I do, I do, I do

by Maggie Osborne

  The air ran out of Juliette's body. A soft sighing sound told her the same collapse had happened to Clara and Zoe.

  "You won't see any tears here," Clara said finally.

  Zoe agreed. "I feel cheated."

  "How did you know about us? Did he make a deathbed confession?" Even to her own ears, Juliette sounded bitter.

  "First, you'll want to know who he was." Mr. Glascon nodded toward the vineyard laid out in neat rows along the valley floor. "That is the Villette Winery." All heads turned to peer out the window. "The vines were planted by Luis Villette, Jean Jacques's father, about ten years ago, just before Luis died. The vineyard has never been successful." His shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. "Father and son believed California could produce quality wine. But it didn't happen in their lifetimes. Perhaps this is not the right part of California. Perhaps the vines are flawed. It's impossible to say. But the man you knew as your husband came with his family from France to California to become a vintner."

  Zoe covered her eyes. "Are any of our marriages legal?"

  "I'm sorry—no."

  Another sigh ran around the table, and then Clara spoke. "Why should we believe anything you say? How do we know that Jean Jacques isn't sitting on his porch, waiting for you to return and assure him that we swallowed a new set of lies?"

  The question didn't seem to surprise Mr. Glascon. "I have a carriage waiting. In a moment, I'll drive you to the Loma Grande cemetery. Perhaps seeing Mr. Villette's headstone will help you cope with his loss."

  "We're coping just fine, thank you," Juliette said. "But seeing his grave would assure us that he is indeed gone."

  "Before we go…" Mr. Glascon lifted his briefcase to the table, opened it, and withdrew three thin envelopes. "Mr. Villette left these for you."

  With a shock, Juliette recognized the handwriting flowing across the envelope. To Mrs. Juliette March Villette. But she wasn't certain that she wanted to read his last words.

  "I didn't expect this," Clara murmured, her eyes wide and startled. "It's like a voice from the grave."

  "How dare he! We should just tear up the letters and spit on the paper," Zoe said angrily.

  "Mr. Glascon," Juliette said after drawing a deep breath, "exactly how many letters did Jean Jacques leave with you?"

  A hint of a smile flitted across Mr. Glascon's expression, gone in an instant. "I'm not at liberty to answer that question."

  "Which means there are several more letters," Zoe said.

  "I can tell you that Jean Jacques Villette adored women. He knew well an astonishing number of remarkable ladies, and I truly believe he genuinely loved all of you."

  "He ruined all of us is what you mean," Zoe snapped.

  They looked at each other. Then, as if they had discussed it beforehand, they twisted off their wedding rings and tossed the rings into Mr. Glascon's briefcase. Then they read their letters.

  My dearest little Juliette,

  No, darling, it was never just the money. Had it been only the money, I would have requested more, and generous heart that you are, you would have given it gladly. It was not the money, my beautiful Juliette, it was always you.

  Your naivete and the sameness of your days drew me and broke my heart. How I would have loved to sweep you away from Linda Vista and broaden your mind and your horizons. To stand by your side and watch your lovely shining eyes as you opened like a flower to your full potential. If you are reading this, love, then you have traveled beyond Linda Vista. You have begun a journey of discovery that I hope will never end. I envy the fortunate man who will travel by your side, for I know he will find you.

  Thank you, my darling, for sharing yourself with me. I will love you always.

  Your very own,

  Jean Jacques Villette

  My beautiful Clara,

  I think of you so often. What a wonderful capacity for life you have, my dearest. How bright and quick and resourceful you are. By now you will have sold the inn, and marvelous new opportunities await you. Knowing you, you will make a success of whatever life brings you.

  It was never the inn that interested me, love, it was only you. It broke my heart that you believed you were but part of the inventory. No, my darling. The inn was merely a planet orbiting your sun. Somewhere, there is a man big enough to reflect your true image in his eyes and who will match the great love you have to give. In a better world, that man would have been me.

  Thank you, my darling, for sharing yourself with me. I will love you always.

  Your very own,

  Jean Jacques Villette

  Darling Zoe,

  How much I regret that we had so little time together. I would have liked to know your family and tour Newcastle to meet the places and people that shaped the fine strong woman you became. It made my heart ache that you wished to shake off who you are. My love, the petty, forgettable people in the carriages should worship at your feet.

  There is no disgrace in making a mistake, darling Zoe. Choosing a scoundrel for a husband doesn't diminish you or make you foolish. The disgrace would be to make the same mistake again, and that I think you will not do. Ah, beautiful Zoe with the flashing eyes and hair like midnight silk. Your next prince may or may not have gold in his pockets, but that fortunate man will find gold in you. As I did for all too brief a while.

  Thank you, my darling, for sharing yourself with me. I will love you always.

  Your very own,

  Jean Jacques Villette

  * * *

  Chapter 23

  They exchanged letters in the carriage, read them, and then sat in silence until Mr. Glascon turned the vehicle onto a shady road leading to the cemetery.

  "Well, maybe he wasn't a complete scoundrel," Juliette said finally.

  "I suppose we can admit that he had a few charms." Biting her lip, Clara stuffed her letter into her handbag.

  Zoe sighed. "I never thought I'd say this, but maybe I'm glad I didn't shoot him."

  "You know, in a way marrying Jean Jacques and his subsequent departure changed my life for the better," Juliette said in a musing tone. "If it hadn't been for him, I never would have left Linda Vista. I never would have climbed Chilkoot, something I'll be proud of all of my life. I never would have learned that I have a backbone, and I wouldn't have met Ben. I would never have met either of you."

  Zoe clasped her hands and nodded. "I wouldn't have run into Tom again, and I might never have discovered who I am and who I want to be. I wouldn't have known the joy of sisters."

  "If it wasn't for Jean Jacques, I would still own the inn. I might have married Hugo Bosch." Clara shuddered. "Now I've been somewhere and done something that few women will do. And I met a good man and two good women whom I will never forget."

  "Jean Jacques did damage us," Juliette said slowly, "but he gave us something, too. Perhaps he gave more than he took."

  Clara nodded. "Who can understand the human heart? Maybe he did love us in his own way." She was first to alight at the cemetery, waving off Mr. Glascon's assistance.

  Neat rows of headstones covered a grassy area that drew enough sun to seem peaceful and welcoming and enough of a breeze that visiting here would offer a pleasant respite on a hot day.

  "This reminds me a bit of the Newcastle cemetery," Zoe said, falling into step behind Mr. Glascon. "Except we have more pines than shade trees."

  They fell silent as they approached a white stone adorned with carved grapes and vines curling along the upper curve. Beneath Jean Jacques's name were his dates of birth and death. Below, an inscription read: SO MAY HE REST; HIS FAULTS LIE GENTLY ON HIM. WM. SHAKESPEARE.

  "His faults lie gently," Juliette repeated. Closing her eyes, she lifted her face to the sunshine, and the anger drained out of her. It was over. The pain, the fury, the resentment.

  When she opened her eyes, she saw that Zoe and Clara looked at peace. They, too, had said good-bye and released the anger.

  At the sound of another carriage drawing to a halt, Mr. Glascon glanced back at
the iron gates. His eyebrows rose, and his shoulders straightened. "My dears, I apologize for what is about to happen. But Loma Grande is a small town, and news travels quickly."

  "What?"

  "A lady has learned of your arrival and wishes to meet you."

  " Who could possibly—?"

  A woman dressed in widow's weeds stepped from the carriage and hurried toward them. Her face and form struck no familiar chord. But the four small boys who followed her were instantly recognizable. Juliette, Clara, and Zoe gazed in shock at four little Jean Jacqueses, the spitting image of their father.

  Mr. Glascon managed a strained smile, then introduced Mrs. Jean Jacques Villette. The moment he mentioned Juliette's, Clara's, and Zoe's names, Marie Villette smiled, seemingly oblivious to their stunned expressions.

  "I know each of you," she said in delight. She spoke in a charming French accent. "I know all of Jean Jacques's beautiful cousins. He spoke of you so fondly."

  "Cousins," Clara repeated in a weak voice.

  "Oui. Although I have not had the pleasure of meeting my husband's more distant relatives until recently, I feel I am acquainted with you all." Marie Villette's smile revealed dimples winking beside the corners of her mouth. If Clara had been asked to name which of Marie's pretty parts Jean Jacques most admired, she would have guessed that he fell in love with her dimples.

  Or maybe it was the shining chestnut curls that bounced atop her shoulders when she pushed her boys forward and introduced them. Each of the boys had inherited Jean Jacques's straight, dark hair and his devilishly charming blue eyes. Little gentlemen all, they brought their cousins' fingertips to their lips and then politely stepped back. At a nod from their mother, they straightened the painted stones outlining their father's final resting place, pulled out weeds, and clipped the grass at the base of the stone.

  "What?" Juliette wet her lips and tried to speak. "Forgive me, but I was admiring your sons and didn't hear."

  "You're the heiress, and you love to read, Miss March. Miss Klaus, I believe you own and operate a wonderful inn on the Oregon coast. And Miss Wilder, you're the cousin with the large family. My husband spoke so highly of you all!"

  Juliette stole a glance at Mr. Glascon, hoping he would step in and guide a shocking and unfortunate situation. But Mr. Glascon stood with his hands clasped behind his back, rocking backward on his heels, looking off into the distance. He would not intervene. If Jean Jacques's out-of-town wives wished to explain they were not cousins, if they wished to fully identify themselves and detail how egregiously Marie Villette had been deceived, he would not interfere.

  "Please." Marie appealed to them with a smile. "Return with me to the vineyard. We'll have tea and a lovely chat."

  Zoe jerked as if an invisible hand had tightened the strings holding her upright. "Ah, thank you, Mrs… Mrs. Villette, but…" Helplessly, she sent a desperate signal to Clara.

  Clara wet her lips. "We would love to know you better, but you see… well, we…" She turned pleading eyes on Juliette.

  "We must decline with regret. We interrupted a rather urgent journey to pay our respects at our cousin's graveside," Juliette said smoothly. "Perhaps the next time we find ourselves in this lovely area, we can accept your kind invitation." It seemed a bit bizarre that they had come this far to end by protecting Jean Jacques. Or perhaps it was Marie and the little Jean Jacqueses they protected. But she knew it was absolutely the right thing to do. Moving as if in a dream, she stepped forward and clasped Marie Villette's gloved hands. "I'm very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Villette."

  Clara and Zoe gaped at her, then swallowed hard and followed her lead. They stepped forward to express their condolences.

  "He was a dear, good man," Marie Villette whispered, tears filling her eyes. "A good husband and a wonderful father."

  "And I'm sure he was a generous provider," Clara said, her tone grim.

  "Indeed. Mr. Villette left us in comfortable circumstances."

  Before Clara could expand on Jean Jacques's methods of providing, Zoe elbowed her aside.

  "You have my deepest sympathy," Zoe murmured. She meant it sincerely. She felt sorry for Marie Villette. No good woman should ever be married to a man with so many "cousins."

  "Truly, I wish you would come to the vineyard. Couldn't you spare a few minutes? It would mean—"

  "My, my, look at the time," Juliette said. "Mr. Glascon, we really must… that is, if you wouldn't mind." Mr. Glascon nodded. Then came a flurry of pressed hands and pressed cheeks, good-byes and false promises to remain in touch. Finally Juliette, Clara, and Zoe climbed into the carriage, and Mr. Glascon stepped up to the driver's perch.

  "Well," Juliette said in a dulled voice. "That's that."

  Clara scowled. "I've changed my mind again. He was a no-good worthless snake in the grass! How could he treat her so badly? And us, too!"

  "I wonder just how many cousins he had," Zoe said, speaking loudly enough that Mr. Glascon would hear. But Mr. Glascon didn't respond. They would never know how many women would appear in Loma Grande wearing the one-of-a-kind wedding ring.

  "I feel almost as bad as I did when I realized Jean Jacques was not coming home." Juliette touched her gloved fingertips to her temples. "Maybe worse."

  "You can't mean it!" Clara stared. "I cannot believe you hold an ounce of feeling for that miserable weasel."

  "I don't. I'm missing Ben," she said simply. "If only we'd known that Jean Jacques had died…"

  They fell silent, and then Zoe whispered, "I'd give anything in the world to see Tom again. Even for one minute."

  "Stop it, both of you, or I'm going to cry."

  Mr. Glascon called to them over his shoulder. "Turn your faces, ladies. A group of horsemen are riding this way and kicking up a cloud of dust."

  Zoe started to turn aside—then her head snapped back and she blinked. "My Lord." Peering out the carriage window, she gasped. "I must be seeing things!"

  "You sound—" Clara leaned over Zoe to look outside. "It's them! Good heavens, that's Bear! It's really them!"

  "And Ben? Is Ben with them?" Juliette practically climbed over them to have a look. "Oh, my heavens!" She called to Mr. Glascon. "Stop the carriage, sir. We know these gentlemen."

  Four men reined in close, as fine a sight as any female eyes ever looked upon. All had been freshly barbered and trimmed. They wore spanking new three-piece suits protected by tan dusters. They were armed to the teeth.

  Clara didn't recognize the fourth gentleman, but it didn't matter. She treated her eyes to a brown-bear mirage before it disappeared.

  "Is it really you?" she whispered.

  "It took us a week, honey girl." Bear gave her a lopsided, sheepish smile. "Then Tom said, 'What the hell were we thinking of?' And Ben said, 'We've got to find them.' And I said, 'We'll solve this problem by killing the son of a bitch. Then they're widows and free to be courted.' "

  Ben stared at Juliette, drinking in the sight of her, "Where is Villette?"

  "Keep going along this road, then turn left at the tall iron gates."

  Before they rode off in a swirl of dust, Tom blew Zoe a kiss. "You're pretty, you're a great cook, and damn, I'm sorry!"

  The minute they rode off, Clara and Zoe turned on Juliette. "Why did you send them to the cemetery?"

  "We need time to compose ourselves," Juliette said, sounding a hundred times more calm than she felt. "We need to decide if we intend to forgive them." She called to Mr. Glascon, "Drive on, please. We wish to return to the inn."

  Clara gasped and clapped a hand over her heart. "We need to decide if we are going to forgive them?"

  Zoe frowned. "Juliette, we are the ones in the wrong!"

  "Well, I don't think so." She lifted her chin. "We confessed all, and they did not forgive us. It took them a whole week to realize they were wrong not to understand. They let us down."

  "But they finally understood why we couldn't tell them about Jean Jacques, and here they are! I want to throw myself around Bear's neck!"
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  "And that's what you should do. But only after he begs your forgiveness and you decide to forgive him." She knew she was speaking in the prissy voice, but couldn't stop herself. "Aunt Kibble always said a person should begin as they mean to go on. It's excellent advice." She lifted an eyebrow. "Do you want to spend the rest of your lives always being the one who apologizes and hopes to be forgiven? Or would you prefer to be the one who is apologized to and who grants the forgiveness?"

  Zoe nodded thoughtfully. "Clara, I believe Juliette has made a very good point."

  "I see it, I see it. How long should it take to forgive them?" Clara hastily pinched color into her cheeks and pulled at the frizzy red tendrils curling on her forehead. "How do I look?"

  "You look fine, wonderful." Zoe found a tiny vial of perfume in her handbag, touched the backs of her ears, then handed the vial to Juliette. "Hold out as long as you can, Clara, before you forgive him. Juliette, is my hair coming out of the pins?"

  "There are a few loose tendrils, but it's charming." Juliette dabbed perfume at the base of her throat and then gave Clara the vial. "Tell me, does this look soulful?" She blinked her eyes and tried to look wounded but loving. "Do I look like a femme fatale?"

  "Your expression will melt Ben to his knees."

  They tumbled out of the carriage, called hasty goodbyes to Mr. Glascon, then rushed into the inn's lobby.

  "They have to be only minutes behind us."

  "Damn. There's no time to freshen up!"

  Clara stepped up to the startled Mrs. Wilson. "Some gentlemen will be arriving momentarily. We have need of the privacy of your dining room again." A clatter of hooves sounded outside.

  Without waiting for Mrs. Wilson's approval, they lifted their skirts and dashed for the French doors as the inn's front door slammed open and men's boots sounded in the foyer.

  Bear burst into the dining room and his gaze devoured Clara. "Of course you're respectable and better than me. That's how I want it, and that's the end of it." He talked as if picking up a conversation begun a minute ago. "As for the rest, I'm an idiot."