Karma (2 page)

Marcy
kept working at her normal rapid pace despite her bone-deep fatigue. For her,
hard work was no problem. Still, if she didn’t get a good night's sleep soon,
the whole world would probably be reading about her in the newspapers.

She
could see the headlines now, "
Ex-Wife Dismembers Husband's
Member."
The idea tickled her, but there was a lot of truth to it,
too. The mental picture of Marcy taking an axe to Trent was a recurring image
that couldn’t be banished.

Yet
the idea of lodging the axe in his head (the one on top of his shoulders) was
what drew her most.

Marcy
wouldn’t murder her ex, Trent Berger, on her own behalf; because she was glad
he was gone. It was what he was doing to their daughter that had her worrying
and lying awake at night.

Trent
left them the moment he had finished school, when their daughter, Katie, was
four years old. Now three years later, Katie was learning that any attention he
had given her in the past had been a lie. For her father didn't value her.

Why
couldn't Trent keep a promise to visit his daughter just once?

Selfish,
self-absorbed prick.

How
had she ever fallen for a man like him? But Marcy knew the answer. Trent was
handsome and charming, and she had been young and "in love" and incredibly
naive. What was love anyway? Marcy wondered. A chemical reaction? Hormones? A
form of madness that attacked the innocent?

One
of the dealers, a lanky older divorcé, trailed through the maze of casino rooms
giving her a smile and a wink. "You're doing a double, I see," Todd
said. "Do you need a lift home?"

Marcy
gave him a wan smile. Her crap car had broken down again. Todd's ride would
save cab fare, but she hated to encourage him. "Thank you," she said.
"I'd appreciate it, Todd."

Todd
made her laugh and occasionally gave her a lift, yet he was clearly hoping to
date her. Marcy lost even more of her rare and precious sleep worrying about
that. She hated confrontation and was concerned that Todd would be upset by her
rejection

Finally
getting up her nerve, Marcy took the time to explain to Todd that it wasn't
him
it was
her
. She just wasn't interested. Dating was totally out of the
question. It hadn't made a bit of difference. Todd continued pursuing her,
certain that he would someday break down her resistance.

The
last thing I want is a man in my life again,
she
mused
. Even if I had the time.

Despite
everything, Marcy was free now and no longer needed to be an emotional
babysitter for her ex-husband. She should have given her ex's new trophy wife a
medal for taking him on. Of course, with the woman's age Marcy figured that perhaps
Trent was getting some sort of karmic repercussion. Truthfully, his wife was almost
young enough to need a babysitter herself.

Marcy
frowned feeling snarky and uncharitable. It seemed like sour grapes, but in
truth it wasn't. Was she ashamed to have wasted the best years of her life on
him? You bet. But even with her financial problems, she was glad to have
escaped the selfish jerk.

Debra,
Trent's new wife, had been married to him for three years – probably just long
enough for a number of cracks to show in Trent's charming yet totally false
persona.

Would
Debra be starting to figure out that her husband didn't love her? That he was
using her? He was a clever manipulator, critical and nitpicky. He used guilt to
make others feel wrong or stupid. Had Trent started up his temper tantrums yet?
Yelling and threatening if he didn’t instantly get his way?

Marcy
was certain that Trent had no concept of love. Marcy felt sorry for his new
wife. The poor woman had no idea of what she had signed up for. Debra, no doubt
sweet and naïve, had married Trent when she was twenty-two years old.

I
was twenty-two when I married him, too
, Marcy
realized with a sigh.
But I'm older and wiser now.

If
only Trent would show their daughter, Katie, some attention.
That,
Marcy
did resent on Katie's behalf. Mainly because Katie continued to ask about him.
The poor kid felt abandoned by her father.

Young
as she was, Katie blamed herself whenever her stupid father let her down. Why
did women always think everything was their fault when a man screwed up? Was it
genetic? Cultural? Marcy had sailed on that guilt ridden boat of desperation
for far too long already. Now she was done with men. They were way too much
trouble.

Marcy
became aware, out of the corner of her eye that someone was sitting at her bar.
People didn't often come to this bar. Drinks were only free if a patron was actively
gambling.

"Oh,
I beg your pardon," she said to the unexpected customer. "I didn’t
see you there."

"You
were most busy," the man said, charitably excusing her neglect.

Marcy
tilted her head and smiled at him, enjoying his French accent. While not precisely
handsome, the gentleman had a pleasant face. There was an aura of humor about
him, in his manner and appearance. His eyes were dark and remarkably bright with
intelligence, his eyebrows thick and expressive. The fellow's clothes seemed
understated yet expensive, classy and elegant. What gambler spruced up to visit
a place like this?

After
working in the casino for six months, Marcy could recognize the difference
between a poser and the real thing.

This
man was the real thing.

He
wore a perfectly tailored top-of-the-line charcoal suit and vest, a subdued
tie, with a well-pressed, crisp white shirt. The faint drifting smell of
nutmeg, cedar and Brazilian Rosewood scents came to her nostrils. Marcy was
familiar with that cologne – it was a high-class product for the ultra rich.

Was
he a professional sportsman, she wondered? Because he was in excellent shape: flat
stomach, broad shoulders, dark hair, cut short around his neck and ears. Dark brown
eyes and clean shaven. There were numerous pock marks on his chin and cheeks,
yet they didn't detract from his healthy attractive appearance.

He
was younger than she was, or at least he looked younger - if that carefree,
mischievous grin was anything to go on. The man exuded charm. Marcy found
herself smiling at him, finding it odd that she liked him instantly.
Was he from France, or perhaps Quebec? The
desire to practice
her high school French was an impulse she decided not to suppress.

"Bonjour,
Monsieur, comment allez-vous?"
she said.

The
stranger's face lit with pleasure.
"Très
bien, parlez-vous français?"

She
smiled and gave him a half shrug. "I'm sorry, I don't speak French really.
I went to France as a high school graduation present. It was one of the most
wonderful experiences of my life. I just couldn’t resist saying something to
you in your own tongue."

"
Merci
beaucoup."
He shot her a pleased grin and nodded. "It is always
well to hear the language of one's childhood. I am Mr. Chevalier," he said
and held his hand out to her.

"Oh,
you can call me Marcy," she said. With well ingrained manners she offered
her hand. It was never a good idea to touch customers, and Marcy didn’t much like
touching anyway - yet she responded automatically to his open palm.

"Je
suis
enchanté,
"
Mr. Chevalier said and his teeth flashed white against his tan skin. He caught
her fingers in his and lifted them. With flirtatious male grace, he pressed his
lips to the back of her hand, his eyes focused on hers.

Marcy
felt her face heat, and her smile falter under his observant gaze. Was he hitting
on her? Or was this some French display of respect? How was she supposed to
respond? Pull her hand away? Leave it? Wait?

The
man's eyes glittered with
shrewd humor. Clearly aware
of her dilemma, and vastly amused by it, he released her.

Marcy
pulled her hand away. "What can I get you?" she asked, slipping into
her bartending patter as a safe fallback.

"What
is your specialty?"

Marcy's
smile returned. She was on firm ground once more. "I recommend a
margarita. That's one of my personal favorites."

"
Eh
bien
, then I will have a margarita, I thank you."

Marcy
took out a glass and wet the rim with a halved lime and then dipped it into
salt, to give it a salt rim. Filling a cocktail shaker two-thirds full of ice,
she added a generous shot of Tequila. A slightly less amount of Cointreau went
in after that. Then lime juice equal to the amount of Tequila. After vigorously
shaking it, she strained it into the glass. She handed it to Mr. Chevalier,
serving it with an extra wedge of lime.

He
took a sip and his lips tugged up in an appealing grin. "I like this very
much," he said.

"That
will be seven dollars even."

Mr.
Chevalier pulled out a hundred and Marcy paused for a moment, startled by
seeing another hundred dollar bill so soon after the last one. That preceding c-note
still rested comfortably in her pocket. She took the money, and got out
ninety-three dollars in change.

As
she began to hand his change back to him, he refused to take it. "That
will not be necessary. It is a gift."

Marcy's
mind reeled. Virtually two hundred dollars in tips and she was only working the
bar tonight! The staff rotated as fairly as possible. Waitress work was where
the best tips were, but someone always had to tend the bar.

Wow.
It must be my lucky day.

Marcy's
frivolous thought was astonishingly accurate. Because her lucky day was about
to become even luckier.

"
Merci beaucoup
," she said, tucking the money in
the pocket of her dress. "Did you have a big win? Is there a reason that
you're being so generous?"

He
shook his head. "No," he said. "I do not gamble. But there is a
reason. I wish to talk to you.
Pardon
if this may perhaps be considered
an insult. I do not intend such, yet I desire to pay for your time."

"But
I'm working."

"You
may continue to work, of course." He shrugged his shoulders in that uniquely
Gallic way. Marcy recalled many such shrugs when on her visit to France. Generally
it signified,
"That is the way it is. We must both live with it."
An American translation might be something like
"shit happens,"
perhaps.

She
studied him closely. "Mr. Chevalier, I don’t mean to offend
you.
Are you hoping to um…date me or something? Because I don’t date."

The
smile he gave her grew wider. He theatrically flung his hands up in the air,
ending by placing his right hand over his heart. "You wound me,
Mademoiselle
!"
and his warm laugh was so carefree that Marcy found herself grinning.

His
gaze traveled over her body, assessing her feminine charms in the open way the
French had. "I would most assuredly not be averse to a sensual connection,
you understand," he said with a glint of frank male interest in his eyes.
"You are most attractive and oh so charming,
j
e vous
assure
.
And yet I swear that I only wish to speak with you while you occupy yourself
with your duties as the bartender."

Still
smiling, Marcy narrowed her eyes, trying to interpret his intentions. Mr.
Chevalier was definitely a gentleman; a gentleman who wanted to talk. What harm
could he be after all?

"Okay
then, if that's what you want," she said, nodding her agreement.

Marcy
continued working, turning from him apologetically while she arranged the next
round of drinks – twenty
Jägermeister
and Red Bull cocktails. The Frenchman's gaze was hot upon her as she poured the
shots into each glass. It was difficult not to be thrown off balance by his
concentrated attention.

Why
did he want to talk to her? Perhaps he wanted to live the cliché and tell a
bartender all his problems? She hid an internal snort at that because the guy
didn’t look like he had a care in the world.

The
smell of 70 proof alcohol filled her nostrils while the casino buzzed with the
hypnotic noise of slot wheels whirring and flashing lights all shouting: "
Win!
Win! Win!"
These festive sights and blaring euphoric sounds were
exhilarating and captivating to gambling addicts. It gave them the impression
that everyone was getting rich. The truth was, except for a very lucky few, a
far greater percentage was losing.

When
the various waitresses left to dispense the new round of drinks, she returned
to Mr. Chevalier. "What would you like to talk to me about, Sir?"

"You."

Marcy
curbed her immediate impulse to take a step backwards.
Crap. I knew it! He's
going to ask me out.

"Do
not be troubled,
Mademoiselle
," he said calmly. "My intentions
are honorable, and if I seem a bit eccentric?" He held his hands palms up,
a capricious gesture. "What does it matter?"

"Okay,
my eccentric, French friend," Marcy said raising a determined eyebrow.
"But I don’t intend to talk about myself."

"This
is of no importance for
I
will speak about you. Did you know that with some
I can tell the fortune? I am observant,
oui
, particularly with women.
This is a little gift from the bon Dieu,
comprenez
vo
us
?"
he said with a
wry smile.

"Oh?"

"
Mais,
oui,
" he said complacently. "Shall I tell you what I see when I
look at you?"

Shit,
Marcy thought with the hardened cynicism that came from experience.
This
sounds like the start of a really bad pick up line. I can just hear it now,
"Hey baby! I'm psychic and can see the future. I'm lying on top of you and
you're screaming my name."

What
was he after? The appealing Frenchman didn't give off a single sleazy vibe so maybe
he had some other objective than picking her up. But what could it be?

Marcy
had to admit that she liked him. There was something endearing about the way he
carried himself and the way he spoke to her with absolute respect… not to
mention that mischievous smile. Except her taste in men was questionable,
judging by her ex. But he had paid her ninety-three dollars for a conversation.
The least she could do was humor him.

Should
she let him tell her what he saw when he looked at her? Marcy shrugged.
"Sure, why not?" she said.

"You
are physically very tired. This is perhaps two shifts, one after another that
you are working?"

She
nodded and grinned. "I look that bad, do I?"

With
an impassive face he gave another eloquent shrug. Marcy laughed. What man would
admit that a woman didn't quite look her best? But he was right, she was tired.
She was pretty well always tired. Some nights it was all she could do just to have
a shower and crawl into bed.

"Well,
anyway you're right about that," Marcy said. "I'm working a
double."

"You
are a mother?"

She
nodded her affirmative once more, and he gave a triumphant chuckle.

"I
can always tell this," he explained, gesturing toward her with one elegant
hand. "There is emotional maturity, and subtle bodily changes such as the
more generous hips. Motherhood is a time of life when a woman is at her best - such
is the joy and gift of children. You have perhaps only one child?"

Marcy
frowned, astonished by this lucky deduction. "A daughter," she
admitted.

That
reference to the size of her hips should have offended her. The truth was that
since having Katie she was a bit "generous" all over. Like many
women, Marcy dieted off and on regularly, just to be able to continue to fit
into her clothes.

She
wondered about her reaction to the Frenchman, aware that she had become
mesmerized by the charismatic fellow. He had a
presence
. His voice was
soothing, yet compelling. His tone was confident. Marcy trusted him. Something
about him made her feel safe, which was nuts of course, because he had to be
crazy to talk to her the way he did. Yet how did he know all those things about
her? Was she that transparent?"

"Divorced?"
he asked.

"Yes,"
she said, and the gentleman laughed joyously at having guessed correctly once
more.

"You're
quite the Sherlock, Mr. Chevalier. But without a wedding ring and a child there
was a high probability of divorce. Still, you're very good at this game aren't
you?"

He
gave her a boyish grin, "Me?
Oui,
I am very clever," he said
without an ounce of humility. Marcy burst out laughing, wiping her eyes with
the back of her hand. This mischievous fellow was lighthearted
fun.
She hadn’t
enjoyed talking to anyone this much for some time.

Mr.
Chevalier took another sip of his margarita and then said, "You have
financial burdens, and yet it is more than this that weighs heavily on the
mind." He paused for a moment, and then added in a quiet voice, "Is
it the child?"

Marcy
nodded slowly.

The
Frenchman's brows drew down, displaying the first sign of unease. He opened his
mouth to speak, and then, apparently thinking better of it, left the subject.

"You
are loyal, honest and courageous," he said instead, with appealing
self-assurance. "I do not need to read the palm to know this. You will
find peace and happiness,
ma belle,
I swear it. For you deserve to be
happy."

Marcy's
heart lifted. There was no logical reason for that response. This confident
Frenchman was the weirdest customer she had yet encountered - and she had
encountered quite a few. She had no idea what to reply to his bizarre
pronouncement.

"Thank
you," she finally said. "
Ma belle
. It means 'my beautiful.'"
She slanted him a suspicious half smile, narrowing her eyes at him. "Are
you sure that you're not hoping to get lucky, Mr. Chevalier?"

A
broad grin swept over his face. "Most certain. I called you
ma belle
for you are beautiful, in body
oui
, but more importantly in
spirit."

Flustered
and uncertain how to reply to that compliment, Marcy began wiping the counter,
even though it was perfectly clean. When she got up the nerve to look at him
once more, his penetrating gaze met hers.

Marcy
tried to look away, but found that she couldn't.

The
Frenchman's dark eyes captured and held her. She was trapped by him, as powerfully
as if her will had been locked away by bands of steel.