Chapter Three
Maggie had seven hours to roll the thought over and over in her mind: an indescribably sexy Frenchman brought her to a magic place by the sea and then made her his own in every sense of the word.
Twice.
Every time she thought of it—thought of him, his large warm hands on her skin, his full lips nibbling at her ear lobe, his husky, whispered voice against her throat—she began to tingle and blush in a way that made it impossible to sit still.
And then she had gotten on a plane and left.
Even now, Maggie found it difficult to believe she could have gone where he took her, emotionally and physically, only to walk away for good. Had she really not expected something like this to happen with him? With Laurent, whose every smile, every gesture was so damn sexy she nearly had to fan herself just sipping an espresso with him in broad daylight on the rue Meynardiers Had he really taken her by surprise? Or hadn’t she been longing for it, for him, ever since she looked up to see him standing next to her at the breakfast terrace of the Hotel d’Albion that very first day?
From the warmth and exhilaration of their sweet union late that afternoon until this moment, where she sat on a Boeing 747 revving its engines for takeoff, it was clear that a very right thing had developed between them. A very right, but very fleeting thing. Her heart stuttered at the thought of not seeing Laurent again, and she cursed the fact she couldn’t just enjoy the moment—and the adventure—for what it was. She glanced over at the child sitting next to her and reminded herself that it had been a very successful adventure on all counts.
Bentley brought Nicole to the little house not an hour after she and Laurent had made love on the grass by the sea. One brief hour to lay in each other’s arms and talk—or not—and feed each other the picnic feast…and make love again.
One hour before the whole adventure successful concluded with the sound of Bentley rapping on the door in the early evening and placing Nicole in her arms.
When the flight attendant walked by to double-check everyone’s seatback tray compliance, Maggie glanced down at the blank-eyed child sitting next to her. Elise’s baby, her own niece, flesh of her flesh. Maggie spoke softly, gently to the girl. “Nicole? Ça va, Nicole?”
The child lifted her head and looked at Maggie, but her eyes held no expression. In spite of the seatbelt sign and the imminent departure, Maggie had an impulse to gather the girl up into her arms and hold her, as if by doing so she could make it all right again.
Bentley had very little to say about the details of where he had found Nicole. He gave Maggie the forged passport—well paid for by her father—and after dropping her and Nicole off at her hotel, he and Laurent disappeared into the night. Maggie had been so busy with the overnight care of the little waif she barely had time to process what had happened between her and Laurent.
Or the realization that he was gone.
Nicole hadn’t spoken a word all night, but Maggie wasn’t worried. She assumed the poor thing was frightened, and she had every confidence that her mother would bring Nicole around—with love and chocolate chip cookies and unfailing doting.
Nicole was small—smaller at five years than Maggie had imagined she’d be. All the Newberry women were tall, leggy creatures. All except Maggie, who was the recipient of the family’s good-natured teasing for her sole petiteness.
Sole until now, it seemed.
The girl’s hair was dark, unlike Elise’s. Her eyes were wide and fringed with thick lashes. Her full bottom lip quivered slightly.
Now, as Maggie watched her, it occurred to her that Nicole wasn’t really frightened so much as she was…nothing. She didn’t flinch or cry or recoil at Maggie’s touch or words. She simply stared, her face a blank mask, her eyes dry.
Maggie tried to imagine Nicole as a part of their family, with a place at the Thanksgiving Day table, her own stocking at the hearth, and knowing her grandfather’s jokes and feeble puns as well as the rest of them did.
Was it possible this little collection of bones and tremors would someday be a laughing, happy, integral part of the Newberry clan in Atlanta? Maggie stroked the little girl’s hair. Nicole did not flinch.
Maggie gazed out the airplane window and felt a needle of fear war with the excitement and warmth of the memory of his arms around her, his kisses on her.
Would she ever see him again?
Eight hours later, Maggie scanned the crowd at Hartsfield International Airport for her parents, Big John and auburn-haired Southern beauty queen Elspeth, the Newberry matriarch.
She glanced down at her charge, who huddled by her side. Nicole looked even less like a blood relation this morning, Maggie thought. She was so dark—more like Maggie—but unlike Maggie, Nicole’s features were blunt and full. Her eyes were round as an owl’s and dark.
The child had spoken not a word the whole trip. She’d given no indication that she needed to go to the lavatory, wanted water, was hungry, was fatigued, or even fearful. Nothing. She had sat in her seat, her new, airport-bought outfit making her look like a refugee from Disneyland, and stared out the window of the airplane. Maggie spoke to her in French and then English. No response.
Maggie saw her parents waiting for her at the top of the escalator. They looked fretful as their eyes searched the crowd for her. She watched them, her waving hand faltering a bit. In a flash, she realized they were not really looking for Nicole. She could see the look in their eyes. In a strange, inexplicable way, they were looking for Elise.
Maggie’s hand dropped to her side and she felt sick with the intensity of her parents’ longing. She looked down at Nicole, who stood motionless beside her. They would not find their Elise here, Maggie thought sadly.
“Maggie! Darling! John, she’s over here.” Maggie looked up and smiled at them. She propelled the girl forward and Nicole walked robot-like into the arms of her maternal grandparents.
“Darling, you’re here!” Maggie felt her mother’s hug, and the light, familiar scent of Chanel No. 5.
Maggie watched her mother greet Nicole. Elspeth touched the child without hesitation, ignoring Nicole’s blank expression. Elspeth smiled at Nicole with true joy and hugged her to her. Maggie could see Nicole stiffen, but she did not resist.
“Long flight, darling?” Maggie’s father leaned over and gave her a squeeze.
“Not too bad. She doesn’t speak any English. Nicole? Voici your grandmère et grandpère.” Maggie straightened up and shook her head. “She’s been through a lot.”
“Of course she has.” If Elspeth Newberry was less than impressed with her brand-new and only granddaughter, she did not show it. The girl stood quietly among them. “It’s just going to take a little time,” Elspeth said as she knelt beside the child, the silken hem of her designer dress dusting the airport tile. “And we’ve got lots of that, don’t we, ma petite?” She touched the girl’s face with her hand and looked into her dark, expressionless eyes.
Maggie’s father shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “The casket?”
“Yeah, about that,” Maggie said. “There was a miscommunication or something. When I went to get the paperwork at the airport yesterday morning, they said there wasn’t to be a casket.”
“You didn’t bring Elise home?” Maggie saw her father’s face contort into a grimace and he quickly looked at her mother.
“No, I did, Dad,” Maggie said. She tapped the hard leather box strapped to her luggage. “They cremated her. I’m sorry. They were apologetic about the misunderstanding.”
Her father stared at the leather box and then gently put a hand on it. “Pretty big misunderstanding,” he said.
“We can still run DNA tests on it. You know, to be sure.”
“Let’s just get your niece and your mother home in one piece,” her father said. Maggie could tell he was barely holding it together, and that it wasn’t easy. “Brownie came with us,” he said. “He’s out by the car.”
“Brownie?” Maggie
looked at her mother, who had stopped walking and was waiting for Maggie and her father to catch up. Brownie and Maggie had dated in high school—seriously enough for Brownie to achieve the coveted title of honorary family member with Maggie’s parents. The two had eventually decided to be just friends. At least, Maggie had.
“He didn’t want to come in, dear.” Maggie’s mother stood and shifted her purse to her shoulder. “He thought it should just be the family when we all met. Although, I told him he was certainly family as far as we were concerned.”
Maggie’s heart twisted at the memory of Laurent standing at the Nice Airport departure lounge, his big hands shoved in his pockets, his feet planted solidly. He had surprised her by coming to see her off. While she had to admit their goodbye at the house had been heartbreakingly lacking as far as she was concerned, she had tried to force herself to accept that he probably viewed the liaison for what it was: two convenient ships connecting in the night.
I mean, he’s French after all.
She was still amazed that every moment of that magical afternoon at the abandoned house by the sea seemed to have been completely untouched for her by the notion that they would, of course, part. It simply hadn’t occurred to her. Remembering him now, as he stood watching her walk away down the long corridor to Security and the flight gates beyond, little Nicole shuffling along beside her, she just wanted to break down and cry.
When they pulled into the long drive of her parents’ home, Maggie couldn’t help but look at Nicole for her reaction to the house. She had guessed correctly there would be little visible effect, but it was hard to resist looking. As for herself, she felt the same happiness and belonging she always did when she came home. Not too large, certainly not by the standards of the neighborhood which showcased the biggest and the best in Atlanta homes, the Newberry homestead was covered in a tangle of magnolias, weeping willows and oak trees that gave the mansion a feeling of intrigue, even masquerade.
That night, as she lay in her bed unable to sleep, she turned to catch a whiff of her mother’s roses. They grew in profusion right outside her window, and her mother had gathered several in a crystal vase on Maggie’s bedside table. Maggie watched the sheers on her window puff toward the bed and then go slack as the gentle Georgia night breeze cooled the house. It seemed to waft the lovely rose scent right into the bed with her.
She closed her eyes and remembered so many under-the-cover giggles with her sister in this house, teasing and conspiring together. As sleep began to claim her, Maggie found herself wondering if Elise’s little foreign-born daughter—sleeping now in Elise’s old room—had ever heard her mother laugh.
It occurred to her that she had never heard Laurent laugh.
Murder in the South of France, Book 1 of the Maggie Newberry Mysteries Page 4