever he undressed. His mother, finding them, would then lecture him unmercifully to ‘not leave your dirty smelly damp clothes lying around on the floors. It can damage the wood’. I guess that lesson finally took.
Seeing no other choice, he draped his dirty clothes over the only chair in the room, a chair he hadn’t noticed last night. Gonna be a lot more sweat-soaked clothes like that, if today’s work was an indication. He made a mental note to go shopping for laundry hampers. But not now; I’m just too beat. Tomorrow morning. After a day of working on the trash piles, running into town for things, cleaning up after meals, doing laundry, and bathing all four dogs, then cleaning up the mess he and they had made in the bathroom, he’d taken a shower and put on clean clothes. All he wanted now was to rest, but he figured he needed to go back downstairs and check on Paulette and the dogs, first. He started down the stairs, and halfway down spied Paulette sitting contented in her chair, a puppy sleeping on her lap, as she worked on a crossword puzzle. If he wanted a nap, now was his chance. He quietly moved back upstairs, laid down on the bed, and closed his eyes, falling asleep almost instantly.
The sound of his cell phone ringing woke him with a start. He glanced at the new digital clock on the dresser. Thirty minutes had passed. Pulling the cell phone out of his pant pocket, rubbing his eyes, he checked to see who was calling. He sat bolt upright. Vanessa! Damn. So she’d decided she’d given him enough time to cool off, huh? Yeah, right. He answered, then immediately changed his mind and ended the call. Moments later, the phone rang again.
Oh God. He wasn’t ready to talk to her. Definitely not ready to listen to her.
Thankfully, the phone stopped ringing. He laid back down and tried to relax, but his shoulders tensed and the sound of mice in the walls grated on his nerves.
The phone rang again. Fourteen rings, stop, another twelve rings, stop. Silenc
e. Then another ten rings.
“Yeah,” he said, answering the phone since she wasn’t going to stop calling.
Silence for a moment and then, “Where are you, Josh? I’ve been worried. We’re at the airport.”
“I told Mom I wasn’t going back right now. Didn’t she tell you?”
Silence again. Josh glared at the mirror and saw himself, hair ruffled from lying down with slightly damp hair, sunburned from working outside most of the day, tension lines on his forehead. He closed his eyes and waited.
“Yes,” Vanessa said, “but I thought you . . . .” Her voice trailed. That was so like her—always thinking she knew what he would do.
Josh didn’t say anything. What did she want him to say?
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she added almost like an after-thought. “It was a little mistake. Can’t you forgive me and come back? We have a wedding to plan, and we don’t have time for childish games.”
“Games? You accuse me of playing games? Grow up, Vanessa. I’m not a toy you can toss around. I’m not the one playing games.”
“Your mother is fine with . . . everything. Just come back. We can go ahead with our plans. This was a little hiccup. Nothing more. My parents’ marriage has endured worse, I can assure you.”
He held the phone away from his ear for three minutes. Not the ‘my parents are the perfect example’ shit again. Josh knew all about her mother’s escapades and her father’s, too. Perfect example, my ass. If that’s the kind of marriage she wants, good thing I found out now.
When he put the phone back against his ear, she was talking. She apparently hadn’t noticed he’d stopped listening.
She asked him something—he wasn’t sure what since he’d only half-listened after getting back on the phone.
“I’m hanging up now,” he said. “Don’t bother calling back. I’m turning off the phone.”
He ended the call, shut off the phone, and tossed it on the bed. After combing his hair and straightening his shirt, he stomped down the stairs, unsure where he was going. Just needed to walk.
“Oh. Josh-you-ah,” Paulette called from the kitchen. “Dinner is almost ready. I hope you like French cooking. It’s been ages since I’ve cooked for someone. Hope I didn’t mess up the recipe.”
He took a deep breath and blew it out. Food sounded good, but he wasn’t in a mood to talk to anyone, especially an old woman he barely knew. Closing his eyes a moment, taking deep breaths, he tried to rein in his anger. Last thing he needed was to lash out at Paulette and upset her.
“Tell me more about yourself,” Paulette said as she set a plate of food down in front of Josh. “I’m rested now and eager to know more about you.”
Josh shrugged, looked down at his food, then shoveled a fork full of whatever it was into his mouth.
“What kind of job did you have in California?”
He swallowed, took a sip of wine, then refilled his fork.
“Non, non. Please stop for a moment and talk to me. I need someone to talk to.”
“I’m listening. Tell me about your life. Do you have any regrets?”
“Clever boy. I saw what you did there.” She waved her fork at him. “Deflecting, isn’t that what you call it? All right, I will start. Yes, I do have regrets. It’s not possible to live to eighty-eight and not. If only I hadn’t married. If only I had held out for a bigger part in a bigger play. Why didn’t I have more kids? The list could go on. But what is the use in that? We do what we do and we can’t change it. Learn from mistakes and move on.”
Josh nodded. What would he be like at eighty-eight? Would he regret it if he didn’t marry Vanessa? What if he did marry her? Would that be the biggest mistake of his life?
“Now tell me about you? What made you take this job? Didn’t you like your job?”
He opened his mouth to answer, but then remembered her comment: ‘Why didn’t I have more kids?’
“Hey, this morning, you told me you never had any children. Just now you said something about not having more kids.”
Her face reddened. “Oh, forget that. I’m rattling on. It didn’t come out the way I meant.”
Josh turned his head and studied Paulette. Her skin reminded him of parchment paper—no, on second thought, more like the crepe paper his mother kept in a drawer for her craft projects—thin, wrinkled in a delicate way, almost baby smooth and wrinkled at the same time. His photographer’s eye tried to imagine her transforming from the little girl in the framed photo in his room, to the teenage girl in the second photo, and onward until this woman sitting across the table from him. She was probably a beautiful dancer and actress in her youth. How did she see herself now? Did she see herself the way she used to be?
“I remember reading about the old days,” Josh said. “People used to get shunned if they had a baby without being married—at least in the U.S.”
“True, though it didn’t always carry the same stigma here in France. Many illegitimate babies came during war time. Soldiers going off to fight, convincing their girlfriends to sleep with them one time because they might never see them again. And many didn’t see them again. Some of the men died, others were only using the girls and moved on to others when they got back from the war, often changed men.”
“I remember my grandparents talking about war times. They said that sometimes soldiers went into villages, pillaged them and then raped the women. I suppose some illegitimate children came from those attacks, too.”
Paulette frowned. “Oh, definitely. But don’t you go thinking I’m one of them. I’m not.”
Josh shoveled in a mouthful of food, held up his hand as if to apologize, then replied, “Okay. When did you get married?”
“I was twenty-four. Should have been old enough to know better than marry a drunk.” She gave a wistful smile. “We did have some good times when he was sober and not beating me and—forget about it, I’m getting myself mixed up again.”
“Were you already a dancer?”
She nodded and closed her eyes a moment.
“Where did you learn to dance? What kind of dancer?”
She ate a bite of food, apparently savoring the taste, and wiped her mouth with her napkin. “I graduated from a Paris dance academy. Not the most prestigious school of its kind, but it had a good enough reputation. I heard it closed its doors back in the eighties.” She sipped her wine. “Oh, I forgot to answer the other question. I was mainly ballet and ballroom style.”
“I wish I could have seen you dance. I saw a couple photos of you up in my room. You were very pretty.”
She beamed. “Men did flock around me.”
“Why did you wait so long to marry? I thought people married younger back then.”
“I was engaged at age sixteen to a twenty-year-old man who went to war and came back dark and bitter. We only saw each other a couple of times afterwards. Sometimes I wish we’d run off together and he hadn’t done his soldiering duty.” Paulette got a faraway look for a moment.
“What happened during the eight years in between your engagement to the one guy and marriage to the other guy?”
“Going to school. Working in a munitions factory. Dancing. Working in a clothing factory. Studying acting. Partying. Meeting people and making connections. Always so busy.” She smiled.
“So you didn’t always live here in Mythe-sur-Vienne?”
“Non, non. Born here, will die here. But I traveled and lived briefly in many places. Here has always been home, though. But enough about my old life. Now tell me about yourself.”
He sighed, took a big sip of wine, and said, “Not much to tell. Graduated from college with a business degree, then worked in several office jobs. In the longest job, I was a claims adjuster for an insurance company. Then I met”—he stopped, fumbled for words, realizing he had unwittingly committed himself—“I met Vanessa. After six months of dating, we got engaged.” He shook his head. “I’ve been trying to remember how that happened. Don’t know. I think she asked me, to be honest.�
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“What happened?”
“She got her father to hire me at his bank. He’s the bank’s president. Next thing I knew, he took me aside and said he was making me a Manager Trainee, and that as long as I was treating his daughter right, I would move up in the bank.”
“Then why are you here?”
He hung his head down, not wanting to say any more, and yet the words came tumbling out of his mouth. “She’s half-French and attended boarding school in Paris. Her mother is French. Anyway, she and her parents had the bright idea to come to Paris and work on the wedding plans here. Her parents, my parents, me, her. All of us staying at a posh Paris hotel. Bad idea. I walked in on her and my dad, they—” He choked up, unable to go on, eyes tearing up, and couldn’t finish.
Paulette put her hand over his.
Josh raised his head, met her eyes, wiped away the tears on his cheeks and saw an understanding look there. A few moments later he continued. “I’m not sure which of them I’m angrier at. I don’t have to marry her. I don’t have to forgive her. But what am I supposed to do about my father?”
“How did your mother respond?”
“Always avoids conflict. She’ll suffer in silence and pretend nothing is wrong on the outside. Me? I can’t let it go. I worry about everything, you know? If she cheated once, will she do it again? How could they both betray me like that?”
“And if you don’t marry her, your job and career go away?”
He nodded. “That doesn’t bother me so much. I mean, yeah, I worry about supporting myself. Don’t want to live in a cardboard box. But I didn’t like the job anyway.”
“Did they say why they did what they did? How long was it going on?”
Josh shrugged. “Supposedly, it was a one-time event. But my dad’s cheated on my mother before. He’s an airline pilot and is away from home a lot. I’ve wondered about Vanessa, too. She’s a fashion model who travels for her job and draws men’s attention wherever she goes. Ample opportunity for cheating.”