Parisian Promises (25 page)

Christophe pushed through the crowd to reach her.

“I have to lie down,” the concierge was saying, feigning weakness in the legs, but one look at her sturdy stumps and no one believed her fake dizzy spell.

“But what has happened to Serge?” Christophe demanded, trying to make sense of the scene.

“Why, he tried to protect me from the devil,” blurted the concierge, “and he fought valiantly, like the Archangel Michael! And now Serge is dead––but so is the devil.”

Monica put her arms around Christophe and held him tight. She felt the thumping of his chest against her own racing heart. Christophe's heart agonized with the news of Serge's death, but Monica heaved in relief knowing that she had escaped from the malignant grip, the hypnotic spell that Jean-Michel had cast on her––and on other susceptible lonely hearts he had taken down with him in his muddy vortex.

Monica stroked Christophe's back and consoled him. He had a heart of gold whose goodness radiated warmth and understanding. He had seen through the quagmire of her emotions and had chosen to love her through thick and thin––just as he had promised her back at Les Charmilles.

“Where did they take my godfather, my guiding light?” he asked the inspectors, fighting back tears.

One of the inspectors gave him the address of the mortuary, and Monica rushed into the road to flag down a taxi. Christophe turned to the concierge, his face drained and severe.

“I will be sending someone to collect
all
of Mademoiselle's Monica's belongings. She will
never
set foot in this place again.” Christophe took a couple of hundred franc notes, and thrust them at the concierge. “Kindly make sure that all her belongings are accounted for and packed carefully, Madame.”

The concierge knew she had been chastised by a true nobleman, and she didn't mind so much. By his polite and refined rebuke, he had proven to her that he was a more evolved and perceptive person than she––and she couldn't disagree. She was a mongrel and a scoundrel, she knew, someone who would consistently live up to her lowly reputation. She would decide in her own good time if she would steal an item or two from the Monica's box of belongings, or if she would even pack them. The concierge knew how to take advantage of people, how to make them overpay for her services, but above all, she knew how to take secrets to her grave.

Never once during the subsequent interviews with the police inspectors did the concierge ever reveal the devil's true identity. Nor did she tell them about his valise with the false bottom and the documents it contained, revealing the address of two apartments near the Eiffel Tower. The concierge had found the keys as well, and spent many happy hours in anticipation of the gold mine she would find in these apartments, money that would enable her fly off and view all the birds in the Amazon. She started taking Fifi on walks around that
quartier
, so that the two could become a familiar sight on the chichi street. She would wait until the right moment presented itself, and then she would walk into the apartment and claim her pirate's booty.

The concierge carried the two mystery keys in the pocket of her grimy overcoat as a talisman of the dream life she would soon lead. As she walked Fifi on her sturdy leash, she rubbed one key, then the other, waiting for the magical moment. She took them out of her pocket, admired them and put them back in her pocket.

“I'm keeping the golden keys to our future warm on this chilly day,” she said to Fifi, who growled at her. “Don't be such an ungrateful mutt!”

The concierge bent down to slap Fifi good and hard, to let her know who the top dog was. Fifi snapped back, biting the concierge's hand so hard she drew blood, and took off running across busy Avenue Bosquet. The dog leash wrapped itself around the concierge's hefty ankle and tripped her up. The keys which she had been caressing flew from her hand and were run over by multiple cars, crushing the dreams the concierge never deserved to so much as contemplate.

Ever since the passing of the late Viscount, Madame La Vicomtesse had stayed in mourning, always dressed in black equestrian attire. The severity of the fit reminded her to keep a stiff upper lip and to hold unto the reins of Les Charmilles and its related enterprises. Most of all, her raven attire reminded everyone else that, despite the widespread knowledge of the late Viscount's philandering, she had loved him and her heart bled for him––and she would always mourn his passing.

But since Serge's tragic death, she had taken to wearing a loose black gown, slouching with the weight of her melancholy. She spent all day under the arbor sighing––and crying. Once in a while, as a tribute to Serge, she would attend to the rose bushes, as Serge used to do. Mostly, she liked to hear Monica and Christophe chatter and hug and sneak a kiss as they went about the business of managing the vineyards, the horses, the personnel, and the grounds of Les Charmilles. She'd come to appreciate their pure, sweet love. Theirs was a love of epic proportions; of this fact Madame La Vicomtesse was certain. They had overcome an evil villain, and faced many obstacles, including her own interference and disapproval. True, Monica had temporarily stumbled into decadence, but they sacrificed and persevered, and now their love blossomed at Les Charmilles. Their every encounter seemed to create an aura of warmth, their love a shield of vibrant colors painting Les Charmilles with happiness and harmony.

One afternoon, about two months after Serge's funeral, Monica set up her easel by the arbor to paint. Madame La Vicomtesse walked up, her black dress trailing the ground.

“What do you think of this composition, Madame La Vicomtesse?” Monica asked.

“Humph, I've seen better, much better.”

“What do you recommend that I do to improve it? Could it be the colors I've selected?”

“Let me study it. Here, you received a postcard in the mail from Lola.” She handed Monica a sepia image of a 1920's dancer.

“Oh, so this is a photo of La Belle Otero!” Monica read the postcard over and over. “Lola is always referencing La Belle Otero. She drove Annie crazy with her admiration for her, and now she writes that Annie is down in the South of France and is asking
her
for advice on how to break up with the professor she's been having an affair with.” Monica's eyes welled with tears as she reminisced about her friends and their naïve aspirations for their year in Paris. Karen could not adjust to living abroad and returned to California, Annie's academic goals had taken a back seat to the complications of her love affair with a married professor, and Lola's lifestyle was less than admirable.

“Is Lola not well?”

“Oh, she's fine. She's Lola, after all. And whatever Lola wants, Lola gets.”

“And what does Lola want?”

“If I tell you, you might think less of her, Madame La Vicomtesse, I'd rather––”

“Nonsense! First, I've asked you to please call me Agnès. Second, I admire Lola's determination. What is it that she wants?”

Monica read aloud a section of the postcard: “I'm so envious of your romance with Christophe. Perhaps one day I'll fall in love too. In the meantime, I'm having a bitchin' time with my sugar daddy in Monte Carlo!”

“Humph, I see.” Madame La Vicomtesse always disapproved––but today she reconsidered. She had huffed and puffed with anger and disappointment when Monica admitted driving the getaway car for Rémy, but then she'd released her hound of an attorney and the matter was erased from all memory. Sometimes, she decided, it was better to forgive and forget. And Monica and Lola weren't the first young women in the world to be led astray by smooth-talking men.

“I think you'd better go to the stables and check on the horses,” Madame La Vicomtesse commanded, settling herself in a chair. “I'll stay here and study your painting,”

Monica walked over to Madame La Vicomtesse, kissed her forehead, and settled Serge's wool beret on her cold head. “There, now you'll be warm while you help me improve the painting.” Monica handed her a paintbrush and headed for the stables.

From a distance she saw Christophe waiting for her by one of the paddocks, as if he had just turned out a horse, instead of bringing it in for the night. He was gazing at her with such intense love that she had an urge to run into his arms and kiss him.

“
Je t'aime
,” she shouted and ran towards him. At the sound of her voice a horse neighed and its hoofbeats pounded the paddock. A sorrel horse galloped into view.

“Rocky! Rocky! Is it really you?”

Rocky approached the fence and leaned his neck over, and Monica climbed up to hug him. He nuzzled ever so gently against her, and she clasped his neck and rubbed his chest, their matching auburn manes fluttering in the afternoon breeze.

Christophe approached both of them, smiling. He fed Rocky a carrot, and put his arm around Monica.

“Now that Rocky is here,” he told Monica, “Les Charmilles is truly your home––and I promise to love you forever.”

T
he Paris of this novel reflects the tumultuous era when I was a university student in France during the 1970s. Despite the social upheavals of that time, my personal coming-of-age journey in France was filled with good friendships, sublime cultural experiences, lightheartedness––and a few broken promises.

I could not have written this novel without the inspirational memories of my friendship with the late Madame C de L. She epitomized the
très chic
, old money, eccentric, sexagenarian Parisienne. And I was the wide-eyed, wannabe academic she loved to shock with her antics, outrageous experiences, and bawdy recollections of times gone by. In the subsequent years since I last saw her, I have come to cherish the memories of our friendship, because I now realize she was imparting her off-kilter wisdom to me––the daughter she'd never had.

With the exception of the characters of La Belle Otero, George Sand, Isabel Casamayor de Godin, and the female French Résistance members Francine Escande and Yvonne Dumont, all the characters in this novel are products of my imagination. My word selection and idiomatic expressions are representative of that era.

My gratitude goes out to my insightful editors Paula Morris and Brooke Foster, my patient book designer Karrie Ross, my good friend and photographer Lisa Baker, Brigitte Aguilar for her administrative support and words of encouragement, and especially to the uniquely creative and technical team of Sarah and Kevin Bunch.

I hope my French friends will enjoy this work of fiction. Nothing gives me greater joy than to sojourn often in France with my family. We've been fortunate to experience the unique richness of this wonderful country––from Champagne to Bordeaux––and hope to continue doing so in the years to come.

Many thanks to my children, Loreal and Jay-Paul, who read my manuscripts and offer constructive suggestions. My heartfelt appreciation goes out to my son Peter, for his constant praise and support of my writing life. As always, I'm forever grateful to my husband Peter for loving me every step of the way.

June 3, 2013
Paris