My Gal Sunday (21 page)

That night he could not eat dinner. He really tried, but the food wouldn’t go down his throat. Later they went back into the room with the Christmas tree, and all he could think about was the train set he and Richard were going to put together in the new house in Darien.

Sunday knew what Henry was thinking. They weren’t really helping the little boy. He was grieving, a silent, persistent grief that all the toys in the world wouldn’t help. Maybe he did belong in a hospital where he could get professional help.

She experienced the same helpless feeling she had had when she waited with Henry and her father during her mother’s operation.

“What are you thinking, love?” Henry asked quietly.

“Just that we’d better let the professionals take over tomorrow. You were right. We’re not doing him any favors keeping him here.”

“I agree.”

“It doesn’t feel much like Christmas Eve,” Sunday said sadly. “A lost child . . . I can’t believe someone isn’t looking for him. Can you imagine how we’d feel if
our
little boy were missing?”

Henry started to answer, then tilted his head. “Listen. The Christmas carolers are coming.”

He crossed to the window and opened it. As the crisp air blew into the room, the carolers drew nearer to the house. They were singing “God Rest You, Merry Gentlemen.”

Let nothing you dismay,
Sunday thought. Softly she hummed with them as they switched to the familiar poignant words of “Silent Night.”

She and Henry applauded, as the group launched into “Deck the Halls with Boughs of Holly.”

Then the leader of the carolers approached the window and said, “ Mr. President, we learned a special song for you because we read once that it was a favorite of yours at school. If we may . . .”

He blew on the pitch pipe and the group softly began to sing,

“Un flambeau, Jeannette Isabelle,

Un flambeau, courrons au berceau.

C’est Jésus, bonnes gens du hameau

Le Christ est né. . . .”

From behind her, Sunday heard a sound. Jacques had remained hunched on the chair opposite the couch, where they had been sitting when the carolers had appeared. As she watched, he bolted uptight. His half-closed eyes opened wide. His lips moved in synch with the singers’.

“Henry,” she said quietly, “look. Do you see what I see?”

Henry turned. “What do you mean, darling?”

“Look!”

Without seeming to study Jacques, Henry stared at him intently. “ He
knows
that song.” He went over and scooped the little boy up in his arms.

“Again, please,” he requested when the carolers stopped. But when they sang the song again, Jacques sealed his lips.

When the carolers had left, Henry turned to the little boy and began speaking French.
“Comment t’appelles-tu? Où habites-tu?”

But Jacques only closed his eyes.

Henry looked at Sunday and shrugged. “I don’t know what else to do. He won’t answer me, but I think he understands what I’m asking.”

Sunday looked thoughtfully at Jacques. “Henry, you must have noticed how fascinated our little friend was when a plane flew overhead this afternoon.”

“You pointed it out to me.”

“And the same thing happened last night. Henry, suppose this child just got here from another country. No wonder he hasn’t been reported missing. Sims brought back one of the flyers with his picture and description, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Henry. You were going to put a Christmas greeting on the Internet, weren’t you?”

“My annual message. Yes. At midnight.”

“Henry, do me a favor.” Sunday pointed to Jacques. “This year put the flyer with his picture and description on as well, and especially ask people in France and other French-speaking countries to take particular note of his picture. And from now on, talk to me in French. I may not get much of it, but maybe we’ll make a breakthrough.”

It was quarter of six in the morning in Paris when Louis de Coyes, his coffee in hand, went into his study and turned on the computer. Christmas morning alone was an unhappy prospect. At least later he would join friends for Christmas dinner. The house was lonely without Jacques and Giselle, but Louis was well satisfied with his daughter’s choice of a husband. Richard Dalton was the kind of man any father would like to see his daughter marry.

And they would visit a great deal, he was confident of that. They had promised that the lessons he had begun to give Jacques on the Internet would be continued. Someday before too long, he and his grandson would be able to communicate regularly by E-mail. In the meantime, it was now almost midnight on the east coast of the United States, and he wanted to read the Christmas message that Henry Parker Britland IV was about to send to his well-wishers. Louis had once met the former President at a reception at the American embassy in Paris and had been impressed by his ready wit and genuine warmth.

Five minutes later, an incredulous Louis de Coyes was staring at the picture of his grandson, whom the former president had described as a missing child.

Six minutes later, Richard Dalton, while preparing to form some excuse for Giselle not coming to the phone to speak to her father, was shouting, “Oh my God, Louis, oh my God.”

At 2:00
A.M.
the bell rang. Henry and Sunday were waiting for Jacques’s parents. “He’s asleep upstairs.”

Jacques was having a dream, but this time, it was a very good dream.
Maman
was kissing him and whispering,
“Mon petit, mon Jacques, mon Jacques, je t’aime, je t’aime. “

Jacques felt himself being lifted up, blankets tucked around him. Richard was holding him tight, was saying, “Little boy, we’re going home.”

In the dream, Jacques slept in
Maman
’s arms in a car for a long time.

When he awoke, he opened his eyes slowly, the sad feeling creeping over him. But he was not on a couch in the big house. He was in his own bed. How did he get here? Was the dream not a dream after all? Had
Maman
and Richard come for him because they loved him?

“
Maman!
Richard!” Jacques called eagerly as he hopped out of bed and ran into the hallway.

“Down here, Jacques,”
Maman
called. And then he heard another sound floating up from downstairs. The chug-chugging of his trains, and the whistle blowing for the gates to lower. Jacques’s eager feet barely touched the stairs as he rushed down them.

“Not much sleep last night,” Henry observed as he and Sunday drove home from church.

“Nope, not much,” Sunday agreed happily. “Henry, I’m going to miss that little guy.”

“So am I. But before too long I expect we’ll have one —– or two —– of our own.”

“I hope so. But isn’t it incredible how fragile life is? I mean that call about my mother last month?”

“She’s doing fine.”

“Yes, but we could have lost her. And little Jacques. Suppose that woman who took him hadn’t had the accident right here in town. God only knows if she wouldn’t have panicked and maybe hurt him. I hope they catch her soon. We do all hang by a thread.”

“Yes, we do,” Henry agreed quietly. “And for some of us, that thread is going to be cut very soon. Don’t worry, the police won’t have a problem finding that woman and her accomplice. Both were apparently clumsy about covering their trails.”

They drove through the open gates of Drumdoe and down the long road to the house. Henry parked the car in front of the steps. Sims had obviously been watching for them, because the door opened as they crossed the porch.

“Little Jacques is on the phone, sir. His mother tells me he has been playing all morning with his trains. He wishes to thank you for your goodness to him.” Sims beamed. “He wishes to offer you a
joyeux Noël.
”

As Henry hurried to the phone, Sunday grinned at Sims. “Your French accent is almost as lousy as mine,” she said.