Spoils of the Game (8 page)

Austin sat in his kitchen, slowly sipping a cup of tea and eating a piece of pastry left over from a guilty purchase the previous day. He had been awake since about five, thinking about many things, including Susan. Austin had been on his guard. Back home several women were aware that he might be back on the market, and being good-looking, wealthy, and successful was a magnet he had to control. Madeline Rousseau was different and a surprise. What was disarming was how they communicated effortlessly and how easy it was for them to be open with one another. It was clear that she was aware of what he was and his resources, but she did not seem to be impressed or to expect any benefit. On top of everything she was a very attractive woman with a very nice smile, a genuine person who might benefit from a change in environment. As of that morning he had no plans for seeing her in the next few days, and that was a little bothersome. Perhaps he could find an excuse to get together.

Austin spent his day making flowcharts, writing down strategy steps, and reviewing photographs. He had to have at least a rough layout of his concept on paper. He had done this type of thing many times before, but at least he knew what he was talking about. Vassar had given him a big clue when they talked last. Money was the name of the game. If fifty million was required, how would the project get the money? It was clear that under the current situation, little financial support could be expected from the Louvre. He had to get support for a project that did not exist, to be run by undefined persons, with benefits to the contributors being unknown, and with unknown cooperation from the Church.

By six that evening, Austin had given up for the day. He wanted to clear his head, and another walk was in order. As he was about to leave his apartment, his cell phone rang.

“Austin, it’s me,” said Carl Thomson. “Is this a good time to talk?”

“Sure, I was about to go out for a walk. What’s up?”

“I got the personal information on those two names you provided. The lawyers have some contacts in France, and they turned this over to them. I told them this was to be kept confidential and to find out what they could from public information. I assume you don’t want any private detectives or anything like that.”

“Not yet. Just find what you can. I don’t want to make this too big a deal, but I would like to know more, if it is available.”

They talked about business for about another hour before Carl had to ask, “So how is the art project going?”

“Carl, I have never believed more that there are some real needs, and some good ideas are emerging, but I have no idea how I am going to make it happen. This may be the most difficult thing I have ever done. I don’t want to sound negative, but I think this may be beyond me. We will see. You know that I am putting in all of this effort to save a bunch of paintings, and at times I wonder if I should be trying to help starving people or something like that. The fact is, Carl, I probably wouldn’t be helping anyone or anything if it were not for Susan’s momentum. Maybe when I get this done, I can do something that addresses a more humanitarian purpose.”

“Boss, you do that, and we will never see you again,” replied Carl.

The spring evening was perfect when Austin left his apartment. He had yet to visit the Eiffel Tower. The sun was setting in the west, and it lit the tower in golden light. In the early evening the lines for the elevator were short, and he took the ride up to the top. As an engineer he appreciated what Eiffel had done and the view that the tower provided. Slowly he walked around the observation deck and studied the city. Austin had traveled all over the world, but he could not identify another city as magnificent as Paris. The city has grown in ever-expanding circles, and it was amazing how well the layout worked. It was also amazing how the architecture of all of the buildings, monuments, museums, train stations, parks, and bridges gave the city a sense of style.

At a small cafe back down on the ground, Austin ordered a bottle of wine and just sat and watched the world. With all of the things that had been on his mind for the past few hours, he had been successful in not thinking about Madeline until now, and now she was all that he could think about. Night was falling quickly, and the walk back to his apartment was made easier by the wine. At his door was a small basket that contained what appeared to be a collection of small cakes wrapped in a napkin. A note was enclosed:

My grandmother taught me how to make these cakes. I hope you like our old family recipe. Call me. I got you invited.

Madeline

Austin raised the basket to his face and smelled the cakes. There was no doubt that the cakes had just been baked. How was he to react to this gesture? They were becoming good friends, and she was certainly helpful to his project, but wasn’t that her job. Austin reflected for a few seconds and decided that he was pleased with the effort she had made and now was disappointed that he had not been home when she stopped by. He looked back at the note. Invited? Invited to what? That was intriguing. How could he resist calling, now that he was powered by curiosity?

She answered on the third ring.

“Thank you for the cakes.”

“You are so welcome. I was in the mood to bake, and I made some for you, some for me, and some for the office.”

Even though she had not made them just for him, or so she’d said, he was still pleased.

“They will be lucky if they live until morning,” said Austin with a laugh. “So what have I been invited to?”

“Well … my sister called to tell me … that there is going to be a reception for a priest that I have known since I was a little girl. He is retiring, and the reception is in my old hometown, which is a delightful little village, and … I thought it would be a good opportunity for you to see the real France, like you wanted, and get away from your project.”

Austin’s mind raced. Madeline’s mind froze. What was happening? He perceived that he was being hijacked, but he was willing to be the victim.

Madeline nervously continued, “Father Gladieux was the man who introduced me to art when I was little, and he has been an influence in my life for so many years. He was the priest to whom I confessed my first kiss. It would be great if you could come. I will stay at my sister’s, and there is a great little hotel in town where you can stay. I already made you a reservation, in case they got busy. So are you going to join me? My sister will meet the train and drive us around, and all you have to do is be there. It will be fun.” Madeline’s heart was thumping in her chest.

Austin could not think of a reason to say no. “Sure, I would love to.” He was not sure that he’d made the right decision, but what was the harm? And she was right: it might be fun.

“Oh, that is great,” said Madeline with a silent shy. “I am taking Friday off, and we can take the train on Friday morning.”

Austin spent the rest of the week in his apartment, trying to identify the project’s problems and determining where the answers might be found; he also spent time on the phone with Carl, addressing some business issues back home. He tried to spell out the economic, political, operational, and logistic problems of the project, and to identify the portions aimed at addressing Church issues. It was going very slowly. His proposals couldn’t offend anyone or cast aspersions on his or her status or ability to do the right thing. He could not suggest that forces in the art world were late in meeting their responsibility. He also couldn’t suggest that some guy from North Carolina should lead them. Perhaps the best approach was to present the problem and the possible solutions and worry about the money later.

Friday morning arrived sooner than he planned more quickly than he’d expected. The train was at eight o’clock that morning, and Austin arrived at the station a little after seven. He was not concerned about missing the train, but he was concerned about disappointing Madeline. Austin had a love affair with European train stations. They reflected the pulse of the respective country, and you could almost get almost anywhere you wanted within reason by buying a ticket. Austin picked up a copy of the
European edition of the Wall Street Journal
and a fresh cup of coffee and took a seat where he could watch the action and easily spot Madeline when she arrived. A quick glance of the financial page showed that the value of his company’s stock was holding its value, which was good news in the current downtrend; it also showed that no one in the financial community was overly concerned that he had not been in the office for the past few weeks.

Within a few minutes, Madeline arrived. She had always presented a businesslike appearance, with tailored clothing and an office demeanor. Now she had transformed her appearance into a more relaxed and very feminine style. She was very pretty, and Austin was impressed. Her smile seemed bigger, and her eyes seemed more inviting.

“Good morning,” she said with enthusiasm. “I am so glad you could join me. We have to buy our tickets.” She opened her purse. Austin held up his hand and reached for his wallet with the other. He did not know how much money she made, but the cost of a couple of train tickets would be nothing to him. He handed her two one-hundred-euro notes, which she accepted with a smile. Now it appeared to each of them, secretly, that perhaps this was a date, although neither would admit it.

The train left the station with a remarkable smoothness and wove its way through the southern parts of Paris. Soon open fields and valleys full of sunflowers surrounded the train. Madeline sat across from him, a small table between them. She talked excitedly of the plans for the party in the village. Unseen to Austin was the excitement she had in bringing to her town someone that she was quickly falling in love with.

On the table she had a pad of paper, and with a pencil she was sketching the figure of a person. Within a few minutes she turned the pad around and presented the sketch to Austin. Austin was surprised and amazed to see an image of himself. He’d known she was an artist, but this was the first time that he had ever seen any of her work. The sketch was charming. Either she knew him well, or she had unbelievable perception. He studied the sketch like he had learned to study other forms of art. It was exceptional. He wanted to save it.

“I have to apologize for not knowing how good an artist you are,” said Austin. “You took just a few minutes and created a great drawing. I watched you the whole time, and you made it look so easy. I suspect that you would be happier if all you had to do was draw or paint. Maybe you should just quit and paint. I could be your Medici, your patron.”

Madeline played down the portrait’s importance and value, but it was important to Austin. As a concession, she removed the sketch from the pad and put it between the pages of a magazine for protection.

“Oh, speaking of drawings, have you seen these?” said Madeline. She reached into her oversized purse and pulled out several copies of full-color drawings.

Austin took the drawings and immediately recognized several versions of Pierre, the Museum Mouse.

“These look great,” he said, looking at several different portrayals of the adventurous and informative little creature. “Where did they come from?”

“We have an art department, and we also worked with an outside agency. Vassar wanted the project pushed forward, and next week they will pick the final version. Which one do you like the best?”

“Number three is great. The first one looks more like a rat than a mouse, but number three is great. Who sketched up this one?”

“I did, with a little help from the art department,” said Madeline, who was pleased that Austin had picked her friendly little mouse.

Austin sat and carried on a conversation with his mouth while his mind was again appraising the woman in front of him. She was so easy to look at, so talented. But more importantly, in his mind she was becoming more than a friend.

Within ninety minutes of leaving Paris, they arrived at Madeline’s little village, Saint-Abban. As the train pulled to a stop, Madeline peered out the window, looking for signs of her sister. Quickly a smile appeared on her face.

“She’s here,” Madeline said with excitement. As she exited the train, Austin was right behind her. He was in unknown territory and did not want to lose his guide. Madeline and her sister Paulette shared a hug, and then Madeline quickly turned to introduce Austin. Austin offered his hand, and Paulette took it. For a split second he felt that he was being inspected from top to bottom. Paulette spoke very little English, and the introduction was a little awkward, but Austin got the impression that he had passed inspection. Behind Paulette, Madeline beamed with pride and excitement. In broken English, Paulette directed Austin into the back seat of her car, and they were off on a short drive to the little village, situated on the side of a hill and on the shore of the river. Paulette talked nonstop with her sister in French, and Austin gave up trying to follow any of the discussion.

Madeline turned around and said, “Austin, we are going to drop you off at the hotel and get you checked in, and then we will go up to Paulette’s house for lunch.”

Saint-Abban was a lovely little town with stone buildings along winding cobblestone streets. Four hundred years ago, farming and the vineyards were the local businesses. Life changed little for many years, but the Saint-Abban of today was much more commercially savvy, with small shops to attract tourist traffic and a wine business that had introduced modern technology and marketing via the Internet.

The tires rumbled on the cobblestones as Paulette navigated over a small stone bridge and through the streets at a speed faster than Austin liked. Paulette had driven these streets for years, but some of the streets were barely wide enough for one car, and often two-way traffic was the norm. After rounding a corner, the car came to a stop in front of the hotel. The little hotel had flower boxes under the front windows, and a bicycle was leaning against the front wall by the door. Austin had seen towns like Saint-Abban before and had stayed in similar hotels, but he never got tired of the simple and quiet atmosphere that was born of a cultured heritage. A cat stood guard as Austin and his host entered the hotel. Again French words were in the air, and Austin stood politely, awaiting direction or a verdict. Paulette took possession of the key attached to a large key bob and led the group up the steps to the first floor. Wooden floors and whitewashed walls defined the hallway that led to his room. Paulette opened the door to a lovely room with a large window that overlooked the vineyards and the river below. Austin placed his luggage in the corner and looked at what appeared to be an overstuffed bed. He pushed down on the mattress, and his arm disappeared into its depths.