Until this became routine, Paul would be waiting inside the classroom with his teacher. He was quiet when I retrieved him, in stark contrast to the bounciness of the other children. “How was it?” I asked after he had climbed into the booster seat we’d strapped into my backseat.
He sighed. “It is difficult to speak the English all day.”
“Ah, sweetie, it will get easier very fast. Ça deviendra vite plus facile.” I knew he would pick up English quickly, and soon the summer term would start and classes would be smaller. If nothing else, this would give him an idea of what to expect of regular classes in the fall, so it wouldn’t be new and scary, and would let him meet most of the children who would be in his fall class.
In the kitchen Elise gave him yogurt and fruit, and he chattered about his day in French. Philippe wanted him to speak English at home until he became fluent, but I thought we’d agree that all day at school was enough for one small boy. Especially his first few days.
When I took him off to change his clothes he pointed to his hamper. “Look, I put the clothes in my … my … mon panier à linge,” he said with pride.
“Laundry hamper,” I told him. “That’s good—it will make Elise very happy. Then when she has enough dirty clothes, she can run the washing machine.”
He nodded, happy with this.
Philippe seemed more relaxed that evening, maybe because Paul was in school and handling it well. Over after-dinner coffee—I’d decided to take it easy on desserts until I started biking more—I told him about Jameson bringing me my bag from the ferry, and asked if he had heard of any progress.
He shook his head. “They told me they sent someone to Burlington, but that’s all they told me.”
It was hard to fathom that no one had noticed that two men were keeping a child prisoner, but the news is filled with stories of people kept prisoner in basements, in backyards, in secret rooms that no one finds. And Paul could have been kept anywhere within driving distance of that ferry.
Philippe saw me glance at the piles of paperwork in front of him. “Just going over some things from work,” he said. “Some cost overruns I didn’t expect.”
At my concerned look, he shook his head. “Nothing major. You’re always going to have overruns or estimates that are too low, but it averages out.” I thought about Jameson’s comment about his company’s financial problems, but saw no point in mentioning it.
“Did you find out who was accessing your files?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No, but that’s part of the reason I’m going over all these, to look for discrepancies. But I wanted to ask you about this.” He pulled a thick envelope from his briefcase and handed it to me.
“What is it?” I turned it over, curious.
“One of my clients is having a thing Saturday evening to celebrate his company’s twenty-five-year anniversary. Open it.”
It was a heavy cream-colored card, like the ones extravagant people send out for weddings. It was an invitation to a party at the Château Laurier near the Parliament buildings, a hotel that resembled a castle. “Sounds pretty fancy,” I said.
“Yes, these people never do anything in an ordinary fashion. Do you want to go? I know it’s very late notice, but it slipped my mind until now.”
I blinked. “Go? Me?” I asked, almost in horror.
Philippe laughed. “Yes, you. The invitation’s for two, and most people bring someone. It’s good for business for me to get out and about, and if I go alone I’ll have to fend off too many people. It helps to have someone along.”
Troy, the human buffer. Maybe having me there would keep people from asking him about his home life. I assumed his office staff knew he was a widower, but maybe not everyone did. I picked up the invitation again. “What would you wear to a party like this?”
“I’d wear a suit. You’d wear a cocktail dress.” At my blank look, he smiled. “I can assume that you don’t have one with you?”
“I don’t have one with me or anywhere.”
He raised one eyebrow. “Would you like to go? You can find a dress here.”
I almost said an emphatic no. But that’s what old Troy would have done. I wavered, then took the plunge. “Okay. But I’m going to need help with shopping—a lot of help.”
He agreed, and at that moment I loved him for not laughing at me. The next morning we took Paul along as we trekked into women’s shops.
Philippe was good; I have to hand it to him. He found the right shops and the right clerks to steer us to the right clothes on the marked-down racks, knowing I was on a budget and knowing better than to offer to pay for it. He looked through them and indicated ones to try on, which Paul thought great fun. At the third dress at the second shop, a place on Sparks Street, he stopped me.
“This is it,” he said.
It wasn’t anything I would ever have considered. It was long-sleeved and off the shoulder, and I thought I’d look ridiculous in it. But I tried it on, and when I looked in the mirror a different person looked out at me. For a moment I didn’t breathe.
I stepped out, tentatively, and from Philippe’s expression I knew I’d been right. This was a Troy I’d had no idea existed. It was an odd feeling, like having a whole other self you’ve never happened to catch a glimpse of. Paul clapped his hands. I twisted around to look at the price tag, and winced. I took a deep breath. “Okay.”
Looking good, even at a discount, doesn’t come cheap.
We postponed shoe shopping until the next morning, and left Paul with Elise. I hoped she didn’t think Philippe was buying me clothes; I hoped she knew this dinner thing was entirely platonic.
This was not fun. I think most women’s shoes are apparatuses of torture, designed to deform—the modern-day equivalent of old Chinese foot binding. I flat-out refused to wear spike heels or pointed-toe shoes. But finally we found a pair I could wear, more or less comfortably.
After lunch I ventured on my own to a department store. I’d called Kate, who knew about makeup, and she’d told me what to buy and what to do with the stuff.
I ended up giving the list to a saleswoman and buying what she handed me. Then I stopped at an ATM and got more Canadian money. I could charge most things, but for some things you need cash: a candy bar, a bag of chips, poutine.
I had reservations about leaving Paul at home—we’d never left him with just Elise, except for this morning, but evening seemed more ominous. But of course the house was secure; of course Philippe would check with Elise throughout the evening. Nothing would happen.
Paul was more excited than I about the party. He kept popping into my room when I was getting ready, and by the time I emerged he was jumping up and down. I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d done this with his mother, if it was a routine they’d had when she’d gone to functions.
“Pretty, pretty, pretty!” he declared.
I’d pulled back the sides of my hair loosely and secured them with combs Kate had told me to get. My hair springs into long curls if I don’t tie it back, and even I knew it looked good. The eyeliner made my eyes stand out, and I began to understand why women used this stuff. I rummaged through my toiletry bag for the one piece of jewelry I owned, a birthstone necklace my parents had given me when I had turned sixteen.
When I came out Philippe smiled. “You look wonderful,” he said.
To say that I was nervous would be a vast understatement. Cinderella didn’t go to the ball every day of the week. But when I stepped out of the car at the Château Laurier, I made a conscious decision not to let my nervousness rule the evening. We chatted with people Philippe knew, nibbled hors d’oeuvres, and drank dry wine. And danced. “Philippe, I don’t know how,” I hissed as he moved us toward the dance floor.
“Don’t you go dancing in Lake Placid?”
“Yes, but not real dancing. Not party dancing. Not steps or anything.”
“It’s easy. I’ll show you.” And he did, urging me onto the dance floor and leading me until I was moving without conscio
us thought.
“See? I knew you could do it.” He smiled at me, and I swear I felt my heart move. Clichés exist for a reason.
On the way home, I relaxed into the leather seat of his car. “Thank you,” I said.
“For what?”
“For taking me tonight. For a fun evening.” I waved my hand. For treating me like a girl. For showing me I can do this.
He smiled but didn’t speak, and I fell asleep before we reached the house. I woke up to tiptoe in to give a sleeping Paul a good-night kiss, hang up my beautiful dress, pull on a T-shirt and shorts, wash my face, and fall into bed.
At breakfast Elise showed me an Ottawa Citizen, folded to the society section. “Look,” she said happily. “A picture of you and Monsieur Dumond.” There we were, caught as we were entering the Château Laurier. Philippe looked handsome and natural, and for a moment I didn’t recognize myself. I couldn’t help but remember the photo of Madeleine from the Montreal magazine I’d seen an eon ago. You are no Madeleine, that unpleasant little voice said to me.
Which of course I knew. But neither was I the Troy I had been.
After everyone was done with the newspaper, I cut out the photo and tucked it away.
MONDAY MORNING WE BEGAN THE NEW WEEKLY ROUTINE, and I was living the most regimented existence I had since high school.
After a cheerful breakfast, Paul drove Philippe to school and went on to his office. I worked, read, ran or took a bike ride, and visited with Elise. Then I would pick up Paul, and after he had his snack, take him out to play with Tiger, Philippe and I having agreed that it seemed safe for Paul to be out with me and a large German shepherd–looking dog. Then he rested or played until his father got home, and after Happy Family Dinner came a quiet evening with homework or a game until his bedtime. Claude came for dinner regularly, and I got used to parrying his ripostes. I began to think of conversations with him as a game where I tried to turn the tables on him. Occasionally I succeeded.
I didn’t do any cooking or cleaning or even grocery shopping, except once in a while when I was going out and Elise asked me to pick something up or when I had a hankering for something she didn’t normally get. I tried to do my own laundry, although Elise had become adept at finding it either just before or after I did it, and ironing all the things she thought needed ironing. So I was looking significantly tidier than usual.
If this were really my life—if not for uncaught kidnappers and suspicious policemen, and if I wasn’t going to bed alone every night—it would have been wonderful.
But I was aware of the fine line I walked. I was part of their life, but not quite. Paul had his father, and he had Elise. He was going to school five days a week, and after another week or two, it would be time for me to head back to Lake Placid and a life that seemed no longer my own.
The thing was, I had plenty of spare time to spend on the internet.
Crimes have been solved by people being recognized from a Facebook account, so I decided to put up the equivalent of a personal ad on Craigslist. I resized the jpgs of the two men, and under the Vermont Personals, I wrote: Looking for two French-Canadian men, who may be from the Montreal area and likely lived in or near Burlington recently and were fluent in French—any info appreciated, and uploaded the drawings. I used the anonymous email address Craigslist provides, and didn’t list my name anywhere.
When I checked emails I saw that one to my fake identity had arrived from Gina: Yeah, I’ve been wondering, too. Just got an email from her but that’s all.
Okay, go for broke. Mouth dry, I wrote back: Want to meet for coffee or lunch and chat?
Gina must have been sitting at a computer, because I had an answer within a minute. I’m free tomorrow at 11:30, how about you?
I took a deep breath and emailed back: Sure, where would you like to meet? She suggested a café on this side of Montreal; I pulled up MapQuest and saw it was about two hours away. Yes, I could do this. I emailed a confirmation.
I couldn’t even pretend I was doing this just to try to find the kidnappers. Yes, I wanted clues, but I also desperately wanted to know more about Madeleine, to meet someone who knew her and would talk about her.
Claude came for dinner that evening. I honestly wasn’t sure why he came, unless he thought he was supposed to—or just wanted to torment me. Or maybe for Elise’s cooking. Tonight he made only token attempts to engage Paul, and when Philippe left the room briefly, Claude nodded toward Elise, who was just leaving the room after refilling the coffee cups.
“Elise is very good,” he said.
“Yes, she is,” I said brightly.
“And devoted to Paul.”
“Yes, she’s fond of Paul.”
His tone matched mine in blandness. “Perhaps a trifle too fond.”
He knew I had to react to this. What was he implying? Or did he just want to rile me? “How would you know that?” I asked.
This wasn’t quite the reaction he wanted. Something flashed in his eyes. “My sister told me.”
I didn’t have to respond, because we could hear Philippe returning. Later that evening I brought up Claude, asking Philippe how long Claude had been working for him.
Philippe thought for a moment. “Nearly six years now. He wasn’t living in Montreal then, but he wanted to be closer to his sister, so I suggested that he come to work for me, and it’s turned out quite well.”
I couldn’t quite hide my look of surprise.
“Oh, Claude is very good—he’s phenomenal at closing deals. But I know he likes to tweak people. For a while he was giving Colette, the receptionist, a hard time, until she learned to ignore him. But that ability that lets him see how to tweak people makes him a superb salesman.”
I suppose if you know how to annoy people, you probably also know how to please them. “I guess moving here was a big adjustment,” I said. Surely Claude had had friends in Montreal; surely he had had a life there besides his sister.
“I think he wanted a change,” Philippe said. “He’d been starting to see someone, and apparently it ended suddenly and badly. Starting up the business again here was a challenge, and it kept him busy. But I think since he’s spending more time managing the office and not working as directly with clients he’s getting a little bored.”
A bored employee, I thought, is a dangerous one. But I didn’t say so. This was Philippe’s brother-in-law, and would be a part of his life forever. For better or for worse.
The next morning two responses had come in to my Craigslist ad, one an ad for a dating service and the other from someone who had interpreted my ad as a come-on. I decided it was time to try something more specific. I posted a message on Twitter: Anyone know these guys? May have been involved in abduction of a 6-year-old boy last December, with a link to the Craigslist posting. This would go out to my hundreds of followers. Some would repeat it so all their followers would get it, and so on—like a virtual, endless chain letter. You never knew who might see it.
Then I checked Madeleine’s email account. There was one new one, from a sender called Gaius: Julia o Julia, what game are you playing?
I reread it. This was the first person who had used the name Julia, which implied a certain intimacy. Maybe this was someone Madeleine had been involved with—and perhaps was irate because he hadn’t heard from her. This was tough; I didn’t know how to respond. But if this person knew Madeleine well, maybe I could ferret out something. I typed, What do you mean? and hit the Send button before I could think better of it.
Now I had to leave to meet Gina.
If I cut things close, I always get lost, but if I leave plenty of time I’m fine. I arrived at the café in Montreal fifteen minutes early, and in fumbling French ordered iced tea.
I’d dressed in black—jeans, stretchy T-shirt, and blazer, with my recorder in the pocket. Gina had said she would be wearing red. I had no trouble spotting her when she arrived, ten minutes late. She had long fluffy hair and more eye makeup than I’d seen outside Nashville. I’d had plenty of
time to practice my pitch: I hadn’t heard from Madeleine for months; I was worried, I happened to find your email address in an old email.
It turned out I didn’t have to talk much. In fact, it was so easy I might have felt guilty if it hadn’t taken all my energy to keep up with Gina’s discourse. All I had to do was introduce a topic, and she was off and running. Where could Madeleine possibly be? Probably in Florida or on a cruise, she does like to travel, you know, and I wish I could but I just never can get away, but she said she would take me sometime and of course she’d pay for everything, I’d just have to buy my airfare. Could she have gone off with someone? Well, that husband of hers is at work all the time, but sometimes her brother went with her and who knows, maybe she had a boyfriend, but she never talked about it and I never saw her with anyone except her brother. She did meet some woman, I can’t remember her name, she brought her into the salon to have her nails and hair done and even paid for it, but of course she always had plenty of money. What about her son? Yep, he’s a real cutie, but awfully quiet and spent most of his time with that old woman, the nanny.
Oddly, I found myself liking her.
Somewhere in all this she squeezed in talk about her job as a hairstylist—which was how she’d met Madeleine—and ate a hearty sandwich and drained two glasses of white wine. And then I took a chance on our sudden camaraderie and leaned close and said, “I’m not so sure that Madeleine really wanted children, you know.”
This started her off: Yes, if you want to know the truth of course you know the boy was sort of an accident but like on purpose to help Philippe along with the idea of getting married because some men you know just will never take that step unless they have to and it’s no wonder really that Maddie doesn’t care for kids because she was surrounded by them you know and some really awful ones sometimes growing up in all those foster homes and I’m pretty much sure that in some of those homes the dads took liberties you know because of some things Maddie said, in fact she got pregnant really young but the baby was born dead, and you know she was really gorgeous even when she was really really young, I’ve seen pictures.
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