"You're sick again."
I shrug my shoulders. "I'm . . . okay."
"You don't look okay." Then she leans in and lowers her voice. "It is this house—the atmosphere—it is her. Pardon me for saying so, but you cannot stay here and be healthy. You are free now. Mr. Bouvier is gone. You are free to leave. You must go. Otherwise, you will fall to depression. You will be sick forever."
I watch as she steps back from me, reaches for her gray bun, adjusts a bobby pin, and then goes to the sink, washes her hands, wipes them on a towel, and then butters my toast.
This is the first time in eleven years that one of the staff has said anything personal to me, or perhaps more surprising, anything against Brigitte. When Nicholetta sets a plate with my toast in front of me, I reach out and grab her hand. "Nicholetta, thank you. I think . . . I know you're right. Thank you."
She nods her head. "You need to take care of yourself." She smiles and gives my hand a squeeze then returns to her duties.
I take a small bite of the toast, chew it, and make myself swallow. Then I take a sip of the juice. I force myself to eat until the toast is gone. All the while thinking of Nicholetta's words. Depression. Yes, that's the gray cloud—the fog that's followed me. And I've read it can lead to physical ailments. Perhaps that is what plagues me.
It is time to go.
I knew it when I woke this morning.
And now that knowledge has been affirmed.
I stand, take my plate to the sink, and smile at Nicholetta before turning to go.
I don't have a plan, but I'll make one. I'll call my dad and Jason this morning. I leave the kitchen and climb the stairs while deciding what to do. I'll get Dad and Jason's advice. Maybe I'll stay with—
"Jenna, please come in for a moment."
Brigitte stands at the door of her suite and motions for me to step inside. She wears her robe and holds a cup of coffee. Her tone is cold, hard.
My stomach lurches and I long to turn and run, but there seems no way to avoid her, so I follow her into her suite and then into her office. I notice the file folder sitting on the desk. She goes behind her desk, sets her coffee cup down, and reaches for the folder and hands it across the desk to me.
"You left Max's office yesterday without signing the agreement. I thought you'd like to take care of that this morning so we can . . . get on with things." She opens her desk drawer and takes out a pen and hands it to me.
I wasn't prepared to face her.
Not yet.
But maybe being unprepared is better.
I set the file and pen down on her desk, and put my hands in the pockets of my robe so she won't see them shaking. "I've"—I clear my throat—"I've made a decision." Her icy stare makes my skin crawl, but I must continue. "I won't . . . sign the agreement." As I speak the words it feels as though my lungs collapse. I take a shallow breath and feel my pulse pounding in my temples. My tongue threatens to stick to the roof of my mouth. I swallow. "I'll . . . make arrangements to move."
Brigitte says nothing, but leans across the desk and picks up the file folder. She turns, opens the top drawer of her credenza, and replaces the file. Then she pulls out a different file and sets it on her desk. She turns back to me.
"That is a shame, chérie. I was hoping we could do this simply. But if that is the choice you've made, then I should share some additional information with you." She reaches for the new file, her acrylic nails clawlike as she pushes it across the desk.
"What is this?" I pick up the file and open it.
"That, my dear, is a little piece of business. Your father's business."
I read the sheet of paper in the file once. Twice. And break into a cold sweat. "I . . . don't understand."
"It's a demand note. Your father borrowed money against Azul and then never repaid the note. Not only does he owe the amount of the original loan, but also twenty-six years of interest."
"What?" I can't take in the information. It makes no sense. "Why . . . why do you have it?"
She reaches for her robe and pulls the top of it close to her neck. "I purchased the note from the original holder. I paid a great deal of money for it. So now, I hold the note and, if I so choose, will demand payment from your father for the entire amount."
I look at the note again and try to imagine what twenty-six years of interest alone would add up to. But the numbers are too big. Plus, I have no idea what Brigitte paid on top of that. I look at Brigitte, my earlier nausea replaced with roiling anger. "What . . . are you saying?" My voice trembles now, but not from fear.
"You will sign the agreement presented yesterday, Jenna, and adhere, of course, to the stipulations. Or I will demand full payment from your father, which, as we both know, he won't be able to pay. Simply speaking, it will force him into bankruptcy."
"No." I gasp for breath. "No! You're lying!" I'm shouting, but I don't care. "I would have known." I gulp back angry tears. "He would have told me—told Jason."
"Evidently you don't know your father as well as you think you do."
Her calm infuriates me. I close the file and slap it onto her desk and turn to leave. I can't respond. I have to think—to call my dad. I can't—
"Jenna, there is one more thing."
Her tone sends a chill through me and I stop and turn. She hasn't moved—just crossed her arms across her chest. "You will end your relationship with Matthew MacGregor. If you don't—if you choose not to sign the agreement and abide by the stipulations—I will expose your affair with Mr. MacGregor in a very public and humiliating way. Humiliating, I'd imagine, for both of you."
I'm struck dumb by this outrageous claim. Me? Matthew? An affair?
She picks up the file folder, returns it to the credenza, and makes a show of locking the drawer. She drops the key in the pocket of her bathrobe. "Don't doubt that I have evidence to back my claims. I don't make false accusations. I have proof, of course."
The nausea returns and assaults me. I turn and run from her room.
I run down the hallway, through my room, and make it to the bathroom just in time. I lose the toast and juice I'd forced myself to eat. For more times than I care to count in recent weeks, I find myself on the bathroom floor—heaving and crying. I pound my fist on the floor and gasp for air.
It's too much, Lord. This is too much!
I heave, my stomach convulsing, until there is nothing left. I lay on the floor—I have neither the strength nor the dignity to get myself up. Thoughts of Brigitte crowd my mind. I see her, finally, for what she is—a sick woman who cares about one thing, and one thing only: herself. Love me? She's never loved me or anyone else. She is incapable.
She lives life as a game, moving people as pawns at will, determined to win.
And won she has.
Checkmate.
Game over.
I think of the demand note and though I doubted its validity, I know Brigitte wouldn't threaten something she couldn't see through. I don't know why my father never spoke of it, but now it will destroy him. And Jason.
Unless I sign Brigitte's agreement.
What choice do I have?
Again, the anger boils and bubbles within. Not only toward Brigitte, but this time also for myself. How stupid I was to think I could just walk away. Just pick up and leave. What a fool I am!
I roll to my back on the bathroom floor and tears pool around my ears.
Oh, Matthew, I'm so, so sorry.
What "proof" can Brigitte have when there was no affair? When, in fact, there was never anything like that between Matthew and me? I don't know. But again, she doesn't make veiled threats. She will produce some trumped-up evidence. Something that will convince all concerned that her baseless accusations are true. And I don't doubt that the humiliation would be public and painful.
Too painful.
>
Defeat calls my name and I respond.
The fight is over.
I roll over, pull myself to my knees, and get up.
I reach for the box of tissue on the counter, wipe my eyes, and blow my nose again. And then I wobble my way from the bathroom back to my bed. I drop onto the edge of the bed and stare at the floor. I sit like that for a long time and consider what's to come. And consider my own failings.
I lift my left hand and look at the band on my ring finger—the symbol of my union with God . . . and now the symbol of my broken vow.
I shall have no other god before You . . . except Brigitte, it seems.
I slip the ring off, open the drawer of my nightstand, and drop the ring inside.
I shut the drawer.
Then I lie down, pull the covers up, and curl into myself.
And shut my soul.
You may not practice what people consider to be obvious vices; but inside, the essential self-nature is still very much alive.
JEANNE GUYON
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Brigitte
JENNA HAS CONCEDED.
It's been two days since she shared the insurance policy with Jenna. Two days since Jenna ran from her office. And now, two days since Jenna's left her room. She smiles. Her plan has worked. Bien sûr.
Hannah has taken meals to Jenna's room and reports that she seems complacent, though perhaps depressed. She hasn't dressed and is eating little. She is, however, checking her e-mail. This was evident when Brigitte signed into Jenna's account. There were e-mails from blog readers, as well as from both Matthew and Andee, but she's responded to nothing. Matthew is concerned, as she missed her "appointment" with him yesterday and neither called nor e-mailed him.
His concern was so great that he even showed up at the front door to check on Jenna. Ridiculous. Hannah relayed that Jenna is fine—just under the weather.
C'est la vie, Mr. MacGregor.
There have been no more blog posts either.
Though Jenna hasn't signed the agreement yet, she is abiding by its stipulations. It is just a matter of time. She will sign.
Brigitte taps her nails on her desktop as she thinks. She decides she'll give Jenna one more day to lie in bed feeling sorry for herself, then it will be time to move on. She'll get her up. Have her sign the agreement. And then they'll get on with life.
She reaches for a notepad and jots some notes. She'll call Dr. Bernard and get Jenna in to see him. She'll call Carolyn Harris and ask that she offer Jenna a role in fund-raising for the de Young Museum again—perhaps even a position on the board of trustees. It is time to get her re-involved with the right people and the right projects.
After she's had the reconstructive surgery on her jaw and after she's re-engaged with both society and Brigitte herself, then it will be time to discuss bringing her into the business. Give her a real sense of purpose. Train her. Prepare her. Give her a glimpse of all she stands to gain.
Yes, all is going according to her perfect plan.
As you are made more Christlike, you begin to take on His qualities.
JEANNE GUYON
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Matthew
I CLOSE THE door behind my last client and then go straight to my desk. I pick up my cell phone, which I silenced during my sessions, and check to see if there's a message from Jenna. Nothing. Then I check my e-mail. Nothing there either.
"Dude, what is going on with you?"
Anxiety, a rare emotion for me, pesters. My stomach growls, reminding me that it's 4:00 p.m. and I've eaten nothing since dinner two nights ago. I reach for the box of matches I keep on my desk, and go to the cube between the two chairs and light the candle. I drop the box of matches on the table next to the candle and plop myself down in one of the chairs.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and focus on the flame. Outside, a battering wind rattles the office door and hail peppers the windows. Forecasters predicted this would be one of the worst storms of the decade—and it isn't disappointing. Lightning flashes and the lights in the office flicker followed by the crashing of thunder that sounds like the sky is breaking apart and dropping onto the rooftops of the city. It's intense.
My growling stomach is my reminder to pray Jenna through her own storm. Man, I wish I knew what that entailed. But God hasn't made me privy to what's going on with her. Still . . . it's not like her to miss an appointment, or to not respond to calls and e-mails.
When I went to her house yesterday, the maid said she's sick. But as I stood at the doorstep of the Bouvier estate, I sensed there is more going around than the flu. Something is up. But God has made it clear. My part in all this is to fast and to pray. For how long, I don't know.
He hasn't shared that info with me either.
I bow my head and listen to the battering storm outside my door and, as has happened many times over the last few days, as I close my eyes I see the images from a battle scene. And the image I see today is Jenna, lying on the ground, bloodied.
Man, she's down for the count.
My heart feels like it splits wide open. "Dude, fight!" Then I begin to pray—letting the Spirit inform my prayers. It's one of those repeat-after-me prayers, where words whisper through my mind and heart, and I repeat them back to God.
"Courage, strength, perseverance—all these things I ask for Jenna, Lord. Provide—Your strength, Your stamina, Your wisdom. You through her. Surround her, sustain her, rescue her.
"Rescue her.
"Rescue her.
"Oh, Lord, send Your armies and rescue her."
I swallow the lump in my throat and wipe my wet cheeks.
I continue to pray.
I pray into the evening.
I pray until I'm exhausted.
I pray without ceasing.
"Fight, Jenna, fight!"
Die to live.
JEANNE GUYON
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Jenna
I ROLL OVER in bed and open my eyes. The room is almost dark. I glance at the bedside clock—4:00 p.m. Outside, I hear a storm raging. I lay my head back down. My legs are tangled in the sheets and my unwashed hair tangles on the pillow. I haven't changed out of the pajamas I put on . . . when? Two nights ago? Three nights ago? I sit up in bed and push my hair out of my eyes. The air in the room is stale. A long-cold cup of peppermint tea sits on the nightstand, specks of dust float on top of the murky liquid.
I can't stay in bed forever.
I can't hide from the choice I've made.
I get out of bed, reach for the robe draped across the stool at the vanity, put it on, and then amble out of the room and down the hall to Brigitte's suite. I tap on the door.
"Come in."
I take a deep breath, and then push the door open and walk in. Brigitte sits at her desk, glasses perched on the end of her nose. She looks at me, takes the glasses off, and then motions me to the chair opposite the desk.
I walk to her desk, but don't sit. A weak act of rebellion.
"Good to see you up, my dear. I thought I might have to come hoist you out of bed myself."
"I'll sign the agreement. Now." Lightheaded, I reach for the edge of her desk and steady myself.
Brigitte looks at me, her eyes narrowed. "Yes, I knew you would see reason, chérie." She turns to the credenza and looks for the file then pulls it out. As she does, my heart begins thundering in my chest and a film of sweat beads on my upper lip. Mouth dry, I swallow.
She opens her desk drawer, pulls out a pen, and then hands both the agreement and the pen to me.
I bend to sign the agreement . . . but my hand begins to shake.
I shake my head to clear my mind. And then I stand straight, pen dangling in my hand at my side. I look at Brigitte and then think of my dad .
. . of Jason . . . and Matthew.
"Sign it, Jenna. You have no choice." Her tone seeks to intimidate and, for the moment, it works.
I bend and place the tip of the pen on the signature line. But again, something stops me. And a new wave of nausea swells. I stand, drop the pen, and cover my mouth with my hand. For the second time in less than a week, I run from Brigitte's office.
I stagger to my bathroom, gulping for air. I wait for the expected and now so-familiar result, but as I breathe in and out, in and out, the moment passes and my stomach stills. I slump against the bathroom counter.
Then I turn and look at myself in the mirror.
The woman who stares back is unknown to me. Her eyes are lifeless, her complexion gray. I hang my head and my hair falls forward.
I can't look at myself.
I pull off my robe and drop it on the floor. I check the bathroom door to make sure it's locked, then open the door of the large glass enclosure and turn the shower on. I reach for the small panel on the far wall and set the temperature and timer for the steamer as well. I get a bath sheet and place it on the towel warmer next to the shower, and then I step inside.
With the door closed and the glass fogged, I feel as though I've escaped—Brigitte . . . and myself—for a few minutes. I fill my lungs with hot, humid air, and let the water from the dual heads pulse against my taut neck and shoulders.
But the sense of escape flees as thoughts torment me. A thousand images crowd the screen of my mind, but like television static, nothing is clear. I see only flashes—flashes of Brigitte through the years.
I see her contempt. Her conniving. Her control.
I see her for who she is, but it does nothing to change my circumstances. I think, for the first time in days, of the blog and the readers who follow it. I think of Andee and the questions she's asked. Am I really willing to just shut the door on the blog—on the readers?
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