I sit back up on the bed just as Cass taps on my door.
"Andee?"
"Come in, Cass."
She opens the door and takes a step into my bedroom. "You okay?"
"Never better." I pull myself up off the bed and stand.
"Could have fooled me. Are you sure you don't want . . ."
"Cassidy"—I point my finger at her—"I told you. No more. And the next time you offer me a cup, I'll fire you."
She laughs.
"I'm glad you find this so amusing."
"It's just that I always thought drive determined your destiny, not caffeine."
I look at her, eyebrows raised, and then push past her and head back to the office. "Oh my gosh, what if you're right?" I say over my shoulder. "Maybe just one more cup . . ." I bypass the office and head for the kitchen, but Cass cuts me off at the pass.
"No. No more. You can do this." She pushes me back to the office. "It'll be great. Really. It's already helping. You're becoming the kinder, gentler, Andee Bell."
I turn around and glare at her.
"Okay, not really. You're still a—"
"Watch it."
She smiles. "Hey, I'm going to meet with this broker and see some of his inventory. I'll save you another wasted morning." She takes her jacket off the back of my desk chair, and grabs her purse. "Okay?"
"Okay. And . . . thank you."
"Thank you?" She feigns an expression of shock.
"Get out of here!"
THE DOMAINE DE LA Bouvier offices in the city are nondescript—a suite on an upper floor of one of a hundred office buildings in the area. The receptionist shows me to Brigitte's office. As we walk down the hallway, we pass Gerard's office. The door is closed, the light off. It is a somber reminder of the brevity of life and a reminder of my own recent wake-up call.
Which, I remind myself, is why I'm here.
The receptionist seats me across from Brigitte's desk and tells me she'll be right with me.
"May I get you something while you wait? Coffee or tea?"
"Coffee. Black."
"Regular or decaf?"
I hesitate. I've got to get through this meeting. "Regular. Thank you."
I hear Brigitte talking to someone as she approaches her office and I stand to greet her. She stands at the open office door, her back to me, and instructs an admin on an assignment. I notice the cut of her dark suit, and see a flash of the red soles of her signature Louboutin pumps.
When she turns and enters the office, she smiles, but there is no warmth in her eyes, or in her manner.
"Andee, have a seat."
I've requested this meeting and she doesn't know why. It's her territory, but she's still at a disadvantage. Good.
"Nice to see you, Brigitte." Okay, so I'm bluffing, but I'm just warming up.
"And you." She seats herself in the chair behind the mahogany desk. "You mentioned a proposition."
The receptionist returns with my coffee and a cup of tea for Brigitte. I reach for the cup and saucer she offers me and take a needed gulp. If I burn my mouth, oh well. Then I set the saucer on the desk and continue to hold the cup. Once the receptionist is gone, I respond. "Yes." I take another sip of the coffee and then set the cup down too and begin the story I've rehearsed. "I received a call on Monday from an investor I work with, an old friend, it seems, of Duke Whitmore. He said he heard, through the grapevine"—I smile my most charming smile—"no pun intended, that Kelly sold a demand note for Azul."
I see Brigitte bristle.
"Where did he get that information? Kelly assured me the transaction would remain between us."
"He said he was at a bar, sitting next to her attorney. He was—in his words—flapping his lips about Kelly's business. He'd had too much to drink." I hold up my hand as I see the glint of anger in her eyes. "He didn't reveal who purchased the note. Just said another vintner paid a good price for it. He then went on to tell my investor what the note sold for."
She sets her cup and saucer on her desk and leans back in her chair. "And?"
"And . . . he wondered if I could find out who made the purchase and make them an offer. It seems he has a soft spot for Azul." I shrug. "Who knows what his reasons are, but I asked what he's willing to pay and . . . I thought you might find the offer intriguing."
"I'm not interested."
Her icy stare chills me and my heart begins to race. "Fine." I bend to pick up my briefcase.
"Wait."
I set the briefcase back down and lean back in my chair.
"What's he willing to pay?"
"Double." My tone is cool, detached and, I hope, belies the panic I feel at the thought of putting out that much money for anything.
Her eyes narrow and her stare pins me to my seat. Of course, I don't let her know that.
"What will he do with the note? Will he demand Bill pay it?"
"I assume so, but I don't know."
She gets up from her desk, comes around to the front of it, and perches on the edge near me. She looks down at me. "Who is it? Who is the investor?"
I sit still and meet her gaze. "He wishes to remain anonymous."
She stands and walks back to her chair and sits behind the desk again. "I have a simple rule—one I'm sure you'll appreciate: know who you're dealing with. Wise, don't you agree?"
I shrug. "It's your business, Brigitte. As your financial advisor, it's my job to inform you when a deal like that comes across my desk. It is a lot of money—a fantastic return on your investment. Something worth considering, I'd think. But my hands are tied. As I do with you, I maintain a code of confidentiality with all my clients. I have to."
"My reasons for obtaining the note were personal. It wasn't a business transaction, per se. The note is not for sale. At any price. So, as I stated, I'm not interested in your investor's offer. But thank you for notifying me." She looks from me to her watch.
"Well . . . if you change your mind, you know where to find me."
"Oh, I never change my mind." She stands.
I reach for my briefcase again and as I grasp the handle my nails dig into the palm of my hand. I stand and turn for the door.
It's clear the meeting is over.
I step into the elevator and once the doors close, I lean against the back wall and bang my ahead against the wood paneling. I bang. And bang. And bang. All the way to the lobby.
How could she turn down that much money? If money isn't her motivator, what is? How could I have been so wrong?
I step out of the elevator and walk out of the building. What now? If I can't buy the note back, how can I right my wrong? How can I fix things . . . for Jason, for Bill, and—who am I kidding—for myself?
How do I redeem myself?
For Christ to truly reign within you everything must be submitted to Him without reservation.
JEANNE GUYON
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Jenna
I OPEN MY e-mail and see, finally, a response from Andee. Has she decided to trust Lightseeker?
Lightseeker,
Okay, you win. But sell me out, and I'll make your life miserable. Not a threat, just a warning. You say you need to protect your identity in order to protect yourself. I know a little something about self-protection: It doesn't work. I've spent my life trying to protect myself and now, I face exactly what I've attempted to avoid. Ironic.
In your last post, you wrote about loneliness and having known perfect love. What's the deal with the perfect love? I know God is equated with love, and assume that's who you refer to, but how does one go about participating in a relationship with God?
And why would God want a love relationship with me? Believe me, I've done nothing to deserve anyone's love lately. In fact, I've driven everyone away a
nd have betrayed those who cared at all.
So, Lightseeker, enlighten me . . .
A. Bell
I lean back in my desk chair and think of Andee. Not the Andee I've met, the Andee that dated Jason. But Andee Bell, financial advisor, author, radio personality. How much courage did it take for that Andee to expose herself to a complete stranger? To risk, as she wrote, being sold out?
How much is she hurting that she'd take such a risk?
Is the betrayal she mentions a reference to Jason? I hurt for him because I know he cared about Andee, but I don't resent her. It seemed evident that she gave what she could to Jason. She'd built a fortress around herself—anyone could see that. She was covering deep wounds—making sure nothing, or no one, wounded her again. At least, that was my sense after spending the weekend with her and Jason at the chateau.
I consider her warning—not about making my life miserable. I smile. That's just Andee. I know I won't betray her confidence. No, I wonder about her warning about self-protection not working. I think again of Brigitte and the blog . . . and another wave of nausea rolls over me.
I reach for the steaming cup of peppermint herbal tea on my desk and take a small sip. After feeling so sick earlier in the week, I asked Hannah to replace my morning coffee with the tea, as it seemed to help the nausea.
Just the thought of Brigitte discovering my blog makes me sick to my stomach—and the tea does nothing to relieve that.
What have I gotten myself into?
And yet . . .
I look back at Andee's e-mail and my passion stirs. Would I forgo the opportunity to respond to Andee's question, to share the love and grace of Jesus with her, simply to protect myself from Brigitte?
I twist the band on my left ring finger and recall the vow I made: I will have no other god before you.
No, I will continue with the blog. I am honored, awed even, for the opportunity to share with Andee and others like her. I won't reveal my identity. And maybe my protection will fail, as Andee suggested, but if so, I'll trust God with the outcome.
I take another sip of tea and then begin my response to Andee.
Dear Andee,
I assure you, God wants a relationship with you. A deep, abiding, love relationship. He adores you. So much so that He gave up His only Son as payment for your sin—my sin. There is nothing you can do to separate yourself from His love. Nothing.
If you believe Jesus Christ is the Son of God, and is God Himself as part of the trinity, Father, Son, and Spirit, then you've already begun a relationship.
Like any other relationship, it is built by getting to know one another. But in this relationship, you are already fully known, fully loved, and fully accepted. Now it's your turn to get to know God—the lover of your soul. Spend time with Him. Read His Word—His love letter to you. Do you have a Bible? If so, begin in the New Testament, maybe with the book of John, and get to know Jesus . . .
I stop. Will Andee believe? Or will she doubt the truth of God's Word? Oh Lord, open her eyes to Your truth, let her sense Your love for her, give her a picture of Your grace. Heal her wounds. I feel my eyes well with tears. Lord, let her fall so deeply in love with You that nothing else in her life matters . . .
I think again of Brigitte. And Lord, let me love You in that same way. Let nothing else, no one else, stand in the way of my relationship with You. A ripple of fear threatens to unnerve me. But I take a deep breath and continue. Lord, strengthen me to pick up my cross and follow You. I'm ready . . .
Peace threads itself through my soul, stitching my fraying courage.
Don't look ahead. Stay here, in the present moment. God is here.
I return to my e-mail:
Andee, thank you for choosing to trust me. I will honor your trust. Thank you, too, for your words about self-protection—I will ponder your advice.
Blessings to you . . .
I sign off, close the laptop, and reach for my Bible. I turn to the passage in the Gospels that Matthew read to me a couple of weeks ago and read:
"I have come to turn a man against his father, a daughter against her mother, a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law—"
I skip down the page . . .
"Anyone who loves their father or mother more than me is not worthy of me: anyone who loves their son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me. Whoever does not take up their cross and follow me is not worthy of me. Whoever finds their life will lose it, and whoever loses their life for my sake will find it."
I smile. I'm great at losing things, so losing my life shouldn't be an issue. Although, I know I'm not clear on Jesus' meaning. So I look at the verses listed in the margin that reference other passages with a similar theme and see Luke 14 listed. I turn there and read Jesus words:
"If anyone comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters—yes, even their own life—such a person cannot be my disciple. And whoever does not carry their cross and follow me cannot be my disciple."
Clarity comes. . . . Picking up my cross—carrying my cross—means I'm willing to walk away from anyone, even loved ones, who stand between me and Jesus.
A scene from the Bible comes to mind—a conversation between Peter and Jesus. Does it apply?
I stand up and take my Bible to the sofa, sit, and then flip to the back of my Bible and search for that passage in the concordance. I find the verse in the concordance and turn to the referenced verses. I read Jesus' prediction of His death and then pick up His conversation with well-intentioned Peter in Matthew 16:22:
Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him. "Never, Lord!" he said. "This shall never happen to you!" Jesus turned and said to Peter, "Get behind me, Satan! You are a stumbling block to me; you do not have in mind the concerns of God, but merely human concerns."
That's it! Fascinated, I keep reading. And with the next verse, my heart skips a beat . . .
Then Jesus said to his disciples, "Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For whoever wants to save their life will lose it, but whoever loses their life for me will find it."
The verses echo Jesus' words from the earlier chapter in Matthew—the wording is almost exact. One verse talks about seeking our lives, the other talks about saving our lives.
Andee's warning about self-protection comes to mind again. Is protecting myself the same as trying to save my life? I feel the fog of confusion roll in. . . . But wouldn't walking away from Brigitte be a self-protective act? Isn't that saving myself?
I pose my questions to God, but the light of clarity dims, and soon I'm wandering, lost, in a dense fog.
I get up from the sofa, go to the desk, and make a note to talk this through with Matthew.
I sigh.
Why does it have to be so complicated?
Do not regard the external, but the inward state of people.
JEANNE GUYON
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Brigitte
SHE PAYS THE fare and then waits for the cab driver to get out and open the door for her. Once he does, she tips him. She steps onto the curb and opens her umbrella while cursing the rain. She'd rather have met at her home office, but no, this is better. Neutral territory.
She crosses the sidewalk, and steps into the lobby of the office building, shaking the water off her umbrella as she does. She waits at the elevator with a group of businessmen just returning from lunch, it appears. When she reaches the top floor, she steps out of the elevator into the reception area of Shultz, Shultz, and Gorman.
The receptionist greets her. "Mrs. Bouvier, please go back, Mr. Shultz is expecting you."
She heads for Max's office. As she passes the receptionist's desk she says, "I'd like a cup of tea. No sugar." She walks into Max's office without knocking. "Maxwell, I trust
everything is in order?"
He stands. "Hello, Brigitte. I'm fine. Thank you for asking. Please, come in."
"Amusing, as always." She sets her briefcase down and comes around the desk and gives him a peck on the cheek, then straightens his tie and pats him on the shoulder. "Much better, oui?"
There's a tap on his door and the receptionist comes in with Brigitte's tea and hands it to her. "May I get you anything else?"
"This will do."
"Thank you, Rachel." Max gestures to the round table in front of the floor-to-ceiling window. "Brigitte, have a seat. Everything is in order, of course. As we discussed in Napa, I'll give you each a copy of the trust and I'll go through it with Jenna. Then you can present your . . . what shall we call it? Your offer?"
She sniffs. "Yes, Max, it is an offer, and a very generous one at that, n'est-ce pas?"
"I suppose it depends on your perspective. I don't think you can assume Jenna will agree to your stipulations."
"Don't be silly, Maxwell. They're hardly stipulations. Just a few requests."
"And if she doesn't abide by your requests?"
"She will. I've seen to that."
"Yes, I know." He smiles. "I'm glad we're friends, Brigitte, I'd hate to be your enemy."
"Wise man."
The intercom on Max's desk buzzes. He walks to the desk and picks up the phone receiver. "Thank you. Send her in." Then he walks to the office door, opens it, and steps into the hallway and waits. "Jenna, good to see you. Please come in. Brigitte just arrived."
Brigitte stands to welcome Jenna. "Hello, chérie, have a seat next to me and we'll get this distasteful business over with. I still can't believe"—she shakes her head—"Well, you know. It still seems impossible that he's really gone."
"Yes, I know."
The three of them sit around the table and Max opens the file folder and distributes copies of the trust.
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