The Paramour's Daughter

by Wendy Hornsby

  I heard Claude laugh as he watched her walk purposefully toward me. Something about that laugh made my chest tighten. I expected him to say, Petite merdeuse—little shit—and leaned into Max, looking for a shield, feeling as if I needed one.

  “What is it, honey?”

  “That voice,” I said. “That laugh.”

  There was a sudden flash of lightning and I immediately felt the old panic, cold hands squeezing my chest, keeping air out, filling my head with noise. Desperate to get to a safe place, I started to run. Max caught me before I had taken a second step and pulled me tight against him. Thunder and lightning scare the shit out of me, always have. But I hadn’t run away from the flash and noise of a storm for many years, even when I desperately wanted to.

  “Count, honey,” Max whispered, his face in front of mine, eyes locked to mine. “One-thousand, two-...”

  “...thousand,” I began, trying to concentrate—what came next?—as we measured how far away the lightning was by the length of the interval until the clap of thunder, just as we had done when I was a frightened little girl. At the count of ten and still no thunder I knew this was a distant storm, nothing to be afraid of. I began to uncoil inside.

  “I thought you grew out of all that, Maggie.” Max pressed me against his chest.

  I shook my head, feeling the soft cashmere of his overcoat against my cheek. “I just learned how to cover better.”

  Casey came up behind me, wrapped her long arms around my shoulders, leaned over me to press her cheek against mine. “I can’t leave you alone for a minute, can I, you old scaredy-cat?”

  I took a breath and nodded. She was so tall she could almost rest her chin on the top of my head. We broke the clutch and separated, getting a little daylight between us all. Casey studied me, as she had been doing ever since Mike died, looking for evidence of rips in the seams that held me together. I wondered, when had our roles changed? Wasn’t I supposed to be her rock, her comfort giver?

  “Just a little lightning,” I said, forcing a smile. “Nothing for you two big kids to be afraid of.”

  Max laughed, a single nervous bark that drew glances from the people nearest us.

  “Mom,” Casey said, “do you know that man talking to Freddy?”

  “He’s my stepfather,” I said. “Claude Desmoulins.”

  “The bastard,” Max muttered under his breath.

  I saw a very worried expression on my daughter’s lovely face. I asked, “What happened, Casey?”

  “I heard him tell Freddy that he should have drowned you like a stray puppy when he had the opportunity. What did he mean?”

  I turned to Max. “What did he mean, Max? What happened to me here?”

  “Later,” he said, glancing up and seeing, as I did, that Grand-mère and Grand-mère Marie were headed our way. “Ride in the car with me to the house, we’ll talk.”

  The two grandmothers were gracious as they greeted Max, and he was to them as he offered formal condolences for their loss, though I sensed some wariness between Grand-mère and Max. Marie seemed genuinely delighted to see him. I was surprised that they knew each other so well. Clearly, Max had done more than file some legal documents for my dad all those years ago. Indeed, there was a reference in their conversation to a particularly memorable picnic at the beach. I was also surprised by Max’s fluency with French.

  I didn’t ask, but I wanted to know, had Mom been at that picnic? Were Emily and Mark there? Were Dad and Isabelle already involved then? When did her family know about the affair? When did Max? Or, did the picnic happen later, and I was there? How many people conspired to deceive Mom? My heart hurt for her.

  My father had always been my hero, but lately his shining armor was looking more than a little tarnished. But no more than tarnished. So he jumped off the rails for a while, but he went back to his family, and he took me with him, didn’t he? That peccadillo, though a doozy, didn’t define him.

  Dad had always been wonderful to me, and to Mark and Emily. His relationship with Mom always seemed fond. He certainly treated her with consideration and respect—we’ll skip over that part about the paramour for the moment—and he encouraged her various fads and projects. How things were between them when they were alone behind their bedroom door, like most children, I didn’t want to think about. Outwardly, there never seemed to be big issues between them. They were both well informed, and they were both willing to hold their own in sometimes noisy discussions about issues, but those issues related to the world beyond our front door, not within. It never occurred to me that they were other than totally committed to each other and to their children. True partners.

  Had I missed signs of discord? Trying to dredge memories out of a void made my head hurt. I was relieved when Inspector Dauvin, standing near the chapel with Antoine, caught my eye and quietly gestured for me to join them.

  I excused myself from Max and Casey and walked over.

  Dauvin had a few small questions to ask me, Antoine said, and had asked him to again serve as translator. Did I mind?

  A few small questions? Of course I did not mind.

  Dauvin asked me how well I had known Isabelle before she died. I told him about our encounter at the market, and that the messy interlude was the entirety of our acquaintance. He wore the closed face of a cop, registering no reaction. But as Antoine heard about the night Isabelle and I met—I had told no one in the family any details about that meeting—he grew visibly upset. He began peppering me with questions of his own, some of them full of challenge about my behavior that night. Dauvin clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder and asked him if he was able to continue translating for us, a strong suggestion that Antoine needed to get a grip.

  “I live in a small village,” Antoine said to me by way of apology. “I feel no need to lock my doors at night. If an older woman, a stranger, ever approached me, I hope I would at least listen to her. But I know the situation is different for people who live in a big city, especially in America where so many people carry firearms. I realize that a public figure like you would need to be very cautious.”

  His glance moved from the chapel to the crowd milling about. “But, especially at this moment, I am thinking about my Aunt Isabelle and feeling very sad. I believe your rejection would have been very difficult for her to bear. But how could you know that? She was a stranger to you.”

  When Dauvin reminded him that Isabelle could be quite eccentric, Antoine smiled ruefully and agreed.

  “Forgive me,” he said, addressing both of us. “I promise to behave. Shall we continue?”

  Dauvin went back to his first question, and asked whether, in fact, I had been in contact with Isabelle consistently during the week before she died. He said he had been in touch with Detective Longshore of the LA County Sheriffs, so he knew that Isabelle had been to my home on at least one occasion, and had taken photographs there. She had also been captured on the security cameras at my place of work at times when I was there. Also, if I had not spoken with her, how would she know where I bought groceries?

  Before I said anything, I looked for Max. He was watching my back, as I knew he would be. When I caught his eye, he turned an imaginary key on his lips, meaning don’t say anything.

  But I told Dauvin, “I know nothing of Isabelle’s activities at any time before the night she died, and nothing after I saw her standing on Pacific Coast Highway a little after ten o’clock on the night she died.”

  He had a last question, the one I suspected he most wanted answered. “Before Isabelle Martin died, did you know you stood to inherit half of her sizable estate?”

  I shook my head. “I did not know she existed.”

  It was Grand-mère who rescued me this time. I was so nonplussed by the inference Dauvin’s questions conveyed, and was trying so hard not to show that I was upset, that I was not aware she had walked over until she put herself between me and Dauvin. Pointing a finger up at his face, she scolded him in rapid French.

  “You come into my home as
a friend, and yet, on the day I bury my only daughter you behave as an uncaring stranger to my family, right here, in this holy place. Your blessed mother, may she rest in peace, deserves better.”

  She turned and gave Antoine a withering, narrow-eyed glare. “And you.” Et tu in French, the same accusatory words the mortally wounded Julius Caesar aimed at Brutus in Shakespeare’s play. Poor Antoine, from the look of him I suspect that a sound whipping would have been easier for him to take than those two little words delivered by his grandmother.

  Saying nothing more to the two men, Grand-mère took me by the arm and walked me away.

  “Pierre Dauvin,” she muttered under her breath. “What a fool.”

  “You heard what he asked?”

  “Yes. He should have the courage to ask me those same questions. I know the answers better than you.”

  “I’m sure he will get around to asking you, when he recovers,” I said. “Grand-mère, you would have made a great headmistress.”

  She smiled at the idea. “You know, my dear, all mothers are when it comes to their children, are they not?”

  Drizzle turned to downpour. The crowd quickly moved toward their cars for the short drive to Grand-mère’s house. When Casey and I asked Grand-mère for leave to ride with Uncle Max, she agreed, saying we probably had many things to talk over. And, of course, we did.

  As Max pulled his rented Toyota into the long queue of cars headed for the estate, I repeated the questions Dauvin asked me, and my responses.

  “Routine stuff,” he said, flipping on the windshield wipers. “We have to be careful, though. In a small town like this where half the population are cousins, we can get home-towned.”

  “What does that mean?” Casey asked.

  “The comfortable way out of something as serious as a murder is to pin it on an outsider,” he said, glancing over his shoulder to look at her.

  “Tag, I’m it?” I said.

  “We won’t let that happen.” He patted my knee. “You said you had some questions for me.”

  “More than some.” I turned in my seat to look at him. “Did you know that when Dad died Isabelle began receiving all of the money Dad’s patents earned?”

  He frowned. “That’s wrong. That’s not the way we set things up—I did all the original paperwork with the lawyer friend in Créances I’m staying with. The royalties were to be split equally between Isabelle’s account and your folks’ joint Berkeley bank account during their lifetimes. Now that Isabelle is gone, her half will—or should—come to you, Maggie. The other half should continue to be deposited in the Berkeley bank for the remainder of Betsy’s life. When we lose her, honey, everything will be yours.”

  “Unless?” I asked.

  “No unless,” he said. Then he added, “Unless you formally relinquish your rights in the tontine. In which case, at this juncture, as your legal heir under French law Casey would assume your ownership; you can relinquish your inheritance but you can’t relinquish her expectations.”

  “So somebody screwed up,” Casey said.

  “Why didn’t Betsy say something to me when the deposits ceased?” Max looked anguished.

  “Pride, maybe. Or grief,” I said. “After Dad died, Mom had a lot to deal with. Add Mike’s illness to the pile. Maybe any issue that came Isabelle-attached was one issue too many.”

  “What do you want me to do?” he asked.

  “Make things right again. If the whole shebang belongs to me, I want you to arrange for Mom to start getting her share of royalty payments again. As in, now.”

  “Okay, I’ll get on it.” He frowned. “Is there an issue?”

  “Her leaky roof,” I said. “A five-figure repair bill.”

  “Ah,” he said, lights of comprehension coming on. He must have noticed the water damage. “Good for you, honey. We’ll put things straight again. Now where is the document Hubert gave you to sign?”

  I pulled the document out of my bag and handed it to Casey to read aloud because her French was better than mine. Some of the unfamiliar words she had to spell. When she got to the bottom, I asked Max, “What is it?”

  “When Isabelle died, Hubert’s fiduciary relationship to her died. He wants you to keep him on, to let him continue managing the money, to collect his commission. We won’t agree to that, of course. Not now. First thing Monday, you’ll thank him for his services and we’ll redirect royalties from Monsieur Hubert to a stateside account. And we’ll get an auditor.”

  “Isabelle had someone audit her account. Don’t know who; the initials are HGD,” I said, “I have an appointment with Isabelle’s notaire Monday to read her will. Will you come with me, Max?”

  “Of course. First we’ll talk with Monsieur Hubert.” He glanced at me. “Question next?”

  “There’s a snapshot that everyone seems to have of Dad and me in an apple orchard. Dad framed a copy and had it in the den. I look like I’m about two.”

  “Exactly two,” he said, nodding. “That picture was taken on your second birthday.”

  “Here, in Normandy,” I said. “I was two, and Dad was here.”

  He nodded again.

  “Were you?”

  “No. Not that time.”

  “You and Mom told me that it was after the family’s year in France, after the affair with Isabelle was over, that Dad learned I existed. And then you and Dad came over and retrieved me.”

  “That’s the short version.”

  “I need the long version, Max,” I said. “First, Isabelle told Dad she was pregnant as soon as she knew.”

  “Says who?”

  “That’s what the abbess suggested,” Casey answered.

  “Hmmm.” His eyes narrowed. “Hardly non-partisan; the woman is part of the clan.”

  “So she told us,” I said. “The thing is, there’s a two-year gap in the story you told me. And I know Isabelle didn’t just hand me over. Something happened.”

  “Several things happened.” He turned briefly to look at Casey, a status check. “First of all, the affair lasted, off and on, for some part of three years, beginning the year your folks were over here working, and lasting until about two years after. Your dad was deeply in love with Isabelle, enthralled with her actually. And he was in love with you. When he finally came to his senses and broke it off with Isabelle, he made it clear to Betsy that he would not abandon you.”

  “Max, he asked Isabelle to abort me.”

  “Not to abort you, Maggie,” Max said with some heat. “It. I don’t want to get into a biological or metaphysical or theological discussion about when life begins, but when your dad asked Isabelle to consider terminating the product of their illicit behavior and failed birth control, you didn’t exist yet to him.”

  “Product of failed birth control?”

  “If she actually used any,” Max said, looking out the windshield and pointedly away from me. “Anyway, first she told your dad she was on the pill. Later she told him she terminated the pregnancy.”

  “Obviously, she lied,” I said, remembering my conversation with Mom about predatory students. “Whatever Isabelle did, it still usually takes two to make a baby.”

  “Don’t be too hard on your dad, honey. You have to give him credit—he never abandoned you.”

  “He abandoned Isabelle,” I said. “Now let’s talk about what he did to Mom.”

  “It’s easy to judge, Maggie.” He gave me a hard glance. “Have you never screwed up?”

  I laughed, though nothing was funny. “You’re my lawyer, Max. You know the answer better than anyone.”

  “There you go. In the end, your dad did what he hoped was best for all of you,” he went on. “When he first learned that Isabelle had not terminated the pregnancy—he didn’t learn that until after you were born, by the way—he tried to work out a legal joint custody arrangement with her so that he could visit you without any hassle. He never managed to get anything formal in place, but she was very agreeable to visits. For a while, anyway. Periodically he’d make th
e trip over, usually during university breaks, so he hit most of the holidays.”

  “And my birthday,” I said.

  He nodded. “He was here for your second birthday party. Isabelle took that snapshot of you and your dad in the orchard.”

  “So, of course, whenever he came to see me, he would see Isabelle, too,” I said. “Mom must have been furious.”

  “When she found out she was.”

  “When was that?”

  Max risked a glance at me before launching his bomb: “The night Isabelle called and told him to come and get you.”

  I needed clarification, as if maybe I misheard that. “He travelled back and forth to see me for two years before Mom even knew about me?”

  The pitch of my voice was about as high as a distressed dolphin’s. I had to take a breath, try to calm down. When I panicked over lightning earlier, if I had just kept on running I wouldn’t be hearing this. And I might have been happier.

  Casey patted my shoulder. “Mom, you okay?”

  “Yeah, sorry.” I rolled down the window a crack, letting in an icy stream of air. “So, where does Claude come into the picture?”

  “You were maybe a year old. Isabelle caved to family pressures—or maybe she wanted to hurt your dad; she could be like that—and she married Claude Desmoulins.”

  “I’m guessing that Claude wasn’t happy about Dad’s visits.”

  “Unhappy is one way to put it. I know she tried to keep the visits from Claude. Sometimes she succeeded, and sometimes she disastrously failed. Claude was one very angry man last time I saw him.”

  “Do you blame him?”

  “No.”

  He had something more to say, but he wasn’t saying it. I touched his cheek. “What are you thinking?”

  “Just remembering the fallout from Isabelle’s call. It wasn’t pretty, Maggie.”

  “Tell me,” I said.

  Casey muttered, “Poor Gran.”

  Max glanced at her, nodded.

  “Tell us,” she prodded.

  “About a month before the call, your dad came over to see you, Maggie. Right after Christmas, I think it was. He’d made the decision to make a final break with Isabelle and to tell all to Betsy. But first he wanted to formalize a legal shared custody arrangement so he could continue to see you. But Isabelle didn’t agree. Once she knew that visit was to be your dad’s big kiss-off of her, things got very ugly.”