by Mj Fields
I punch in the code Alfred sent me, in case he wasn’t able to be here, as I look fondly upon at the simplicity of the entrance.
Around the white, wooden, two-story double doors is the original brick work, in antique white. They aren’t the typical bricks of a modern sort. No, they are clearly the work of master masons, the original structure, from the time the home was built.
Shielding my eyes, I look up and admire the work of the angel, also clearly dating back to the period in which the home was constructed. It’s beautiful and welcoming.
I look up farther and realize the home is four floors.
When the door is opened, I’m welcomed by Alfred and am glad to see a familiar face in an unfamiliar yet hauntingly familiar place.
“Welcome, Angela.” He kisses one cheek then the next as he opens the doors fully. “A quick tour, and then I’m sure you’ll want to get some rest.”
I nod. “Thank you, Alfred.”
“The entire house was renovated whilst preserving the original structure. He did make updates, added modern luxuries and comforts.”
“It’s beautiful.” I look at the four-story staircase, winding in a circle all the way to the top.
“The Renaissance is spectacular,” he says. “But before we lose daylight, you must see the gardens.”
I follow him beyond the entry and through a sitting room. The walls are the same antique white as the entry and exterior. The furniture is also white.
Alfred opens the double, two-story glass doors leading to a paved courtyard.
“It’s …” I hold my hand over my chest as I take in the foliage and flowers.
“Breathtaking,” Alfred finishes my sentence.
“Yes.” I smile.
He points to the two-story additions on each side of the house, both with doors leading out to the area. “The kitchen and dining areas are on the left, both ultra-modern. And on the right is the library and conservatory.”
“Jean always thought less was more. His passion for mixing small, modern elements with the classic splendor of days gone, is even evident in his home.”
“It certainly is,” he says, looking over the grounds.
Lost in the beauty of the home, we fall quiet, but only for a few moments.
“Shall we?” He motions to the doors leading back inside.
I follow him to the east wing.
“There’s a stairway leading to the second floor of this wing. It has two master suites with en suite bathrooms. That’s where I stay when I’m here.”
I nod as I take in the magnificent chef’s kitchen. “This is a cook’s dream.”
“Are you a cook, Angela?”
“Not one that would do this kitchen justice,” I admit.
“Well, feel free to experiment or utilize the property’s cook. He, too, was given an extended employee compensation plan for staying on, ending the first of the year.”
“He really was a good man, right, Alfred?” After realizing the emotions emitted in the question, I feel silly.
“He took care of those he respected and considered family. So, yes, Angela, Jean was the man we all knew him to be.”
“Then, how could he …?” I stop. “Sorry.”
“I question it as well. Bastien deserved acceptance, a family … more. It’s possible Jean wasn’t capable of giving emotionally.”
“But look around; a man who took such joy in beauty certainly knows love.” Tears prick my eyes, and I allow them to spill. “He caused Bass so much unnecessary pain, Alfred.”
He closes his eyes and nods once. “Bass will be an even better man than his father was and, in my eyes, Jean was one of the best.”
“Aside from turning his back on his own flesh and blood,” I huff.
“Yes, aside from that.” He smiles sadly. “But now, he has it all … and wants none of it.”
“But he—”
“I’ve said too much.” He waves toward the west wing, and I follow him.
Standing in the middle of the two-story room, one side with floor to ceiling bookshelves, the other side all glass, even the ceilings.
“Unbelievable,” I gasp.
“That was my sentiments exactly the first time I saw it.”
He looks down at his phone. “I have a call in ten minutes I should really prepare for, so come with me.”
I follow him to the entrance where he points up at the stairs. “The entire third and fourth floor are in the back house, the master suite. It overlooks the Seine river. The left and right sides on floors two and three have guest rooms. Beyond the stairway is locked. I’ve never been in the room. And my instructions are to wait until you’ve been through the house with the auctioneer, who is supposed to sell anything you don’t think others within the US family of de la Porte would want, then you tackle that area.”
“Any ideas?”
“Years ago, it was his office.” He shrugs as he looks at his wrist and begins walking. “The basement houses the wine cellar and gym. I apologize but—”
“Go, Alfred. I’ll be fine. And thank you.”
“Good luck, Angela. If you need me, ring my phone. I’ll be in and out for the next couple weeks.”
“Is that how long I’ll be needed?”
“It wasn’t specified. And from what I heard, you have a daughter in London. Just a short flight or train ride away.”
Standing in the middle of the mansion, not a home, I turn in slow circles, still trying to make sense of the man and the mystery surrounding him.
I chose to sleep in one of the second-floor guest rooms, which is the size of my Brooklyn apartment. I don’t get much sleep, however, because I can’t help wondering why he wouldn’t have held lavish company parties here. Why it looks unlived in. More like a museum than a home.
The next day, I walk down to the kitchen and find the cook, Pierre, preparing breakfast for Alfred and I. Alfred has his brought to his room by Ruby, the beautiful housekeeper, as Pierre and I go over all the things necessary to keep his kitchen functional.
The rest of the day, we box the unnecessary items, and there are few, because poor Pierre has a very hard time parting with his tools.
The next day, I go through all the guest rooms. There is nothing but furniture, no personal items, and when I ask Alfred what he suggests, he is unquestionably out of sorts and very short with his responses to any questions.
“Friday, we’ll discuss more. Just … I don’t know, look through the books.”
“Alfred, is everything okay?”
“Are you familiar with Chuck Palahniuk’s work?”
“No, I’m sorry. I’m—”
“No, Angela, I’m sorry.” The look in his eyes sends chills up my spine.
“Alfred?”
“Angela …” He shakes his head. “I can’t right now.”
“Okay, but if you need anything …” I say to his back as he walks away.
“I’m five years old. It’s getting cold. I’ve got my big coat on. I hear your laugh and look up, smiling at you. I run and run.”
I take the phone from the nightstand, hold it to my chest, and smile while I listen for a bit before I answer.
“Good morning, Natasha.”
“Good morning, Mom. Looks like you’re getting used to the time change.”
“I am.”
“And you’re still coming to see me today?”
“I most certainly am.”
She narrows her eyes a little. “Have you gone?”
“No, Natasha.” I smile. “The Eiffel Tower is still on my list.”
“Well, when you do go, make sure it counts, Mom.” She grins then asks, wagging her eyebrows, “What’s Alfred like?”
“Very gay, Natasha.”
“All the good ones are.” She sighs as she flops back on her bed.
Chapter Twenty
Angela
Walking into Jean’s home after a wonderful two days with my little girl, I feel exhausted, but wonderfully so as I set my bag down and look up the
stairs.
“How was your visit?”
I turn to see Alfred coming from the east wing.
“Exhausting,” I sigh out. “We bought one of those tour passes where we could hop on and off the double-decker bus and managed to see The Tower of London, Westminster Abbey, The Shard, and London Bridge. This morning, Natasha insisted we go see Stonehenge because she hadn’t done so yet, and I nearly missed my flight.”
“That’s wonderful. Would you like a drink? I just opened a bottle of wine, and Pierre is putting together a cheese platter as we speak.” He waves for me to follow him.
“I’ll skip the wine. I’ve recently learned I wasn’t meant to be a drinker. I make questionable decisions and feel like hell the next day.” I laugh.
“Sparkling water then?” Pierre asks.
“I’d love some, but please, I can pour my own—”
“Nonsense,” he interrupts, “It’s my job.”
I notice the door is open to the garden and begin to walk toward it to close it.
“Angela, we have company.”
The way Alfred delivers the news indicates it’s not welcome company. When I smell cigarette smoke, I immediately feel a wave of nausea roll through my stomach.
I turn back to the door and see Bass filling it.
He looks amazing. He’s barefoot, wearing dark slacks and a white shirt, unbuttoned just enough to see the definition of his pecs. His hair is tousled as if he’s either just had sex or has been running his hands through it. And by the way his jaw is tense beneath the stubble that is thicker than it was at the party a week ago, I can tell he’s unhappy.
“Hi.”
“We have a problem,” he says, stepping in and closing the door behind him.
We have many is on the tip of my tongue that is likely to fall out of my mouth from just looking at him if I don’t get myself together.
He starts at my feet and works his way up my body, pausing at my nipples that are clearly aware of his nearness, then sweeping up my neck, stalling at my lips before landing on my eyes as he grips my elbow lightly and leads me out of the room.
When we pass a mirror on the wall, I see myself and then him.
I look like a forty-year-old tourist with my ponytail, mom jeans, tee-shirt that says I Rocked Stonehenge, tennis shoes, fanny pack and all.
I want to die.
I pull my elbow from his grasp and stop. “I need to freshen—”
“Oh no, you don’t.” He tries to hide his amusement.
“Yes, yes, I do.” I wave my hand toward him.
“This is actually perfect.” He grabs my elbow and walks us into the west wing. Closing the door behind me, he then turns and looks me up and down again. “I love the fanny pack.”
“I thought it was the shirt.” I roll my eyes.
“No, the shirt rocks.” He smiles then sighs.
“What?”
“It’s been a week, and I still get hard looking at you.”
I shake my head at him.
He reaches for my hand, dragging it toward him, and says, “I’m not happy about it either, Angela, but it’s true, and I can give you proof.”
I jerk my hand back when I realize how he wants to actually prove that to me.
“You’re crazy.” I try to look disgusted.
He bites the inside of his lip to stop a smile.
“Do you ever think the reason we met was actually to do whatever it is we’re doing here, and the Hamptons just messed it all up?”
He looks taken aback.
I shake my head back and forth. “I’m serious, Bass. I like you as a person, and—”
“Enough. This isn’t the time nor the place. We have a problem that has fuck not to do with you kidding yourself about the best sex, the best weekend of your life, or the fact that I can’t get myself off to porn anymore, and I fucking tried. My cock looked like a fucking red crayon until I gave in, fearing I’d soon be raw. I opened up the photo album on my phone and came in minutes looking at some of the pictures I took of you.”
Oh. My. God.
“How wet are you right now?” He steps toward me.
I step back. “The problem?”
“Fuck!” He runs his hand through his hair, and I am just barely holding on. “Yeah, the problem.”
I turn away and start pacing. “Bass, the problem.”
“How about the obvious? Look at this fucking place. Jesus, Bridge, it’s …” He stops pacing, turns, and looks at me, his expression one of disgust. “How many times did he get to fuck you in this room?”
I shake my head. “Please don’t.”
He shrugs. “Fine. How many times did he bring you here?”
That, I can answer. “None.”
He looks at me like he’s confused. Then he looks at me skeptically.
“I’ve been to Paris three times, Bass. Never once did I step foot in this place.”
“Why?”
I shrug. “I’ve tried to make sense of it so I could maybe explain what it was between him and I. But I think it has a lot more to do with age—”
“Bullshit,” he snaps.
“It’s true. We both had our own lives. And, well … Just … I don’t know. It was better than meeting someone and having delusions about some fairy tale love story that just ended in me questioning why I wasted my time.”
He shakes his head as if he doesn’t believe me.
“I know this is hard to believe, and I know you seem to think the age difference doesn’t matter, but I had years of doctors’ appointments, surgeries, and nights filled with a little girl crying because …” I stop and swallow back my emotions. “My focus was on my daughter. The times she spent with her father were the only times I even considered I may be missing something in my life. He had his own thing. It just made sense.”
“He should have wanted to be there next to you when she was crying.”
“She wasn’t his. She is mine, and he clearly was incapable of …” I pause, worried it may hurt his feelings.
He huffs, “It should make me feel better that he didn’t try to fill the space I should have been in with another child, but it doesn’t. It pisses me off more.” He crosses his arms and looks up. “No, fuck that. It makes me realize he was a fucking idiot.”
I lean back against the wall and rub my hands over my face, exhausted. “I really do wish things were different. I wish—”
“Why do you think you owe him this?” He waves his hand about. “He didn’t do shit for you. And here you are, packing up his fucking mansion.”
I look down and kick the floor then shrug. “I hate that you ask questions like that, knowing whatever I say will hurt you.”
“The truth.”
“He gave me a job. A good salary. Flexibility to work around all the things needing to be done for my daughter. And I’m sorry, but he was kind to me. I wish I had more answers.”
“I wish I had less fucking questions,” he mumbles.
There’s a knock on the door, and I reach over to open it.
Alfred steps in and looks at Bass. “She’s here.”
“Fuck,” he sighs. “Give me five.”
Alfred nods then closes the door behind him.
“Who’s here?” I ask.
“The problem.”
“Care to be more specific?”
He shakes his head. “Ines.”
“Well then.” I try to keep my jealousy hidden.
He steps closer, and I look down.
He lifts my chin, and I look away.
He presses his forehead to mine. “I shouldn’t like that green streak I see in your baby blues, but damn, it feels good. Feels better that someone was interested enough to go through all the trouble of stalking my old social media.”
I jerk my head back and scowl at him, and he steps forward, invading what personal space there was between us.
His lips, his beautiful, full lips, are mere centimeters from mine, and my mouth suddenly goes dry. I close my eyes as I swallow and
feel the heat of his breath against my skin, I smell sweetness mixed with cigarettes, and my insides clench as my mouth now waters.
“Don’t worry; she’s not my Bridge.”
When he steps back, I open my eyes and see his are deep, dark, and so full of desire my core heats and dampens with anticipation.
“Now, do me a favor and try not to act like a jealous, little thing, will you?”
Before I can say anything, he opens the door wide and walks out. “Ines, nice of you to come.”
“For you”—she laughs haughtily—“I came in multiples.”
I. Hate. Her.
“Angela, come meet Ines.”
I step out and smile as I extend my hand to shake hers.
She looks me up and down like I may give her some sort of disease. “Is Angela help?”
Bitch, please.
What the hell is wrong with me? I am help.
“She’s an employee of de la Porte. She was Jean’s assistant for many years. She’s helping me now.”
“Is she suffering a psychotic breakdown?” she asks then huffs and turns her back to me. “Poor thing can’t even speak. I’d like a glass of wine.”
For years, I have been a strong woman. I’ve overcome my past insecurities and helped my daughter overcome hers caused by comments from people like her.
“I actually just returned from touring London with—”
“Friends,” Bass cuts me off.
I look at him, and he gives me a look that I’m not sure how to interpret.
“Did she know you’d have company?”
He starts walking toward her and looks back at me. “Let’s go.”
I follow him into the kitchen where Ines sits then shrugs her shoulders, allowing her wrap to drop. “Be a gentleman, Bass, and take this.”
He walks up behind her and takes the wrap, but instead of taking it off, he pushes it back onto her shoulders.
She turns and looks at him. “What’s wrong, Bastien? Did you forget how to undress me?”
“Let’s not waste either one of our time here.”
“We have business to discuss.”
“No, Ines, we don’t. The reason I called was to tell you I won’t be selling de la Porte.”