Tangled Ashes (9 page)

T
HE CASTLE NOW
sported a satellite dish. It looked as out of place on the historic structure as a Santa costume in an Easter egg hunt, but it was the best and fastest way of connecting the château to the Internet. Two men had spent the better part of the morning finding their way onto the roof and installing the dish, then had to borrow a ladder from the fire department to run a cable along a drainpipe down the outer wall. It seemed they weren’t accustomed to working on such imposing structures. They had finally drilled a small hole through the window frame of Beck’s improvised office and attached the cable to a receiver and a wireless router.

Thérèse had supervised the installation with all the aplomb of a cawing magpie seeing its nest being defaced. It would have been humorous had it not been so distracting. She stood outside Beck’s window and yammered, yelped, and shrilled until his pencil stood still, poised above the page, incapable of drawing. It was when he
heard the sound of falling stone and went to the window to see part of the cornice lying in pieces on the ground that the tenuous hold he had on his patience snapped. “Thérèse!” he yelled, flinging the window open and pointing angrily at the vestiges of the cornice. “Tell your men to prop their ladder on something other than the cornice! Look at that!” He pointed again at the fragments of hand-carved limestone on the grass. “That’s carved stone, Thérèse. It can’t be replaced!”

Thérèse gave him an apologetic look and pointed up the ladder. “I’m afraid it’s finished now,” she said. “The workmen are just coming down. I’m so sorry, Mr. Becker. I’ve been trying to tell them . . .”

If he had been in Gary’s office, he would have found something heavy to throw, but there was nothing here but antique furniture. With growing frustration, Beck stormed out of the office and into the kitchen. He had one very precise and very pressing goal in mind, one that had been nagging at his subconscious since his arrival at the château. “Where’s the nearest bar?” he barked.

Jade looked up from the flash cards she was using to teach the twins the alphabet and raised an eyebrow. “At eleven in the morning?”

“Thérèse has been supervising the satellite installation. . . .” He let his voice trail off, figuring that information would be enough.

“Right. So it’s an emergency.”

“Correct.” He tried to control his voice, but his request still came out sounding like an order. “Where’s the nearest bar?” he repeated, his voice gruff and demanding.

“Mr. Becker,” Jade said, placing her flash cards carefully on the table. He could tell she was trying to stay civil. “Do you think it’s entirely appropriate for a man to speak of medicating his stress with alcohol—in front of young children—at . . .” She looked at the clock. “At eleven twenty-two in the morning?”

Beck felt familiar fury rising. “Miss . . .” He’d forgotten her
last name, which slightly took the wind out of his sails. “Jade,” he amended, cocking his head to glare at her, “do you think it’s entirely appropriate for a woman to be lecturing a grown man about his choices in front of young children at a time in his life when he doesn’t give a flying leap about her opinion?” He realized as he finished that his voice had gotten louder as he’d spit out his diatribe. Too loud. Eva had grabbed Philippe’s arm and sunk down next to him. Philippe’s eyes were glued to Jade, true fear in their depths.

Jade rose from the table and stepped forward until she stood so close to Beck that he could feel the reproach in her gaze. “Don’t ever raise your voice in front of the children again,” she said with deadly calm, her voice a little rough from restraint. “Not for alcohol, not to vent your frustration, and certainly not to insult me.” She moved back to the table and placed her hand on Philippe’s shoulder. He looked like he wanted to launch himself into her arms. “Find your own booze, Mr. Becker,” she said. And with those words, she took the children by their hands and led them outside, pausing by the door to take their jackets from metal hooks on the wall.

Becker was still standing in the kitchen minutes later. He’d heard Jade murmuring to the children just outside, had then seen them running into the park, probably on a quest for another giant snail. He’d heard the satellite van start up in the parking lot beside the kitchen and drive off. He’d stood there oblivious to everything but the burn of humiliation. He wouldn’t call it shame. Shame reeked of conviction. But humiliation—that was accurate.

The stupor finally seeped out of his mind, and he turned with purpose to exit the kitchen. Far from dulling his ache for alcohol, his embarrassment had fueled the fire. He took the stairs two at a time on the way to his apartment, grabbed his jacket off the bed, and left the castle in search of release. If it came in the form of a deep-amber liquid, all the better.

Lamorlaye was a small town. Its nine thousand inhabitants lived
in close-set neighborhoods of old middle-class charm. Its main street was lined with small shops and restaurants, benches, artsy streetlights, and cobblestone sidewalks. Some people greeted him as he walked, and others didn’t seem to notice him at all. Fine by him.

He chased down a deliveryman who was about to get into his truck. “Hey! Hey—is there a bar anywhere around here?” The question sounded desperate even to his own ears. He wanted to take it back. He wanted to take the past fifteen minutes back. But if there was anything he’d learned in two years of relentless nightmares, it was that there was no rewinding allowed, no undoing possible.

The man shrugged. “If you’re not too picky, there’s always Marcel’s.” He pointed with his chin toward a Heineken sign on the corner. “He’s open all day.”

He drove off leaving Beck still standing there. Still craving. Beck knew there was only one cure—for the craving
and
the regret. He crossed the street with heavy strides and, shaking his head, entered Marcel’s.

Men were hard at work on every floor of the château. The plumbing had nearly all been repaired, which had involved removing much of the cast-iron piping that hadn’t already been replaced in the 1960s renovation. After a hundred years, the cast iron had virtually crystallized, and the oakum and lead used to seal the joints had deteriorated too badly to repair. It seemed almost obscene to install PVC pipes in their place, but the budget would be better spent on more visible expenses.

On the top floor, a crew of carpenters was hard at work taking down flimsy walls and replacing them with solid ones, often combining spaces into larger living areas. In as few cases as possible, supporting walls were replaced with new beams that required
more modern foundations. It was hard work, particularly in those cramped, low-ceilinged quarters.

The electrical work was progressing rapidly. Beck was still waiting for it to be finished before he could begin the artistic part of the renovation. The old setup had been less than sightly—wires tucked into corners and strung along ceilings, stapled to window frames and pushed through gaping holes in walls. Most of them needed to be replaced or concealed. The process was painstaking, but the results would be worth the wait.

With the clock ticking and several artisans ready to jump in at a moment’s notice, Beck rode the electricians hard, often just standing by while they worked, exerting pressure with his presence. Thérèse kept them supplied with whatever they needed during her hours at the castle. As she was splitting her time there with a handful of other projects, she was an unpredictable collaborator. But as frustrating as she could be, Beck was quickly realizing how valuable her connections were. Whatever was needed, she knew someone who could provide it. There were no yellow pages as thorough as Thérèse’s mind.

Meanwhile, Beck continued to fine-tune his drawings, making his choices according to the supplies he could find and the budget he’d been given. Fallon was due back from England at the end of the week, and Beck wanted to have a comprehensive plan in place by then.

Jade still brought the children to the château every morning. She brought breakfast to his office at 7:30 sharp and had his lunch waiting there whenever his midday break came. He wasn’t sure how she knew exactly when to bring it, but regardless of his schedule, it was always there—hot and fresh. Now that the office was equipped with Internet, he was spending more time there than in his bedroom.

The evening meals had become simpler after the first few days. They were often just bread, cold cuts, and a salad. Jade left those in
the kitchen for him and took the children home around four each afternoon. He filled the quiet time by playing music on his laptop and made believe that he was perfectly content. He was good at that. He’d been at it for a while.

Marcel’s was his refuge of choice in the after hours, when he needed to step away from work. Although he’d promised Gary and Trish that he’d use this trip to lay off the alcohol, there were times when it was simply his only link to sanity. He hadn’t gotten drunk—though he’d gotten close a couple times. That much of his promise to Gary he’d been able to keep. And he’d cut down a little. A lot. He wasn’t sure. Once he started drinking, he stopped counting glasses.

Because Marcel’s was a bit of a dive, there were fewer women there than in the sports bars he’d frequented in Boston, which suited him just fine. Those who did show up found his
québécois
accent too cute for his own good. He tried to counteract it by speaking less or not at all. Worked for him. If one of the women got too cozy, he paid for his bottle and took it back to the castle. He didn’t really like company anyway. Or so he told himself. But on those days when he could hear the laughing and talking in the kitchen from his office, a small, intimate part of him longed for the courage to be there too.

He was sure he heard it that time. Beck turned off the desk lamp in the office and moved to the window, hugging the wall. There was no motion in the expansive clearing behind the castle. Not even the rabbits and foxes he’d grown accustomed to seeing in the middle of the night were out. On a hunch, he went through the door into the first dining hall and moved to the windows facing the front of the property. A dim light shone in the gatehouse, its flicker barely perceptible from this distance.

The sound came again. Like a chisel on stone. A few sharp strikes, then a pause. But it didn’t come from the front of the castle. Beck moved through the second dining room on his way to the entryway. He slid behind the stairs, where a bay of French doors held a view of the small patio and the park beyond. The sound. Closer this time. There was no mistaking it for animal noises, and the wind wasn’t strong enough on that night to blame it, either. Beck opened one of the windowed doors as quietly as possible. Warped by time and exposure, it groaned faintly as it swung inward. Beck strained his eyes and ears as he waited for an indication of the origin of the noise. Nothing.

He took a few steps out to the patio in his stocking feet. An owl hooted somewhere in the woods, and another answered from a different direction. Aside from that, the night was perfectly silent. Moving out to the edge of the small patio, Beck descended the four steps that led to the lawn. He thought he heard a rustle, but it was so muted that his ears didn’t register location. He stood there for a moment longer, the cold of the starless winter night seeping through his clothing, then, hearing nothing more, went back inside.