Fleur De Lies

by Maddy Hunter

  Click.

  “Fini,” she said as she dropped the camera into her bag. “Bobbi might have a bird if I use up all her film.”

  “Do you have any idea what all these structures are?” I asked, wishing I’d done more research before leaving Windsor City.

  “You don’t know?” She gave her hands a little pattycake clap. “Ewww! I’m so glad you asked.”

  Whipping her booklet out of the side pocket, she flipped open the cover and held it at shoulder level while the interconnected pages accordioned downward like paper dolls. “Grab the end there, would you, Em?”

  I caught the tail end of the booklet before it landed in a tidal pool, then stepped away from her, stretching the pages between us. I scanned it from left to right. “A panoramic photograph?”

  “Of the very beach we’re standing on, only it was taken in 1945, three months after D-Day.”

  I looked from the photo, to the beach, back to the photo, comparing the “here and now” to the “then and there.” “Wow, this place was really humming back then.”

  “Well, duh? This is where the British built their artificial harbor so ships could deliver supplies to the troops, so of course it was humming.”

  The photograph depicted a moment, frozen in time, when ingenious engineers had cross-hatched the beach with floats, pontoons, and roadways, and created a working harbor farther out to sea with piers, loading docks, floating cranes, and mooring facilities that serviced ships that were anchored outside the staging area.

  Jackie trailed a finger along the photo. “Once a ship’s bow doors opened up, a fleet of jeeps and trucks whisked the cargo over the floating roadways to the beach, and from there, everything headed inland. Fuel. Ammo. Tanks. Guess how long it took to empty the cargo hold of a landing ship?”

  I shrugged. “Twenty-four hours?”

  “Eighteen minutes. Can you believe it? I can’t even blow-dry my hair in eighteen minutes.”

  “How do you know so much about World War II naval logistics?” I regarded her one-eyed. “Military History Channel?”

  She arched an eyebrow and tapped a finger against her earlobe. “Grampa Potter. Did you ever meet Grampa Potter?”

  I mined my memory for an image of Jack’s grandfather. “Uhh …

  cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth? Cute lisp? Smelled like mothballs?”

  Jackie frowned. “That was Gramma Potter. Grampa didn’t have a lisp. Anyway, he was a navy Seabee who actually helped build this harbor.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Yup. You should have heard the stories he told about how his unit blew up old merchant ships to form the breakwater out there. You wouldn’t believe the great sound effects he came up with, Em. Even with the cigar in his mouth. And you see those boxcar-shaped things? They’re made of concrete and were towed across the Channel from England to be the primary building blocks for the entire operation. Would you believe they weighed as much as six thousand tons apiece?” She regarded the photograph. “Gramps never could figure out how a six-thousand-ton concrete box could float while a four-ounce bar of Lifebuoy soap couldn’t.”

  She chuckled. “Poor Gramps. The relatives used to get so tired of listening to him repeat the same stories that they’d sneak out of the room one by one. But I hung in there with him. Gramma, too. She’d just yank out her hearing aid, light up a stogie, and smile at him through a haze of cheap cigar smoke.”

  “That was really sweet of you, Jack.” Even as a child, his kinder, gentler feminine side had come to the fore.

  “I couldn’t leave. What if he remembered some gory details that involved shooting, stabbing, or blasting something sky high? No way was I gonna miss that.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Why are guys so obsessed with loud noises and gore?”

  She exhaled a long breath. “I dunno. But I have it narrowed down to either testosterone or political affiliation.” She peeked at her watch. “Are you ready to head back? I don’t want to lose track of the girls. They’re so helpless without me.” She executed a shimmy that rippled all the way down her body. “I’m their guiding force.”

  After collapsing the photograph back to its original booklet size, we struck out across the sand, aiming toward the stairs that fronted the carousel. “Which home visit are you scheduled for?” Jackie asked as she dug a sheaf of papers out of her shoulder bag.

  “I’m in group one.”

  “Shoot.” She made a face at the information on her itinerary. “I’m in group three.”

  One of the unique features of our river cruise was an opportunity to visit a French family in the Normandy countryside. Guests were being divided into groups of eight and would be dropped off at designated farms, villas, and chateaus where they’d be encouraged to discuss anything from local cuisine to politics with the host family. I didn’t know who else would be joining me in group one, but I hoped that whoever they were, they’d prove themselves to be worthy ambassadors of the United States and not ugly Americans.

  Please let Bernice be in someone else’s group. Please let Bernice be in someone else’s group.

  At the foot of the stairs, I paused to brush sand off my feet and slip back into my sandals. “I wonder which group the girls are in?” Jackie asked as she watched me retie the ribbons around my ankles.

  “Why? Are you planning to surprise your host family with a group demonstration of tone-correcting wands and cucumber facial masks?”

  She went statue-still for a long moment before shoving her itinerary back into her bag and grabbing her cell phone. “Ohmigod! Why didn’t I think of that? You’re a genius, Emily. An absolute genius! Mona Michelle goes international. Do you mind if I say it was my idea?” She tapped her screen and pressed her phone to her ear, bobbing her head impatiently.

  “Jack! I was teasing! You can’t pitch your cosmetic line on your home visit.”

  “Why not?”

  “Do the words ‘inappropriate’ and ‘tacky’ mean anything to you?”

  She pulled a long face. “How can Bobbi’s number no longer be in service? She gave it to me right before we boarded the bus.”

  Unh-oh. I didn’t like the sound of this.

  She punched her screen again and waited. “Well, this is really weird. Krystal’s number isn’t available either.”

  “Try blonde number three. Third time might be the charm.”

  “Can’t. Dawna couldn’t remember her number.” She clutched the device in both hands and stared miserably at the screen. “Do you suppose there’s something wrong with my phone?” She seized up with panic. “Or my hearing?”

  “You probably entered the numbers wrong, Jack. It happens.”

  Her eyes suddenly brightened. “Initializing Plan B.” Scrolling through her phone book, she hit another number and gnawed her bottom lip as she waited for someone to pick up.

  “Who’re you calling now?”

  “Your grandmother. She gave me her number yesterday, so if I got that one right, then maybe— Mrs. S.? I’m so glad you answered. This is Jackie. Quick question. Is this the right cell number for you?”

  She broke out in a giddy smile. “Well, thank God. I thought— Uh-huh … Uh-huh. Can you speak up a little, Mrs. S.? What’s all that yelling in the background? Uh-huh. Uh-huh. You’re where? No kidding? Yup. She’s right here with me. Oh, sure. No problem. Thanks.”

  She waved her phone at me in a celebratory gesture. “I knew I wasn’t the one who screwed up.” She exhaled a long, relieved breath before breaking out in a wince. “But now I’m really in a bind.”

  “Why?”

  “Because someone’s going to have to tell Krystal and Bobbi that their memories suck, and if I tell them, it’ll probably ruin our friendship. Women really resent other women pointing out their flaws. So”— she flashed a hopeful smile—“would you tell them?”

  “No!”

  �
��Please?”

  I stared at her, stonefaced. “Where’s Nana?”

  “In the public restroom.”

  “Who was yelling?”

  “Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. Bernice’s hand is stuck in the donation box, so you better get over there fast because the attendant has the place in lockdown until they free her, and the line is backed up around the building.”

  three

  “Why are you looking at me like I’m a new species of mold?” demanded Bernice.

  “Because you nearly started a restroom riot in Arromanches.” I spoke to her firmly, but kept my voice low to avoid humiliating her in public. “Do you know the anxiety you created? Seniors with plumbing issues cannot afford to waste precious minutes standing in a line that’s been shut down because of something you’ve done.”

  She bobbed her head nonchalantly. “They’ve got medications to take care of that now, you know.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “That moron attendant started it. I told her that I accidentally dropped the wrong coin in the box, but she wouldn’t give me change.”

  “Did she understand English?”

  “How should I know? Why is that important anyway? Hey, I’m not taking the blame for this. It was all her fault.”

  Of course it was the attendant’s fault. In Bernice’s world, it was always someone else’s fault.

  We were seated in the parlor of a three-hundred-year-old farmhouse that had survived the French Revolution, the Napoleonic wars, the German invasion of World War I, and the Allied bombings of World War II. The decor was an eclectic blend of antique and shabby chic with memorabilia-filled china cabinets, gilt-framed oils of grazing cattle, a sideboard glutted with photos, and sofas and chairs modern enough to have been purchased at IKEA. The windows were tall and narrow and afforded us excellent views of the apple orchard at the back, the impenetrable stone wall at the front, and the jungle of pink and purple hydrangea that grew in unruly banks across the lawn. Our hostess had introduced herself as Madeleine Saint-Sauveur, and before she’d disappeared into the kitchen to retrieve refreshments, she’d invited us to tour the ground floor to acquaint ourselves with the layout of the house.

  Osmond ambled into the parlor, seated himself in the chair beside me, pulled out his iPhone, and cued up a site. “You wanna see the video Margi shot in the little girls’ room? You know the subject matter has gotta be something special when Margi decides to shoot video instead of hand out sanitizer. She’s calling it the Princess and the Potty.”

  “Uhhh—”

  “It’s nothing racy. Just Bernice trying to pull her hand out of the donation box before your grandmother destroys it with a jumping reverse hook kick.”

  “There’s footage of Nana?”

  “Yup. And a real good closeup of her sneaker.”

  “Can you send the video to my phone so I can show Etienne when I get home?” I knew I’d be able to figure out the pool of data relating to cell phones if the technology would remain the same for more than a minute, but until then, I continued to need expert advice from either a random teenager or an old person.

  “Don’t need to send you anything, Emily. Margi posted it on YouTube, so it’s there for the whole world to see.”

  “I’m on YouTube?” Bernice leaned across me and snatched his phone from Osmond’s hand. “Have I gone viral yet?” She started the video, her eyes suddenly spitting fire. “Idiot. She didn’t shoot me from my good side.”

  Osmond regarded her blandly. “Does she know you got one?”

  “Margi posted a video of Bernice’s restroom disaster on YouTube,” Tilly announced as she strode into the parlor from the entry hall. “Have you seen it yet, Emily?”

  Bernice clutched Osmond’s phone, refusing to give it back. “Does anyone know how to delete other people’s videos from YouTube?”

  Tilly headed for an armchair across from us. “Try to appreciate the cultural implications, Bernice. Imagine what future generations might think when they view it. Why, among the Akuntsu, if a woman makes a fuss like you did in the communal toilet, it means she’s just discovered she’s entering the Change.” She bobbed her head thoughtfully. “In rarer instances, it indicates she’s being eaten alive by fire ants.”

  “Bonjour, mes amis.”

  Madeleine Saint-Sauveur was a dark-haired beauty in her mid-thirties who seemed to shun makeup in favor of plain old soap and water. She was simply dressed in tight jeans and a short-sleeved T-shirt, but the scarf she’d wrapped around her neck in a half-dozen interconnecting loops bespoke a sense of style that was both effortless and elegant. “I think this is not all of you,” she said in charmingly accented English as she placed an oversized serving tray on the coffee table in front of us. “Perhaps the smell of brownies will prompt them to join us. Yes?”

  As if on cue, the missing guests made their way into the parlor and took their seats, save for one straggler—a cadaverously thin man wearing dark glasses—who shuffled halfway into the room before discovering that all available seats had been taken. Feet braced apart and cane anchored in front of him to steady his balance, he swayed dangerously left and right before asking, “Where’m I s’posed to sit?”

  “Why don’t you sit here?” I said as I popped out of my chair. He was either drunk, infirm, or both, but I didn’t want to see him face- plant on the floor.

  “Mush obliged,” he slurred as I escorted him to my seat. “You’re okay, honey.”

  “Don’t get tricked into thinking she did that out of the goodness of her heart,” cracked Bernice. “She gets paid big bucks to be nice to old geezers like you.”

  “I don’t understand.” Madeleine did a quick head count. “There are nine of you. I was told to expect eight. My mistake, yes? Let me fetch another chair from the kitchen. And please, pour yourselves some cider. Made from the apples grown in our own orchard. Or if you prefer something stronger, I invite you to sample the Calvados.” She gestured to the liter bottle next to the pitcher of cider. “Apple brandy. One of the specialties of our region.”

  “Shounds good,” boomed our inebriated guest. “Make mine a double.”

  “Hey, bud, looks like you’ve had your fill already,” said the man in the chair next to Tilly.

  “Were you assigned to group one?” demanded a woman whose silver hair was styled in an upsweep that looked stiff as starch.

  “Don’t know. When the bus shtopped, I got off. Wasn’t I s’posed to get off ?” He angled his head in a slow arc from left to right, taking in the entire room behind his sunglasses. “How come the rhest of you got off ?”

  “Because we’re in group one,” snapped the silver-haired woman.

  “Braaa-vo.” He raised his hand in a mock toast and bowed his head. “I’m pleazhed to make the acquaintance of all you good people. I’m Irvin, but you can call me Irv. So … ish anyone gonna sherve that brandy, or do I have to pour it myshelf ?”

  Madeleine bustled back into the room with an extra chair. “Your tour company would frown on my seating their guests on the floor,” she teased as she placed the chair next to me. “Please, madame, sit,” then to the room at large, “If I dig out my map of the United States, would you tell me your names and show me where you live?”

  We spent the next several minutes introducing ourselves to our hostess and locating our hometowns on the map. “So many of you from the same state,” Madeleine commented as she highlighted Windsor City with a pink marker. “How nice that you enjoy traveling together.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion,” snorted Bernice.

  “Is the name ‘Osmond’ a common one in Iowa?” Her voice grew animated as she questioned Osmond. “We have several in our family. Did you know it can be traced back to the time of the Norman Conquest? Although back then it was spelled A-S-M-U-N-D-R. The invading Norsemen had more of an influence on our language than we often realize.
”

  “I vishited Iowa once.” Irv knocked back his second apple brandy, sucking in his breath at the aftertaste. “And once was enough. Woo! This shtuff’s good.”

  “Honestly.” The lady with the stiff hair drilled him with a look that oozed disgust. “Is it too much to ask you to conduct yourself with a little more dignity?” She’d introduced herself as Virginia Martin from Houston—a well-preserved socialite type with rhinestone reading glasses hanging from a rhinestone chain around her neck and stunning rings gracing every finger of her unblemished hands. And surprise, surprise, she was married to Victor Martin, who just happened to be Jackie’s boss and the founder of Mona Michelle cosmetics. “Do something, Victor,” she insisted. “He’s making a mockery of this lovely woman’s hospitality.”

  “What would you have me do, my pet?” Victor Martin, financial mogul and cosmetic magnate, was an exceedingly old man. He still boasted a full head of hair, but that’s where Father Time’s generosity had ended. His skin was loose and wrinkled and ravaged with liver spots. His posture was stooped, his shoulders rounded. His gait was so unsteady, he couldn’t take a step without clutching his cane in one hand and his wife’s arm with the other. On his back he wore a portable oxygen pack that allowed a continuous flow of air to be pumped into his nostrils. I admired his pluck, but I questioned the wisdom of his decision to lead a bevy of beautiful blondes through France when he looked as if he’d be more comfortable resting in a skilled nursing care facility.

  “Hey, Irv, why don’t you try the cider?” suggested the man who occupied the seat next to Tilly. “Guaranteed to be easier on your liver.” He’d introduced himself as Cal Jolly from Minnesota, a self-effacing guy in his fifties who was traveling with his dad, Woodrow Jolly the Third, a spry octogenarian of Victor Martin’s generation, but without Victor’s cane, oxygen pack, wife, or hair.

  “Maybe he doesn’t like cider,” Woody spoke up in a voice that was surprisingly strong and confident. He scratched an ear that had grown too big for his bald head and fixed his son with a frosty look. “Would you stop trying to save folks from themselves? You young people have gone way overboard with the health issues. He’s not gonna live forever, Cal. None of us are. So if the man wants to pickle his organs in a sea of booze, let him.”