Tangled Ashes (20 page)

Sunday peered over the horizon with timid rays that shone faintly through the fine mist over the racetrack. It was the cold that finally drew Beck out of his inertia. He looked up from the forest floor on which he lay, his body chilled and sore, and stared at the patches of brightening sky he could see through the branches. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been there. He wasn’t sure of what had caused his blackout. He wasn’t sure of anything, really. It was that thought that gave him pause and filled his mind with dread. If he were to do this thing—if he were to battle his need for the relief of alcohol—he’d have nothing left. No certainties. No escape plans. Nothing.

Beck was shivering when he finally turned over and pushed onto his hands and knees, the muscles in his calves and thighs protesting. There was a branch in his hand—he must have grasped it while he was out. He cast it aside and saw it reflect the faint light of the morning sun. This was no ordinary branch. It appeared smooth and pale, incongruous in the dark and sullen woods. Beck stumbled to his feet and approached the discarded object, his breath catching in his throat. He lifted it into a pale ray of sunlight piercing through the trees above him, stunned by what he saw. It was small and delicate and perfectly formed. A figurine of a rearing horse, intricately hand-carved out of cherrywood, exquisite. The mane flowed gracefully out behind its head. Its nostrils flared as its hind legs braced a nearly tangible weight. Its back arched, angry and unyielding. Beck knew enough about sculpture to recognize a work of art. This one had inexplicably been placed in his hand while he was blacked out, and the fascination it caused followed him into the next day.

There were no croissants waiting for him in the kitchen when he came down after a long, warm shower and a couple hours of sleep. A little surprised, he rummaged through the fridge and found enough to eat. He was in the entry hall, sanding the seam between the old and the new railing, when Fallon came bursting through the doors with the twins hot on his heels.

“Come on, lad. Put down that sandpaper!” he bellowed in his good-natured way. “It’s Sunday and we’re going on a picnic!”

Beck could tell that the kids were as excited about the picnic as they were uncertain about him. Their faces were all smiles, but their eyes were guarded.

“Come again?” Beck said.

“Jade’s taking a bit of a break, so your options are us—” he
motioned to the twins—“or starvation.” Beck eyed the threesome with suspicion. “Listen, Becker,” Fallon said, taking a step closer. “It’s a beautiful day. The birds are chirping. The flowers are blooming—or they will be any week now—and it would be a great injustice to leave you holed up in here working when the rest of us are out enjoying the first days of spring.” He raised an eyebrow, clearly expecting Beck to drop everything and go.

Beck stared at his employer long enough to ascertain that this wasn’t a joke. Then he glanced down at the children. They stood a pace behind their father, eyes on him. “A picnic?” Beck asked.

Eva had finally had enough of her standoffish routine and burst out with “We’re going to the Château de la Reine Blanche!”

The White Queen’s Castle, whatever it was, was clearly one of her favorite places. Beck hedged. “I have an awful lot of work to do before the deliveries tomorrow, and . . .”

“Put it down,” Fallon commanded, pointing at the sandpaper still in Beck’s hand. “This is an order, lad, and I’d hate to have to fire you for picnic insubordination.”

Becker couldn’t help but smile at that. “I’d sue you for everything you’ve got,” he threatened, winking at the kids.

“Splendid! You can start just as soon as we get back. Now come on, lad! Hop hop! Sylvia’s in the car, pregnant to the gills, and we’ve got to get this picnic in before she bursts.”

T
HOUGH BECKER HAD
generally had amiable relationships with his employers, he’d never been invited on a picnic by any of them. So it was with a bit of discomfort that he got into the backseat with the two children, who were still keeping a safe distance, and buckled himself into Fallon’s Mercedes for the short drive to the White Queen’s Castle.

Sylvia turned cumbersomely in the front seat, just far enough to smile her greeting. “It’s about time we tore you away from that castle, Mr. Becker. Don’t you think?”

“Don’t ask him that,” Fallon warned. “The boy has been tethered to that staircase for so long that I’m sure he feels incomplete without it! Consider this an intervention, Becker, my friend. We’re about to prove to you that there’s a whole world outside of banisters and parquet flooring!”

They arrived just a few minutes later and the children scampered out, yelling, “There it is! There it is!”

Beck got out of the car and prepared himself for his first glimpse of what he presumed would be a Versailles-esque vision of historical architecture, then stopped short. This was by far the smallest castle he’d ever seen, no larger than a middle-class house, though its four towers and sky-reaching lines were graceful and elegant.

Beck turned to his boss. “Was the White Queen poor or something?”

Fallon, who was helping his wife out of the front seat, chuckled. “Not big enough for your American tastes, is it?”

“What can I say? We like our cars long, our music loud, and our castles . . . Well, if we had any, we’d want them to be a little more castle-ish than this!”

“Actually, it was built to be a hunting lodge and the architect clearly got carried away,” Fallon said, joining Becker where he stood, “but I think it’s stunning—something straight out of a fairy tale—and neither Eva nor Philippe would contradict me on that.”

The children had run up the stairs to the front door of the castle and were trying the handle.

Mrs. Fallon smiled up at Becker. “Next thing you know, they’ll actually get in and we’ll all be arrested for trespassing!” She walked off toward the twins, a little more teetery than she’d been a week before. “Philippe! Eva! Get away from the door! I’m sure there’s a very good reason why they keep it locked!”

The castle’s prime feature was its location. It stood at the head of four picturesque man-made reflecting ponds, each rectangle nestled in the dense forest that flanked it on two sides. On that sunny Sunday, fishermen cast their lines into the dark water, their brightly colored lawn chairs out of place in the lush natural environment.

The children ran on ahead as the Fallons and Beck made their way down the path along the side of the ponds, Fallon carrying the
large basket they’d brought along and Becker the blanket and chairs. They found a spot under a lime-blossom tree and set up their camp while the kids raced each other around the nearest pond.

The conversation was a bit awkward at first, as Beck and the Fallons had never interacted outside of the other castle’s confines and the topics of their conversations had until then been about work. But as the children returned to eat and they all indulged in the sandwiches and salads Sylvia had prepared, things got decidedly lighter.

It was after lunch, when Fallon and the twins were off chatting with a fisherman, that Sylvia said, “So, Mr. Becker, why is it that you’re so uncomfortable around children?”

As discussion starters went, it was a bullet between the eyes. Becker choked a little on the mineral water he was drinking and contemplated her question. When he took too long to answer, she continued. “Not that it’s any of my business, of course, but it’s been my experience in life that a man who doesn’t like children is not to be trusted. And I want to trust you, Mr. Becker. It’s just that the children have been coming home with some tall tales about you that have aroused my curiosity.” She waved at Eva, and the little girl returned the gesture with all the excitement a six-year-old could muster. “Would you mind if I taught you something about children?” she asked.

Becker swallowed. “I’d actually be thrilled if you did most of the talking on this topic,” he answered with a kind of desperate sincerity.

“First, tell me this,” she said. “Why are you so . . . standoffish with them?”

Still at a loss for words and fighting the urge to get defensive or rude—the most expedient way out of uncomfortable conversations—Becker shook his head and raised his hands. “I just don’t have it in me,” he said.

Sylvia laughed. “I assure you it’s not a matter of having it or not.
Children are not much different from horses, you know. If they smell fear, they balk.”

Beck jumped to his own rescue. “I wouldn’t say I fear them,” he interjected.

“So what is it? You dislike them?”

“Not . . . entirely.”

“You distrust them.”

“Probably part of it. One minute they’re sky-high, and the next they’re pouting in the time-out chair.”

“So you see yourself in them. Is that what you’re saying?”

Beck hung his head and managed a half smile. “They don’t like me much.”

“Oh, being liked is the easy part. Pay attention to what they’re saying. Get down on their level and ask them questions. Get a little silly when you can, and establish firm boundaries. I’m sure you’ve noted that though they hate the time-out chair, they’re really quite fond of the woman who puts them in it most often! The two are not exclusive.”

Becker considered her words and nodded, lips pursed. “And if I do that, children will suddenly love me?”

“Maybe not. But they won’t be as hesitant to come near you. Predictability also goes a long way with the twins—and with adults, too, if truth be told. Once you master that and actually communicate with them, you might find that your distrust turns to a sort of . . . reluctant fondness.”

“Reluctant fondness.”

“With room for improvement. But that’s already a big step up from mutual suspicion!”

Sylvia leaned her head back in her chair and observed her husband and children as they watched three swans floating on the placid surface of the nearest reflecting pond. “They’re really not very complicated creatures,” she said. “They need to feel known,
they need to feel loved, and they need to feel safe. Look at Philippe out there. He’s the toughest little boy I’ve ever known—and I used to teach kindergarten, so I’ve met a few! He acts like there’s no fortress he wouldn’t be ready to storm and like there’s nothing anybody can say that could possibly pierce his invisible armor.” She looked at Beck. “Right?”

He hadn’t actually spent much time analyzing the boy, nor had he been tempted to, but he figured a mother is always right when it comes to her children. “Sure,” he said.

If Sylvia noticed the evasiveness of his answer, she didn’t mention it. “Well, for all his bravado, that child is as fragile as his sister. Probably more so because he fears it so much. You see, Mr. Becker, when he feels backed into a corner or unsafe, he does what all men tend to do.”

Beck didn’t like where this was going, but he knew a shift in topics was not in the stars for him. “Okay.”

“He fakes it. He puffs out his little chest and waves about with his little arms and raises his little voice and makes believe he’s so tough.” She smiled a little sheepishly and took a bite of Brie.

“Talking about me again?” Beck said, his eyes narrowed with suspicion, but strangely unthreatened by the obvious parallel she was drawing.

“You? No, I assure you I’m speaking of Philippe.” She glanced over at her son. His father had just lifted him to hang from a tree branch, and he was dangling there doing his best to mimic Tarzan’s cry. He came across sounding like a pubescent hyena instead. “I’m concerned about what he said to you—that day in your office when he brought you the knife.”

“The saber,” Beck corrected.

“The saber. Indeed.” She leaned sideways in her chair, a move that visibly cost her much effort. “Eva told me what he said to you, Mr. Becker. And I want you to know that it was fear that made him
lash out. Not genuine dislike.” A lengthy silence settled between them. They kept their eyes on the twins’ escapades and let it stretch. When Fallon finally herded the children back toward their picnic spot, Sylvia said, “I guess that was my attempt at apologizing for my son’s behavior. And begging your indulgence—as yours sometimes isn’t much better.” She cocked an eyebrow. “Right?”

Beck hung his head a little. “You could probably say that. Actually, Jade would certainly say that.”

“Which brings me to the second reason I brought up this topic.”

Becker threw up his hands. “Great! Kick me while I’m down!”

“Jade.” Sylvia said the name with so much affection that it gave him pause.

“What about her?”

“She’s going to be . . . taking a couple of days off. Probably Monday and Tuesday. We’ll make sure your meals are provided, of course, but . . .”

“This is about meals?”

“No, Mr. Becker,” she said, her gaze soft and compassionate. “She’s a dear girl. A much-loved extension of our family, really. And . . . well . . . I don’t know what your thoughts are about her, but I beg you, Mr. Becker, to keep that blasted temper in check when you’re with her.”

Though he felt his privacy was being invaded, there was something about Sylvia that made it impossible for him to resent her. “I know I’ve hurt her,” he said, surprising himself again with the genuineness of his answer. “And I know I need to be—kinder,” he added.

“That would be a lovely start,” Sylvia said. “And one more thing,” she added, as the children rounded the last corner of the pond and made their way back to their mother. “We never, at any age, outgrow the rules that apply to children. We need to feel known, we need to feel loved, and we need to feel safe. That’s true for Philippe. It’s true for Jade. And, Mr. Becker, like it or not, it’s true for you.”

In retrospect, the picnic had been the lull before the storm. With daylight on Monday morning came several items of bad news. The first came from Thérèse. She’d arrived early that day with photos of the antiques she’d purchased to furnish the castle. With the deadline becoming a greater concern, she needed to have the interior decorating planned and ready to go the moment the rooms became available. She found Beck working on the grand staircase.

“I’m afraid I have some news,” she began, looking like she was braced to sprint away if Becker unleashed anything unpleasant on her.

Beck looked up, eyebrow raised. “Well? Spit it out.”

“I received a phone call from Christophe last night. It appears . . .” She took a breath and blurted, “He and his men have decided not to work here anymore.”

This got Beck’s attention. “Come again?”

“After the—how shall I put this—after the unpleasantness the other day, I think he opted to focus his energies on some other projects in the area.”

Propping his fists on his hips, Beck gave Thérèse an evaluating stare. “You mean he walked off the job.”

Much as she clearly wanted to deny the statement, it was obvious that there was no way around it. “Yes,” Thérèse said, her pointed chin bobbing up and down. “It’s really quite unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate?” Beck heard the volume of his voice rising and reeled himself back in. “This means that Jacques and his crew of incompetents are going to have to fix Christophe’s mess!”

“I realize that.”

Beck rubbed his scalp and gave the situation some consideration. With the dwindling time remaining, there was no way they could find another crew. He looked at Thérèse. “Anything else?”

“Just—one more small item.”

“What is it?”

“It’s Jade, Mr. Becker. Monsieur Fallon wanted me to remind you that she won’t be coming into work today but that Madame Fallon will be dropping off your meals.”

Beck was about to thank Thérèse for the information and let her go when he realized that she might be the informant he was hoping for. “Thérèse,” he said, coming down a few steps to the entryway where she stood, “do you have any idea what’s wrong with Jade?”

She looked flustered. “No, of course not. I’m sure it’s a private matter, and I wouldn’t want to pry.”

“But you’ve noticed it, right? How pale she is? How she seems tired? And her eyes—they’re . . .”