Lost and Found (20 page)

Her eyes fill with tears again. "I . . . I don't know."

"I read a blog called www.iluminar.me." I watch for a reaction, but she reveals nothing. "The entry I read this morning was based on this passage. The author felt fear at the thought of what God might prune from her life." Her eyes are wide. She doesn't speak or nod, but she is hanging on my every word. "Anyway, after I read it, what came to me is that perfect love drives out fear." I flip the pages in my Bible and turn to 1 John 4:18: "'There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love.'"

Her mouth forms the word
oh
, but no sound comes out.

"The pruning you're talking about sounds punishing to me. Maybe I'm misunderstanding . . ."

"No . . . that's"—she takes a deep breath—"that's what I felt. I just hadn't . . . identified it. But . . . if Gerard's death isn't a pruning of sorts, if it isn't God cutting away something from me, then . . . why?" She stands up and begins pacing. "I need to know why. I need to understand."

"Some things are beyond our understanding."

She shakes her head. "No, I
have
to understand."

I hesitate. I don't like sounding like the Bible Answer Man, but . . . "'Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding . . .' Sometimes, we're just called to trust rather than understand."

I can't read her face as she stands over me, but I watch as her shoulders seem to relax. Then she drops back into her chair and breathes what sounds like a sigh of relief.

"Just trust? I don't have to . . . figure it out? I don't have to understand?" She leans back in her chair, arms hanging over the sides. "You mean I don't have to work so hard?" She almost cracks a smile.

"No. You don't have to figure it all out. You can trust Him. Cool, right? You can trust His love, His goodness, His sovereignty."

She is thoughtful for a few minutes. "But if I can't figure it out, if I don't understand whatever it is, then . . . I can't fix it."

"Ah, that's the crux of it, huh?"

She nods. "And I certainly can't fix what happened"—tears fill her eyes and spill onto her cheeks—"last night."

I reach for the tissue box and hand it to her.

"Jenna, I'm so, so sorry."

"I don't know"—she gulps back a sob—"what I'm going . . . to do."

I lean forward,
Oh Lord, give me Your words for Jenna.
"Did you and your husband ever dance together?"

She sniffles, wipes her nose, and nods. "Not often, but occasionally at a social function, a charity ball, or at a wedding. Gerard was a wonderful dancer."

"Could you relax in his arms and let him lead? Just follow his steps?"

She ponders this, then she nods again. "Yes . . . but I had to learn to let him lead. Once I did, dancing with him became a joy."

"Yeah, I bet." I give her a minute to sit with that image. "Jenna, God's asking you to dance." I reach out my hand like I'm going to lead her onto the dance floor. She reaches across the space between us and takes my hand. "He's asking you to relax in His embrace and allow Him to lead."

Her eyes are locked on mine and my heart thunders in my chest. "Just follow Him, step by step."

Her mouth forms the word
oh
again and her eyes are wet with tears.

"It's that simple?"

I give her hand a gentle squeeze and then let it go. "It's that simple. But . . . that doesn't mean it's easy."

AFTER JENNA LEAVES, I
sit in my chair for a long time and stare at the flame still flickering in front of me. So . . . Jenna Bouvier is Lightseeker. I don't have proof of that, but I know. And Lightseeker is my spiritual counterpart, or at least, that's how I've thought of her. No wonder I've reacted to Jenna the way I have. But Lightseeker was safe. Anonymous. Untouchable. Jenna on the other hand . . .

I stare at the flame until it burns out. I process my feelings. I surrender my heart to God. And I pray. I pray until my prayers are interrupted by the vibrating phone in my back pocket. I lift my head, reach for the phone, and glance at the screen.

Tess.

Oh, man, I forgot the time.

Forgot about dinner.

I forgot about her.

No matter what insight or revelation you have, it is nothing compared to your total need of God.

JEANNE GUYON

GERARD BOUVIER'S DEATH
is a city headline maker. It began with an abbreviated obit in the
Chronicle
the morning after he dropped dead. It hit the noontime news shows, and was the lead story on the local evening news. A follow-up obituary hit the paper two days after his death, and included a statement by "the family" that the memorial service will be an invitation-only event.

I tossed the paper aside. "That's one invitation I could do without."

I rarely miss the morning
Chronicle
, but the morning after Gerard's death, I had a meeting and forfeited my espresso and paper-reading time. Instead, I grabbed an espresso on the run and decided the local news could wait.

Bad choice.

During my meeting, my cell phone rang over and over. Though it was silenced, the screen flashing with Jason's name annoyed. I had two unheard messages from the night before and he'd called several times during the meeting.
What's the deal? Getting needy, lover boy?

I picked up my phone from the conference table where I was meeting with yet another CEO and dropped it into my briefcase. No reason to let it distract me. At the end of the meeting, Mr. CEO went all philosophical on me droning on about how the death of a friend makes you reevaluate your priorities. Blah, blah, blah . . .

"You knew him too, didn't you?"

Okay, I admit, I tuned him out for a few minutes—I was focused on the business discussion we'd just had. That is my job, after all. I sifted through the portions of the conversation I had heard and tried to figure out who he was talking about.

"Gerard Bouvier. Aren't you connected to him? Seeing his brother-in-law or something?"

I tried to make the connections. "Gerard? What about him?"

"Oh no, I'm sorry. You haven't heard?"

"Heard what?"

"He . . . uh . . . died last night. Massive heart attack."

"What? Are you kidding me?" I'm sure my mouth was hanging open like some gasping fish. I reached back into my briefcase, grabbed for my phone, and scrolled through my missed calls again. I had five messages from Jason since the night before. And I'd been playing hard to get.

Okay, sometimes, I'm a total idiot.

"Will you excuse me?" I didn't wait for his response. Instead, I gathered up my things while listening to Jason's voicemails.

"
Andee
. . ." He was quiet for a minute and then continued.
"Please call me. I . . . need . . . to talk to you."

I'm such an idiot.

"Andee, please call me. Something's happened. I need to talk to you."

Then came the morning calls.
"It's me again. Andee, Gerard . . . Gerard died last night. I . . . I want to talk to you."
His voice cracked on the last word.

Okay, a total idiot!

I didn't listen to the other messages. I got the gist of it. I called him before I was even out of the building. I'd witnessed the friendship between Jason and Gerard the weekend we spent in Napa. Last weekend. Could it really be just a few days ago? And now . . .

The reality was, is, hard to grasp. Their friendship was hard for me to grasp too. Friends are a luxury I haven't made time for. Or something like that. But I knew Gerard's death would be hard for Jason in ways I couldn't understand.

But hearing the emotion in his voice rocked me in unexpected ways, and I wanted to be there for Jason. I wanted to try to understand. I tried not to overanalyze my feelings.

Feelings?

"Get a grip, Andee."

AS I DRESS FOR
Gerard's funeral—funeral, memorial, whatever—I put thoughts of Jason aside and think through the practical aspects of the day. I don't like this kind of thing, but this service is the place to be seen today. Anyone who is anyone in this city was sure they wrangled an invitation. Not only was I invited to attend but I will be seated, at Brigitte's request, in the section reserved for family and close friends.

"You've come a long way, baby," I tell myself. "This will be one of the social events of the year," I say to Sam who's sprawled across the chair in my dressing area. It will be somber, of course. But nonetheless, it will be a media circus, despite Brigitte's invitation-only decree.

I respect her control. When you're visible, you need to protect yourself from the public, while also making sure you're visible to the public. It's a balancing act.

Brigitte.

I think again of her call to me the afternoon after Gerard passed. I laugh. "That woman is a piece of work." My respect for her has grown as we've worked together. She is a model for my philosophy:
Drive determines destiny.
She is single-minded and bent on her goals.

But something about her call bothered me.

I reach into the velvet-lined drawer in my closet where I keep my jewelry and remove a pair of pearl studs and a pearl bracelet. The perfect accessories for the designer black suit I'm wearing. I put the jewelry on and then stand in front of the mirror.

"Classic."

Sam mews his agreement.

What was it about her call that continues to agitate me? Brigitte is a businesswoman and there was business to attend to. That's all.

Just as I have all week, I put the thought aside.

WHEN I ARRIVE AT
the cathedral, I'm ushered to a seat in the row just behind the family. Brigitte, Jenna, Jason, Bill, and Max, the family attorney, sit together. Jason asked me to attend with him, but I declined, telling him he needed to be focused on supporting his sister. Plus, I wanted distance—the opportunity to observe rather than participate. I lean forward and place my hand on Jason's shoulder and whisper to him. "How are you holding up?"

He turns, puts his hand on mine, and mouths, "Okay."

I squeeze his shoulder and then sit back. I will acknowledge Brigitte and Jenna after the service. And Bill, of course.

I pick up my handbag, stand, and move to the end of the pew so others don't need to step over me as they're seated. From here, I can see Jenna and Brigitte's profiles—it's a better seat.

Others are ushered to the pew including a tall, dark-haired man and his fashion-plate date. Oh, make that wife—I notice matching gold bands. His dark, mussed curls, his lopsided grin, and toothpaste ad perfect teeth are heart stoppers. His impeccable attire doesn't seem to match his persona though. The fashion plate dresses him, I'd bet. They sit just behind Jenna and Brigitte. The heart-stopper leans forward, places his hand on Jenna's shoulder, and whispers something in her ear. She turns in her seat, and hugs him across the top of the pew.

There is an intimacy between them that's unmistakable. Unless she's blind, the fashion plate sees it too. And so, I notice, does Brigitte. I see her glance and then turn and watch the embrace. Then she turns and looks at the couple behind her. She nods at them, but I don't get the sense that she knows them.

Who. Is. That? Inquiring minds want to know!

This event is becoming more interesting all the time.

Soon, another woman is ushered to our aisle. Her gauze skirt and denim jacket are so . . . inappropriate. She looks like a flippin' flower child. The hunk and the fashion plate scoot down and make room for her. They seem to know her. She, too, leans forward and she kisses Jenna on the cheek. Again, Jenna turns and hugs the flower child. They embrace for a long time, the flower child whispering in Jenna's ear the entire time. When they part, I see the flower child checking out Brigitte.

Brigitte's disdain is palpable. Ha!

Jenna's friends. And not friends chosen by Brigitte. Maybe Jenna isn't as passive as I thought.

I focus my attention, for now, on the family.

Jenna sits close to Jason, who has his arm around her shoulders. And Bill sits on the other side of Jason, but I notice, he reaches over and whispers to Jenna and seems to reassure her often.

Brigitte seems statue-like. An appropriate expression of bereavement in place, but I notice her eyes shifting, looking, watching. Max is seated on Brigitte's left at the end of the pew. There's a comfortable distance between he and Brigitte. Jenna sits on Brigitte's right but there is enough space between Brigitte and Jenna for another person to be seated between them. They offer one another nothing—no warmth or comfort.

Brigitte, it occurs to me, is an island.

And for some reason, the thought agitates me.

I think again of Brigitte's call last week, just one day after Gerard's death. Yes, his death will impact Domaine de la Bouvier in some ways, but her business and financial concern seemed misplaced so soon after her son's death.