Lost and Found

by Ginny L. Yttrup

  "Jenna, I can read through all the legal jargon, if you'd like, or I can tell you in general terms what's stated in the trust. Which do you prefer?"

  "General terms are fine, Max."

  "Good. You have a copy of the trust, and I'd advise you, once we've gone through it, to have your own attorney look it over if you'd like. Though, I assure you, it's all in order. Any questions before we get started?" He looks from Jenna to Brigitte.

  Brigitte shakes her head. "Just get on with it, Max."

  "Fine." He puts on his glasses and looks at the trust sitting in front of him and then looks at Jenna. "When Gerard's father died, as you know, Gerard was still a minor, so everything was left to Brigitte. Much later, I prepared a trust for Gerard in the event and with the expectation that Brigitte would predecease Gerard and that the trust would hold whatever he accumulated and whatever he inherited. Following me?"

  "So far."

  "Good." He leans back in his chair, and takes off his glasses. "Now, Gerard was paid an annual salary from Domaine de la Bouvier, and any monies in your personal accounts, retirement accounts, personal investments, things of that nature, are of course, community property." He looks at Jenna again. "Understood?"

  She hesitates. "So, you're saying nothing will come to me through the trust?"

  "Right." Max looks to Brigitte. "Brigitte, would you like to take it from here?"

  "Thank you, Max." She turns in her seat so she's facing Jenna.

  "Now darling, unless there are accounts you're aware of that I am not, then I don't believe Gerard made many personal investments. In fact, on more than one occasion through the years, I've given him additional funds so he could maintain the lifestyle you seemed to want. And of course, you also received the generous allowance each month." She sits back in her chair and looks at Jenna and shakes her head. "Sadly, we both know Gerard wasn't much of a businessman. He seemed more interested in, shall we say, enjoying life."

  Jenna looks at her clasped hands in her lap, then looks back to Brigitte. "His time and efforts were committed to Domaine de la Bouvier. He felt that was his best investment and believed it would provide for retirement and beyond. He worked hard."

  "Well, I'm the better judge of his work habits, non?" She reaches over and places her hand on Jenna's arm. "But that aside, chérie, it should have been me, of course, who passed first. When Gerard wanted to change his trust, to add"—she clears her throat—"provisions, I discouraged him. Perhaps I was in denial—I couldn't face the thought of losing him. You understand, of course." She pulls back from Jenna and continues. "However, now we're faced with the unfortunate task of discussing life without Gerard."

  Jenna sits, hands folded, and jaw clenched.

  "Darling, you look quite upset, pale even. Are you all right?"

  "Yes. I'm fine. Would it be possible to get a glass of water?" She looks to Max.

  "Of course." Max goes to the credenza behind his desk, reaches for a glass, and pours water from the pitcher sitting on a tray on the cabinet. He returns to the table, hands the glass to Jenna, pats her on the back, and then sits back down. "These meetings are never easy, my dear."

  "Thank you." She takes a sip of the water.

  Brigitte scoots forward in her chair, "Max, hand me a copy of the agreement we drafted."

  Max opens the file folder in front of him and hands a piece of paper to Brigitte.

  She sits back and glances at the document and then says, "You know, Jenna, I love you as if you were my own daughter. And now, it is just the two of us. You stand to inherit all I have—the company and all its holdings and, of course, my personal estate." She leans over and pats Jenna on the shoulder. "So you see, you have nothing to worry about, chérie."

  Jenna nods and then takes another sip of water.

  "Before I change my trust, there are just a few things we'll need to agree upon. Max has drafted an agreement for you to sign."

  "May I see it?"

  "Of course, darling." Brigitte hands the document to her. "Please, read it and then if you have questions, though I don't know why you would, we can discuss them here." She sits back, folds her hands in her lap.

  Marveilleux. All is going according to plan.

  Jenna takes the document and begins to read, as she does, her hand, and the paper, begin to shake. She sets the paper on the table and folds her hands in her lap and then continues to read the paper on the table.

  Brigitte watches—her gaze never leaving Jenna. When she thinks she's had plenty of time to read the agreement, she turns to Max. "Do you have a pen for Jenna?"

  "Wait." Jenna's voice cracks. She takes a deep breath and looks at Brigitte. "My blog . . . how . . . how did you—"

  "Are you surprised?" She doesn't even try to soften the hard, cold edge of her words. "No longer writing the blog won't be an issue, will it? We live in the public eye, Jenna, you know that—something like that leaves us open to criticism—makes us vulnerable. Surely you understand. It is time for you to re-involve yourself elsewhere. Now that the infection is gone, and once you've had the corrective surgery, you can immerse yourself in the charities you once enjoyed. Do something worthwhile again."

  Jenna reaches for her water glass.

  "Darling, you're shaking. Are you sure you're feeling well?"

  She takes a drink of the water and sets the glass back down. Water sloshes over the edge of the glass onto the table.

  "Here, let me get a napkin." Max starts to rise.

  "Why not sign the agreement now, chérie, and then we can go enjoy a late lunch together. We'll go somewhere special."

  "No."

  Though Jenna whispers the word, it strikes Brigitte like a sledgehammer. "I beg your pardon?"

  Jenna scoots away from the table and stands. "I said, no!" With that, she turns and walks out.

  Out of the office.

  And then, out of the building.

  You must walk with God with a total sense of abandonment and uncertainty.

  JEANNE GUYON

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Jenna

  I STAGGER OUT of the building and onto the sidewalk. A cold wind slaps me in the face. I pull my coat close, turn into the wind, and walk.

  And walk.

  And walk.

  I weave between people crowding the sidewalk, and step off the curb to cross the street in an attempt to escape the masses. Cars honk as I dodge them. And someone yells, telling me to watch out.

  I don't know where I'm going. I don't care. I just need to get away—away from Brigitte. Away from her control.

  My relentless pace matches my racing thoughts. How did she find out about the blog? How long has she known? What has she read? How much did I reveal? And the thought that repeats over and over: Stop writing the blog and inherit millions.

  Does she really think she can buy me?

  Of course she does. I've never given her reason to believe otherwise.

  Stop writing the blog and inherit millions.

  But that wasn't all. I stop on the sidewalk, close my eyes, and picture the agreement. There were three points, but I was so stunned by the fact that she knew about my blog that I just scanned the rest of the agreement. I try now to recall the second and third stipulations.

  Ah, yes, of course.

  The second stipulation was that I live with Brigitte for the remainder of her lifetime.

  But what was the third stipulation? I continue walking, cutting through alleys and down side streets. It didn't register when I read it. My mind shuffles and again I picture the agreement and I see, in my mind, Matthew's name.

  The wind whips my hair, the ends sting my face as they hit.

  No further contact with Matthew MacGregor.

  That was it.

  Anger pummels me like a pounding fist.
/>   I swallow the scream rising in my throat and wipe my face—rain mingles with my tears. When did it start raining? I slow my pace and look around. I have no idea where in the city I am. Heat from my exertion radiates from under my coat and I strip it off, drape it over my arm, and walk to the next corner where I can see the street signs.

  Then I dig in my purse until I find my phone.

  "Ahsan, I need . . . a . . . ride."

  "Mrs. Jenna?"

  "Yes."

  "Are you all right?"

  I hesitate. "No . . . no I'm not."

  "Where are you?"

  Still breathless, I give him the names of the streets.

  "Mrs. Jenna, I will call another cab. I cannot be there soon. It will be at least twenty-five minutes."

  "No, Ahsan. I want . . . I . . . need you . . . to come. I'll wait."

  "But Mrs. Jenna—"

  "Please, please come." I choke back tears.

  "I will be there, Mrs. Jenna. I will be there."

  WHEN AHSAN ARRIVES, I'M soaking wet and shivering. I'd put my coat back on and waited under an awning, but I was wet to begin with. He pulls up at the curb, gets out, and leads me to the front passenger seat.

  I slide into the cab and he closes the door for me. Then he goes around the back of the car, opens his trunk, slams it closed, and comes back and gets into the driver's seat. He hands me a towel. "It is clean."

  "Thank you."

  He reaches for the console, turns the heat up, and makes sure the vents are pointed in my direction. His simple acts of kindness cause my tears to flow again. I put the towel to my face and wipe my eyes.

  Ahsan reaches over and places his hand on my shoulder. "Mrs. Jenna, what has happened?"

  "Oh, Ahsan . . ." I tell him the whole story as we sit in the warmth of the cab, rain thrumming on the windshield as I talk. Ahsan is attentive, his turbaned head nodding as he listens.

  "Ahsan, what did you mean the other night when you said I've run the race well, but now the course changes?"

  "The courses of our lives change, but if our focus remains on Jesus, then we remain steady. He makes our paths straight."

  I stare out the window into the gray afternoon. "Has He done that for you?"

  "Yes, Mrs. Jenna. My course changed when God led me to America. I had to leave my family, people I care for and who depend on me. And not all agreed that I should go. My father and my wife were very angry. But my eyes were on Jesus and this is where He led."

  "Why? Why did He lead you away from your family?"

  "He did not lead me away from my family, He led me closer to Him."

  I take the towel Ahsan gave me and dry the ends of my hair as I ponder his words. "But how did you know? How did you know for sure that you were to come here?"

  "I did not know for sure. We must walk in faith, Mrs. Jenna, which means being uncertain of where we go, but certain of He who goes with us."

  His gaze holds mine, and I read compassion and understanding in his eyes.

  "Now that I am here, I see more clearly. In America, I am free to worship my God, to live a life of dignity, to provide for my family. But the way is still uncertain. I do not know when God will bring my family here. I do not know many things. But I know Him." He points his finger heavenward.

  As I listen, my soul settles and peace envelops me. I reach out and put my hand on Ahsan's arm. "Thank you, Ahsan. You offer God's mercy this afternoon."

  He nods and smiles. "You are tired, Mrs. Jenna. I will take you home now?"

  I look out the front windshield, through the pouring rain, and then nod my head. "Yes, take me back to the house."

  It is not my home.

  If entering into deep union with God were as easy as walking into a room, many would gladly do it. The door that leads to life first leads to many deaths.

  JEANNE GUYON

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Andee

  I STARE AT my computer screen, stare at Lightseeker's last e-mail, until the letters on the screen blur into a jumbled mess—much like the thoughts jumbled in my mind. I lean my elbows on my desk, and my head in my hands. Then I rub my eyes, sigh, and lean back in the chair again.

  Since my failed meeting with Brigitte, agitation has gnawed at me like a piranha, destroying my confidence in my own abilities. As an adult, I've controlled my circumstances and often the actions of those around me. Now, for the first time, I find myself in a situation I can't control.

  That realization both angers and scares me.

  I'm consumed with that reality and in desperate need of help—hence, my return to Lightseeker's e-mail. Okay, I admit, I've read it multiple times a day since she sent it. Good grief. You'd think I have nothing better to do. Though, I haven't followed through on her suggestion to read the Bible. Whatever.

  I swivel the chair and turn away from the computer. But before doing so, I reach for the remote control. I face the flat screen hanging on my office wall and turn the TV on and flip through channels, but nothing holds my attention. Nothing stops the nipping of the piranha.

  I flip back to CNN and let it drone as background noise.

  I concede and get up, go to the hall closet, and grab the box I dropped in there several days ago after it was delivered to my door. In the box is the Bible I ordered. Somewhere, I have a Bible from my childhood—a small book with a white leather cover. But I refuse to dig it out—too many reminders.

  Anyway, that isn't the God I want to know.

  Instead, I decided, if I was going to read the Bible, as Lightseeker suggested, I wanted a new Bible for a new God. Okay, so maybe He isn't new. But I need a new understanding of Him. That much I get.

  I think back to the evening I ordered the Bible online. Who knew there were zillions of Bibles to choose from? And translations. Give me a break. I e-mailed Lightseeker back for a recommendation.

  Now, I go to the kitchen, set the box on the counter, and then tear it open. I pull out the heavy book, take the wrapping off, and then hold it up to my nose and breathe in the rich scent of leather. I take the Bible and head back to my desk where I sit, set the Bible on the desk, and fan through the fragile pages.

  "Well, Sam, I guess there's no time like the present." Sam, who's laying under the lamp on my desktop, stretches his front legs out and then curls back around himself. I begin flipping through the pages again. I stop when something catches my eye, though most of it seems meaningless. I stop at the book of Ecclesiastes and read:

  "Meaningless! Meaningless! Utterly meaningless!"

  "My point exactly."

  I keep reading:

  "What does man gain from all his labor at which he toils under the sun?"

  I read to the end of the chapter. This, I get. It's what I've felt all week long. I inked a deal with a cable channel for the Andee Bell Show. I looked at buildings with Cass and the new broker and found two to choose from—both are perfect. I completed the first draft of my current manuscript. And I interviewed two potential publicists.

  But so what?

  None of it stirred anything in me.

  The enjoyment I used to derive from my work seems lost to me.

  I've done it all.

  I have it all.

  So what?

  With the Bible still sitting on my desk, I close it, and then lean forward and rest my forehead on it. For the first time in my adult life, I have no idea what to do.

  Everything is pointless.

  Along the sightless path, you may begin to consider yourself separated from God and feel that you are left to act for yourself.

  JEANNE GUYON

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Jenna

  I WAKE TO the same nausea and debilitating fatigue that followed me home from the meeting with Brigitte and Max yesterday, but I d
etermine I'll push through it. Gerard's death, the uncertainties of what his trust contained, and the continued stress of living under Brigitte's rule have taken their toll. My body is reacting—telling me what I haven't wanted to face.

  Haven't had the courage to face.

  It is time to leave.

  Time to take care of myself, to be a good steward of the life God's given me, as Jason suggested.

  It is time to stand back from Brigitte.

  To stand back from the life I've known and my own understanding.

  Not only because I believe this is the meaning of God's message to me this last year, but also for my own well being. How can I follow God and His purpose for me if I can't function? If I spend more time sick than well?

  It is time to pick up my cross and follow Him.

  It all seems clear now.

  I raise my head off my pillow, take a deep breath, and then sit up and put my legs over the side of the bed. I stand and determine, again, that I won't give in to my churning stomach. I walk to my closet, put on my robe, and decide I'll go to the kitchen and force myself to eat a piece of toast and drink some juice. It is early enough that I know I won't run into Brigitte, or even Hannah.

  I hesitate at the elevator, but no, I'll make myself walk down the stairs. I take each step like a woman far beyond my thirty-three years. Winded as I reach the last step, I decide I'll call the doctor tomorrow just to make certain this isn't the infection. I haven't wanted, couldn't entertain that possibility. But it's time to face reality again.

  Nicholetta, the cook, is alone in the kitchen when I poke my head in.

  "Good morning, Jenna. May I get you something?"

  "Good morning, Nicholetta. Just a piece of toast and some juice, please."

  "Would you like it in your room?"

  "No, don't bother bringing it up. I'll just have it here, if that's okay?"

  "Of course."

  I pull out one of the stools from under the island, and sit while Nicholetta drops a piece of sourdough bread into the toaster and pours me a glass of apple juice. When she sets the juice in front of me, she pauses.