Blue with Black Dots (The Caprice Trilogy Book 2) (35 page)

              Simone seemed to lose interest in talking about herself, which disappointed Georgia.  There were holes in her story, not everything connected.  Georgia had the feeling it was another test.  She was intrigued by the story, but she thought that was the point.  The story was to make her drop her guard.  It was a test of her youth and her training.  A young woman would have been impressed at Simone’s perseverance.  But Georgia was trained to spot bad math, the points that didn’t add up.  Georgia had been given a name, Simone Gagnon.  And even Simone admitted the name was just for show, a fake.  Even her hospitality seemed artificial.  She had given Georgia a tour of the vineyard but no wine to try.  And there was no tour of the house.  Georgia felt neither like a prisoner nor a guest.  Simone hadn’t even offered her a glass of water.  Georgia was painfully dehydrated.  A woman in Simone’s position had to know that.  There was the trip from Paris to wherever they were now and the time spent shackled to the chair, then there was the walk in the vineyard.  It was hot.  Georgia could have used a drink—water or wine, just something to wet her mouth.  But she didn’t know if she should ask.  Simone seemed more interested in talking about herself than learning about Georgia.  But that was the point Simone was making.  She already knew about Georgia, every single thing.  Georgia knew nothing about Simone.  Only what she was told.  Then Georgia understood the hospitality she was being shown, Simone was leveling the playing field.  She knew about Georgia; Georgia knew nothing about her.  Simone was fixing the match, tying the score—telling about herself.

              “Since you’re being such a hostess, would a glass of water be too much trouble?” said Georgia.  Simone stopped for two steps looked at Georgia, then motioned toward the Chateau.  They were about fifty meters from the French door that let them out onto the back patio facing the long vineyard.  A few steps forward and Simone began to meander closer to Georgia.  The meter or so distance of personal space became a half-meter.  The half-meter didn’t hold for long.  Simone’s left shoulder brushed against Georgia’s right shoulder and she wrapped her left arm around Georgia’s right arm.  It was a grandmother’s gesture, leaning on her young granddaughter to relieve the weight of age.  But there was a problem.  Simone wasn’t so old.  And the two women weren’t related. 

Georgia felt the side of Simone’s arm halt against her rib cage.  She was playing with Georgia, tying her down with a psychological anchor.  Georgia knew what Simone was doing.  She was trying to evoke early memories back when Georgia felt safe—stirred images of a mother figure.  If Georgia had been orphaned or raised by her father, the gesture would have a muted effect.  But Georgia was close to her mother as a child and as a young adult.  It was a game but Georgia was comfortable with it.  She guessed Simone knew all about her childhood and knew she’d be comfortable playing mother-daughter.  As they walked with interlocked arms, Georgia felt a creeping feeling in the back of her neck.  It didn’t take her long to realize it was respect.  Georgia had found pieces missing in Simone’s story but the lack of details didn’t mean Simone was lying.  In fact, Georgia was quite sure the story Simone told was one hundred percent true.  Her name was fake but that was the reason for a codename—only the story had to be true, the intelligence.  It didn’t matter who the players were unless someone’s true name was worth mentioning.  The intelligence document she located while in London had a life of its own.  It didn’t matter who gathered it.  Georgia didn’t work for the FBI or the ATF.  She worked for the CIA.  Anonymous was the only name she needed.  The same went for any other player.  The feeling in her neck made her feel like Simone wasn’t any other player.  Simone was the player—the one you learned from.  Georgia walked with Simone as her daughter; they were related through the game. 

              They walked toward the closed French doors.  Simone loosened her grip on Georgia’s arm and reached to open the right door then the left.  Refusing to let go of Georgia’s arm, Simone opened both doors so they could pass through together, arm-in-arm.  Simone didn’t pause to close the doors she continued leading Georgia through the house.  The two chairs were replaced in the living room.  For the first time, Georgia noticed the two chairs formed a matching set.  The only difference was Georgia was chained to hers.  Having been chained to the chair, made Georgia more appreciative of Simone’s hospitality.  She thought that was somehow the point of it all.

              “You did want water didn’t you?” said Simone.

              “Anything wet,” said Georgia, “I’ve gone beyond the point of being picky.”

              “You do know this is France,” said Simone.

              “It’s true,” said Georgia.

              “In France, we don’t serve our guests water,” said Simone, “We serve our guests wine.”  Simone led Georgia through wide den and through an open door.  The floor in the den was composed of thin wood panels.  There had been a recent renovation.  If the floor were as old as the chateau itself, it would have creaked more.  Even though Georgia was beginning to enjoy her stay, she knew her duty.  She tried to collect as much information as possible, including remembering every detail of Simone’s story.

              As they passed through the doorway, it was the smell that came into view first.  There was a long dining table fully set for two.  A place had been set at opposite ends of the oblong table.  The table itself was made of a wood that Georgia didn’t recognize immediately.  The wood was as dark as the three bottles of wine that sat in the middle of the table.  The wine had been recanted into reusable glass bottles with fastener caps.  Georgia guessed why. 

              “This is merlot from our own vineyard,” said Simone, “I wanted you to see the grapes before trying the wine.  It was Papa’s custom.”

              “It’s always a treat to enjoy private label,” said Georgia.  The comment didn’t escape.  Simone took it to heart and was impressed.  Georgia realized the wine was poured into empty bottles so she wouldn’t notice the label.  If she memorized the label, she could research the vineyard and the history of the chateau and Simone herself.  But the wine was served with no label.  It was a merlot grown somewhere in the Loire Valley.  Simone gave Georgia enough details to be genuine but not enough to do any damage to Simone herself.  Even the location was non-specific.  Simone admitted they were somewhere in the Loire Valley but that didn’t do much.  The official definition of the Loire Valley was open to some historical debate, but the Loire Valley occupied more than 250 kilometers of central France.  To be somewhere in the Loire Valley was to be somewhere in the Loire Valley.  The walk in the vineyard didn’t shine any light on the location.  The surrounding area was just hills, there were no street signs to speak of, just a pink gravel road leading around the property from the other side of the house.  Georgia began to think Simone had purposefully kept her dehydrated.  It kept her from running.  Running in the heat would have dehydrated her even more.  Georgia even thought about the name,
Chateau Constance
.  She knew it was difficult to legally change the name of an historic chateau in France.  In all likelihood, the original name of the chateau hadn’t changed. 
Chateau Constance
was what Simone liked to call it.  A lot of the tension that formed in Georgia’s shoulders from being shackled to the chair was starting to release.  She realized one thing that was literally life or death.  If Simone was hiding so much information, it was because she intended to keep Georgia alive, even if Georgia refused her proposal.

              “Sit where you like,” said Simone, “We’re being waited on by men. 
Fine wine and fine men to wait on you
.  There’s nothing more challenging not to enjoy.”  Seeing that there were only two places set for eating, Georgia assumed she would share Simone’s company alone. 

              “Guillame,” said Simone, “Le vin.” 
The wine.
  Another one of Simone’s stocky retainers emerged from the kitchen.  He was empty-handed.  He came from behind Georgia and went straight for the bottles of merlot.  He opened the bottle on the left and headed for Georgia.  Guillame filled her glass halfway and left it to breathe.  He walked the distance of the long table and filled Simone’s glass.  Before Guillame finished his pour, Georgia felt a slow-moving current behind her.  She looked over her left shoulder to see Cedric and the third retainer carrying a silver platter, so big it took two large men and their patience to carry it.  On top of the platter was a goose.  The goose was nicely brown and clearly had been roasting for some time.  The goose was so large it meant to impress.  Georgia didn’t know how long she’d be staying.  But given the size of the goose, she knew what would be on the menu for days to come.  Guillame retreated to the kitchen and came back with a platter of sliced Brie. 
Pour Madamoiselle
was all he said as he waived the cheese in front of Georgia.  Georgia grabbed enough slices for the amount of wine in her glass.  Guillame took the platter and displayed it to Simone.  Simone took half the cheese that Georgia left.  Georgia took another look at her hostess, her stained skin reminded Georgia of Simone’s Iberian roots.  Georgia noticed Simone’s glass was more full than her own.  Their server had topped Simone off.  As Georgia stared at Simone sipping wine and sucking down cheese, she understood Simone’s indulgence.  She was taking back stolen years.  Georgia thought she understood what motivated Simone.  She was trying to reattach her birthright, acting like a blue-blooded French kid, what she used to be.  Guillame and the remaining retainer, whom he called Marc, carved the goose.  They were nothing if not polite.  They served Georgia first, asking her how much she wanted.  She asked for two slices.  Cedric, who was the runner, came back from the kitchen with a large crystal bowl of plum gravy with pieces of pear floating on top.  Cedric asked Georgia if she wanted her gravy on the side or on top of her goose.  She chose the side.  Simone wanted gravy on top. 
Bon appétit
.  And Simone began cutting and chewing at an uncomfortable pace—uncomfortable for Georgia.  Simone seemed at home.  She was.  Simone ate in a way that she wouldn’t have, if her father had lived—if she had stayed and France had always been home.  Nothing about the way she ate was proper.  It was uncouth but evolved.  She knew it and she didn’t care. 

She slurped her wine to get enough of a wave to wash down the large chunks of goose she was unabashed about putting in her mouth.  Georgia thought about the woman.  She lived in a beautiful house in a beautiful part of France.  She dined on roasted goose and drank merlot, independent label.  But she was a thug.  She had Georgia tied to a chair with medieval shackles.  She was already in control but had to shackle Georgia to drive home the point.  She had well-muscled men running around doing double duty as enforcers and servers. 
Chateau Constance
almost had the feel of a brothel, not a bed and breakfast.  Georgia didn’t know if it was supposed to make her feel a certain way but the only thing she felt was curiosity.  Her hostess was comfortable with herself, with her loss and her gain.  That was unusual.  Georgia couldn’t remember meeting someone so steady at equilibrium, especially given her life circumstance.  Most people Georgia had ever met had felt they lost too much and gained too little.  Simone sipped and chewed in large amounts but equal proportions.  No matter what she gained, compared to what she lost, she felt it was equal.  Judging by what she had lost, Georgia guessed Simone was a very powerful person.  It explained why she seemed so comfortable in her own skin.

              “Guillame,” said Simone, “Le vin.”  Guillame came from the kitchen and grabbed the open bottle of merlot.  He showed the bottle to Georgia who requested a little more wine.  He then went to Simone’s side of the table and emptied the bottle in her recently empty glass.  Simone told him to bring the platter of cheese to her.  The platter sat in the middle of the table with all the cheese that was left.  Guillame brought the platter to Simone who took most of what was left.  She ordered Guillame to carry the rest to Georgia then go to the kitchen to slice more Brie. 

              Simone put a piece of cheese on her tongue then drank a quarter of the wine in her glass with one gulp.  She smacked as she finished off the piece of cheese in her mouth.  She took another gulp of wine.

              “Do you know where you are?” asked Simone.

              “
Chateau Constance
, the Loire Valley,” said Georgia, “France.”  Simone laughed.  She laughed so hard that she had to stop herself by taking another gulp of wine.  As she finished swallowing the wine, she couldn’t help herself.  She started laughing again, harder the second time.  Perhaps out of respect for Georgia or to stop herself from laughing to death, she drank the rest of the wine in her glass.  Georgia hadn’t even started on her second round.  Simone seemed to detest an empty wine glass in her hand because as soon as she finished her wine…

              “Guillame,” said Simone, “Le vin.”  Guillame appeared from the kitchen and opened the second bottle or merlot.  As customary, he motioned toward Georgia first.  Georgia raised her glass to show him her glass was nearly full, then he turned to Simone and topped off her glass before setting the bottle back down and proceeding back to the kitchen.  Simone still chuckled as she sipped.  Georgia wasn’t sure whether the laugh was all Simone or whether she was assisted by the merlot.  Georgia was smarter than to interrupt Simone’s riot.  She left that for Simone to do on her own.