Lost and Found (24 page)

Our coffee time, while we wait for our food, is our catch-up time. We cover the week's happenings and make small talk. If we need to go deeper, we do that over breakfast. If not, we share the
Chronicle
, passing sections across the table to one another.

Tess sets her coffee cup down, pulls her long auburn hair into a ponytail, and takes a thing out of her pocket and secures it around her hair. She always seems to have one of those ponytail things with her.

"What happened to Lightseeker's blog this week?" She picks her coffee cup back up and takes a sip.

I set my cup down and . . . fumble. "Uh . . . what do you mean?"

She eyes me. "What do you mean, what do I mean? You read her blog every single time she posts. You're telling me you didn't miss it this week?"

"Oh, that. Yeah . . . uh . . . I don't know. Makes you wonder, huh?"

"I hope she's okay."

I nod. "Yeah, me too." I pick up my coffee and take another sip. "Hey, can I ask you something?"

She nods.

"Why are you reading that thing? I mean, I know why I read it, but I'm just wondering what you're drawn to." I expect her to be defensive.

Instead, she smiles. "This is kind of deep for coffee talk."

"Need some protein to fortify you first?"

"No, I think I can handle it."

She looks at the table for a minute and then looks back to me.

"I think it's her honesty. She doesn't have it all together—doesn't have all the answers, you know? She's searching. Looking for illumination. It's like she's on a journey and she's letting the rest of us come along."

"So, how does that differ from when I try to talk to you about faith? I mean"—I lift my eyebrows and smile—"except for the obvious. I do have all the answers."

She wads up her napkin and throws it at me.

"Hey!" I catch it and pretend to take aim at her and she ducks. "Ha! Gotcha."

She laughs. "Actually, that is sort of the reason. I feel like you do have all the answers or, no offense, at least you think you do."

"Ouch, really?"

"Really."

I give this some thought and then concede. "Yeah, I can see that. Sorry." I've thought if I could reason with Tess, answer all her questions, appeal to that logical side of her, then maybe . . .

"That's okay. I know you're passionate." She laughs. "To say the least. And, I wasn't ready to hear it. I'm still not sure I'm ready. Somehow, I feel pressured when it comes from you."

I nod. And for once, I keep my mouth shut.

But dude, inside I'm hurting. For Tess. For myself. I want her to know His love. I want to share the things of God—the depth of His love—with her. I want that fellowship together.

We're quiet until our orders arrive a couple of minutes later.

"What do you have going on over there?" Tess looks at my plate.

"This, my dear, is the San Fran Scramble. Three eggs, Jack cheese, spinach, onions, and the kicker—hunks of grilled authentic San Francisco sourdough bread. Want a bite?" I stack my fork with a bite, but she shakes her head and holds up her hand. "What? You're missing out."

"Yeah, on about a thousand calories."

"It'll put a little meat on your bones."

"Great, just what I need."

She takes a bite of her dry toast and reaches for the
Chronicle
. "Want a section?"

"Nah, not yet. I'm going to focus on my calorie intake."

"Enjoy." She lifts the paper and is hidden behind it. Then she puts it back down. "Oh, I meant to tell you something."

"What . . ." I stop. Major fumble—talking with my mouth full.

"Nice save." She smiles. "Well, at first I wasn't going to say anything because I thought it was just gossip, but then I remembered something."

Gossip is one of the things Tess dislikes most about her industry. She says the cutthroat backstabbing is ridiculous. So I'm curious about what she's going to tell me.

"I decided that maybe it would be helpful to you. So, for what it's worth . . ." She folds the paper back up and sets it aside. "Several days after we attended the memorial service for Gerard Bouvier, a gal at work was talking about Gerard's mother, Brigitte Bouvier. The gal, Caroline, you've met her, right?"

"Caroline, the malnourished blonde?"

"Matthew . . ."

"Sorry, yep, I've met her."

"Anyway, she was a personal shopper for one of our competitors before coming to us and Brigitte Bouvier was one of her customers. Evidently, she placed an order for her and something she'd requested was backordered. It happens sometimes. Anyway, she said the woman was verbally abusive to her on several occasions—blamed her, belittled her—that kind of thing. Then, she finally called Caroline's manager and had her fired. She said she'd take her business elsewhere unless they fired her."

"Sounds like a major case of entitlement."

Tess picks up her coffee cup again. "Yeah. In fact, I remember the incident, because when Caroline applied with us, she'd told me the story and I called her former manager to verify it. Her manager told me that was exactly how it happened, and that Caroline was a wonderful employee, but that the customer in question was too well known in the city to ignore, as were her expenditures. I didn't hear the customer's name until last week."

I give Tess my deer-in-the-headlights stare.

"I know. You can't talk about it. But . . ." She's thoughtful again. "But Jenna's one of your clients and"—she shrugs—"I don't know, it's weird, but I just felt compelled to tell you."

I stash Tess's information away for later. "Thanks, babe. I appreciate it."

She returns to the
Chronicle
while I consider again the trust it takes between spouses when one of them works in a capacity that requires confidentiality. When I received the invitation to Gerard Bouvier's memorial service, it was addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Matthew MacGregor. I called Jenna and told her that I would come alone if that was more comfortable for her. She insisted that Tess was welcome to attend with me. The lines blur more easily with spiritual direction than they do in counseling. And I was happy to have Tess's company at the service. Besides, I needed her to dress me.

Tess understands the rules of confidentiality and she respects them.

And, I remind myself again, she trusts me.

LATER IN THE DAY,
I think through Tess's words about Brigitte Bouvier. Jenna hasn't spoken about her mother-in-law so, given what I know from her, I might not give much thought to the information Tess passed along. But what I know from Lightseeker's posts is something different altogether. She's inferred that she's involved in a relationship with a woman that is, at the least, controlling.

At the worst, abusive.

If Lightseeker and Jenna are one in the same, and I'm pretty sure they are, then man, I pray the relationship with her mother-in-law will come up in our conversations. Maybe that's why Tess felt compelled to tell me—maybe the Holy Spirit nudged her, so that I would pray.

And dude, I will pray.

God wants to teach you that there is a silence through which He operates.

JEANNE GUYON

WHEN I RETURN
to the house in the city, I'm followed by what feels like an oppressive fog. The thought of life with Brigitte weighs on me like an anvil—crushing my spirit. I slip into the house from the garage and make it all the way to the stairs before I'm noticed.

Hannah comes around the corner. "You're back."

"Yes."

"I'll notify Madame."

"That won't be necessary, Hannah." I head up the stairs assuming she'll notify Brigitte anyway. I enter our suite, my suite, and cross the room. I stop at the vanity, too tired to take another step. I sit on the stool in front of the vanity and rest my forehead on my crossed arms.

I felt fine in the valley. Well even. The antibiotic pump was removed the day before Gerard died. Time, I realize, will now be marked by his death. And though the emotional trauma of his death drained me, I knew my body had responded to the antibiotics. The low-grade fever subsided and the nausea and lethargy were gone.

But now, here, I'm spent.

I lift my head and stare at nothing. My heart feels like a rock and each breath a chore. But there's something more. Something's different. Is it just that Gerard is gone? I look around the room and notice the . . .

Silence.

All is still.

Like death itself.

I shiver. Then I look at the vanity and notice the hand mirror. I let my mind wander back. Gerard had brought me home from the hospital after the second surgery—the surgery to clean out the infection in my jawbone—the surgery that left me with the angry scar across my chin and jawline.

I walked into the house with my head hung low and my hair hanging forward, covering part of my face. I looked at no one. I was still weak, still sick. I made my way to the elevator and up to our suite without encountering Brigitte, for which I was grateful. But when I entered our bedroom, she was there, waiting for me.

"Ma chérie, you're home."

Startled, I looked up. I watched her expression change, saw the disgust written across her features. She chose me for my beauty. To produce perfect Bouvier heirs, or something. I never understood her reasoning. Yet, my beauty wasn't enough. And as I stood there, watching her, I knew even that was lost.

Had she forgotten the surgery was her suggestion?

"What have you done to yourself?" Her words were measured and weighted. "You're ruined."

Her words, machete-like, shredded me.

"You're worthless."

Fighting tears, I made my way past her, made my way to the vanity, where I reached for the stool. I didn't have the strength to take another step. I dropped onto the stool and felt her eyes still on me.

She swung the machete a final time. "How could you be so stupid?" She turned and left.

The word
stupid
echoed in the empty room just as it would echo in my soul for months and months afterward.

I picked up the hand mirror sitting on the vanity and lifted it to my face. The jagged red scar accused.
How could you be so stupid? How could you be so stupid? How could you . . .

I stood, the mirror still in my hand. I walked toward the door that Brigitte had closed behind her, anger roiling inside me. I lifted the mirror and I hurled it at the door. At Brigitte, who was, of course, long gone.

The mirror crashed against the door and dropped to the floor. But in my weakened state, there wasn't much power in my throw and the only damage were the cracks in the mirror itself. I picked the mirror up, walked back, and dropped it in the wastebasket next to the vanity. I knew one of the maids would empty the trash the next morning.

But then, a few days later, the mirror reappeared.

I found it sitting, face-up, on the vanity, the cracked glass incriminating me. So, I threw it away again. But this time, I took the elevator downstairs, walked through the kitchen, and dumped the mirror in the outdoor garbage can.

That would be that.

But no.

That evening, as I lay in bed resting, Brigitte walked into the room. She didn't knock. She walked past me to the vanity, something in her hand. When she reached the vanity, she turned toward me and held up the mirror.

"I believe this belongs to you." She set it on the vanity. "You must keep it, chérie, as a reminder of what you've done to yourself. See that it stays here."

Now, sitting at the vanity, I pick up the hand mirror, walk into the bathroom, and close the door. I lift the mirror in my hand above the granite countertop and I bring it down hard against the edge of the granite. I hear the mirror splinter in hundreds of satisfying pieces. I lift the mirror again and smash it down. Again and again, I pound the mirror on the granite. Until both the mirror and the outside casing are destroyed.

Breathless, I lean against the counter. Then I use a damp cloth to wipe up the shards of glass and metal from the countertop and the floor, being careful not to cut myself, and put them into a trash bag along with the now-broken handle of the mirror. I take the trash bag and stuff it in a drawer to dispose of later.

The oppression lifts just a bit.

I go in search of Brigitte. I let the anger of the memory invoked propel me. I find her in her sitting room, dozing on her sofa, a stack of papers on her lap. "Brigitte?"

She startles and looks at me dazed. "Oh . . ."

"I'm back. We need to talk through a few things."

She sits up straighter, shuffles the papers on her lap, and then stands. "Such as?"

I've caught her off guard and can see the anger now flashing in her eyes. Her lips are pursed tight as she waits for my response.

I take a deep breath. "Such as what to do with Gerard's things—his clothes, and"—I wave my hand in the air—"other things. We also need to talk about his trust. And . . . the future." I feel myself cowering under her stare.

"Yes, we will talk. But for now, leave Gerard's things alone. I have, as I'm sure you can imagine, many things to take care of with the business since Gerard . . ." She sniffs. "Then, we will discuss the future. In the meantime, I don't expect that anything should change, n'est-ce pas? We'll go along as we always have." She walks past me to her desk and lays the file folder down. Then she turns back. "Was that all?"