Karma (4 page)

Marcy
heard it before she saw it.

The
sleek red and black sports car thundered toward her house with a growling sort
of dangerous purr. Marcy's eyes widened and her mouth gaped open when it drove
up to her condo. Later, her mind boggled when she found out that it was a Bugatti
Veyron and cost about $2,500,000. The Frenchman wasn't just rich; he was super
rich.

Mr.
Chevalier got out. With a large smile and wide eyes, he gave her a big boyish
grin. He looked about twenty-five years old when he grinned like that. "Do
you like it?" he asked.

"It's
incredible," she said with genuine awe.

He
was dressed 'smart casual' in up market jeans, black leather pointy toed shoes
and an Italian polo shirt. Even in jeans he appeared vital and elegant. What was
that about? In the morning sun, Marcy was aware of how attractive he was, and
he still smelled good enough to eat.

Too
bad that men gave her indigestion.

Even
though she'd sworn off the opposite sex, it was impossible for her mind not consider
the prospect. Mr. Chevalier was nothing like her ex. She imagined him in bed
with a woman. He would make his partner feel cherished – not stupid, she was
sure of it. He might even make her laugh. Could sex actually be fun, she
wondered?

Marcy
would probably never know, and that realization only gave her relief. Besides,
he was her boss, and she had enough problems already. The man was still smiling
at her - his vibes were carefree, playful, and absolutely not sexual. He seemed
so much younger that she was somehow.

"If
you have a driver's license you may drive it."

"No
way, Mr. Chevalier," she gasped.

"Yes,
way," he said.

Marcy
just shook her head. "I would never drive this in city traffic."

Her
soon to be new employer's grin grew larger. "
Bon!
Then we shall go
to the country. It is a most beautiful day for a drive."

He
opened the passenger door for her, commenting on her dress, and telling her how
much that particular style suited her figure. The man went on to notice how attractive
yet sensible her shoes were, and how she wore just the right amount of make-up.

As
he joined her in the car he airily continued the one-sided conversation. Amused,
relaxed and inexplicably comfortable with him, Marcy listened as Mr. Chevalier chatted
away about fashion much like a girlfriend might have done. He ruined this
momentary illusion, however by telling her that he much preferred her breasts
this way, in their natural size and form.

Alrighty
then. How do I reply to that?

"Thank
you," she said, resorting to good manners.

Marcy
never met anyone like him. It astonished her, the way that he seemed able to
converse about anything without a shred of embarrassment. Oddly, because he talked
in a matter-of-fact tone, he put her at ease. Were all Frenchmen so
straightforward, or just Mr. Chevalier?

"For
now, please call me André," he said. "You are not my employee yet,
and with first names it is more comfortable, yes?" He turned the car on
with the press of a button, and it growled to life with a sexy purr. "This
is the fastest French car ever made," he happily informed her.

Then
he hit the gas.

Marcy
was slammed back into her seat with the sudden acceleration. She screamed from
shock and surprise. The abrupt increase in velocity she experienced was not
unlike being in a 'Top Gun' jet during takeoff, she figured.

André
laughed but slowed down to the speed limit. "It is very exciting,
yes?" His childish enthusiasm was infectious, and Marcy found herself
laughing.

They
drove south down U.S. 93 toward Hoover dam. The day was a sunny sixty degrees,
the views scenic, and the road fairly empty. André Chevalier clearly adored
driving his car.

While
Marcy relaxed and enjoyed the ride, André did most of the talking. He told her about
his French chef, Pascal, who was a genius in the kitchen, and Pascal's wife,
Anne who fussed around them both. He assured her that Pascal would prepare her
delicious meals that would be cooked with fresh cream and herbs, some he
assured her, that Marcy would have never even heard of.

Part
of her job would be to assist Pascal from time to time.

André
seemed passionate about everything he spoke of, which included food, fashion
trends, love and sex. His accent, pronunciation and teasing good humor were irresistible.
Somehow it was so easy to talk or listen to him. The man was
fun
, and
his point of view and philosophy about life made her giggle or laugh again and
again.

Incredibly
expressive, André Chevalier was completely unafraid to show his emotions. Somehow,
Marcy found herself explaining that she had sworn off men for all time. He told
her that she should date, because it was better not to be alone.

"Well,
where is your partner then, my eccentric Frenchman?"

"Oh,
I do not have a woman of my own,
ma belle
, but
, je vous assure
, I
date, oh, often."

Marcy
giggled. Right. He meant of course that he enjoyed regular sex, she supposed. Why
wasn't she squirming with embarrassment by now? Sex and relationships were two awkward
topics she strictly avoided discussing, particularly with men. Yet she was
comfortable with him. In such a short time, André Chevalier had airily beguiled
her into speaking her own mind.

"And
love, André? What about love?" she surprised herself by asking.

He
turned rather penetrating dark eyes upon her for a moment. "Love is the
most important of all,
ma belle
. I am loved by many,
comprenez
vous
?
And
I love many, my friends, their families, and so on. I will tell you something
that few know. It is that I am in love with a married woman."

Marcy
stiffened, disturbed by this admission. Infidelity was wrong in so many ways.

"Oui,
it is true," he said with complacence. "Her husband and I are very
close. He knows of my secret, of course, and understands very well. In his way
he loves me a little, too, do you see? But in such matters there can be no
resolution. I must find another. Yet the heart yearns for what it knows it
cannot… it
must not
strive for."

"Oh,"
Marcy said, with an ache of sadness for him. The woman wasn't unfaithful to her
husband. André had unrequited love. Could anything be worse? It would be
difficult to love someone you couldn’t have… someone who you knew should never
be yours.

"I'm
sorry," she said.

André
gave her a low, ironic laugh. "I would change nothing,
ma belle
, I
promise you," he said. "All is as it should be. My love for her
increased my understanding and experience. I am a better person for it.
Mon
Dieu!
Never did I feel so much! With my mind, my heart, and my soul. Such
pain is part of being human, no?"

"I
guess so."

"You
have suffered, too, I think." He slanted her a knowing look. "Love is
a hurt that no man or woman can avoid. Yet the English Lord Tennyson said it
best when he wrote about such sorrow: "It is better to have loved and lost,
than never to have loved at all."

Marcy
heaved an inward sigh. She still had no idea what love was. She thought she had
been in love with Trent, but that was just a childish crush. She had never
really known her ex-husband. She loved her daughter, but that was different.

After
they got to Hoover Dam, a place she hadn't visited since junior high, Marcy
took her turn driving the Bugatti on a long straight section of road. She got
settled and oriented to the car, and then gunned it, making 120 mph in moments.

What
a rush!

Marcy
laughed uproariously to see André's fingers white-knuckled as they gripped the
dashboard. It was worth it to give her easygoing new boss a fright.

"Merde!"
he called out in fear and surprise, followed by a long trail of vociferous and
incomprehensible French. Marcy recognized the word
'Merde,'
which was
the French version of "Shit," but nothing else as he spoke so rapidly.

The
Bugatti's steering was light, and visibility was restricted by shallow side
windows, but other than that, it honestly handled more or less like any other
car. The whole experience was incredible. After about thirty minutes of effortlessly
eating up the road, Marcy pulled over and let André drive once more.

The
day was so carefree, and André spoke with such effortless confidence, that
Marcy hardly noticed when he changed the subject.

Somehow
Marcy found herself explaining about her own life. Young marriage to an
ambitious man, and dropping out of college to support him. Her married years of
full time work, while he went to school to become an orthodontist. It seemed to
her that her ex-husband, Trent, needed two wives. One to pay the bills while he
went to school, and a trophy wife to proudly show his friends once he 'made
it.'

André
made murmuring sounds, encouraging her to continue.

"Frankly,
André, I'm honestly glad that he's gone," she admitted. "I have no
earthly idea what I saw in him in the first place. The thing is, he continuously
'forgets' to see Katie. He is so carried away with his new life."

"Ah,"
André said, the light of understanding coming into his eyes. "It is this
that concerns you about your child. I feared perhaps an illness - instead it is
the pain of abandonment."

Marcy
nodded. "The poor kid thinks it's her fault. A child should be unconditionally
loved by her dad. A father doesn’t have to be flawless - my own father wasn't
perfect by any means, but I
never
doubted that he loved me."

"Pauvre
petite fille,"
André remarked in French.
Marcy
understood him to mean 'poor little girl.' "It is difficult for your Katie
to know rejection at such a young age. He violates an important natural law,
this ex-husband of yours." There was a dark hint of condemnation in André's
tone. "It is a great sin."

"I
hate that Katie blames herself," Marcy said. "I'm worried that her
father is scarring her for life, making her feel unloved and unwanted. As a grown
woman will Katie be drawn to men like Trent? Men who ignore her or treat her
like crap?"

Marcy
paused and caught her breath, aware that the tone of her voice had been rising
to a mildly hysterical pitch.

Breathing
out a deep sigh, Marcy said, "I feel like together Katie and I are driving
off a cliff. It's like the brakes have failed and there is no way to stop the
damn car. No matter what I say to Trent, nothing changes. Katie is suffering
and is going to continue to be hurt by her father. My asshole ex is far too
self-absorbed with his new wife and his new life to listen to me."

André's
jaw flexed and tightened but he didn't speak.

In
the abrupt conversational silence the purr of the car's engine seemed very
loud. Marcy could see that he sympathized and was disturbed by her story. Well,
that was perfectly understandable. She was upset, too.

But
not as upset as she was going to be by the surprising words he spoke next.

André
shook his head. "I have heard of this before, oh, many times
,
"
he
finally said
. "The selfish man uses the loyal,
hardworking spouse to support him until he attains his goals. Once he has the
education and so on he no longer needs this type of woman. Then he seeks and
finds the younger wife, to fit the new lifestyle of comfort and wealth. But to
neglect his own child?
Imbecile.
He does not know what he throws away. Oh
my heart fills, it swells with such pity! Of a certainty,
mais oui,
it
does."

Taken
aback, Marcy flew into an unexpected rage. "We don't need your pity,"
she said, and her pulse spiked, pounding with fury and indignation. "I
told you that Katie and I are better off without him. Is that why you offered
me this job? You felt
sorry
for me? Well fuck you, Mr. André bloody
Chevalier!"

Marcy
saw a slightly started look in his eyes, and defiantly went on, "I was
doing just fine without you! I don’t need your pity. I'm not weak and
incapable. Do you really think that women need men to make them feel valued and
worthwhile?"

For
a moment an expression of utter chagrin and surprise filled the Frenchman's
face. Was the man astonished that she should lose her temper? That she wouldn't
bow down to his money bags? Well she had more pride and self respect than that,
even with the impoverished circumstances she was in.

André
put on a blinker, slowed the car and pulled over, switching the ignition off.

"
Pardon,
ma belle
," he turned toward her and said in a quiet voice, his dark
eyes meeting hers. "I did not make myself understood. My comment was
indefinite and clumsy.
Excusez-moi
.
À cœur vaillant rien d'impossible.
This is a French proverb, you
understand.
The literal translation is: 'to a valiant
heart, nothing is impossible.'" He shrugged. "I do not waste my pity
on you, Marcy. You are courageous and will do well. I am honored to know you.
My compassion is for your ex-husband."

He
paused for a moment, waiting it seemed, for her staggering thought processes to
absorb this startling revelation. There was an appreciative light in his eyes

"
Mon
Dieu,
" he continued with a wave of an arm, once she finally took that
last bombshell on board. "
Voyons!
Can you not see it? Do you
imagine how he will suffer for such wickedness? For these are not small,
unintended offenses. He causes great harm through selfishness and greed."

Stunned,
unblinking, Marcy just stared at him.

André
patted her knee in a gesture of understanding. Marcy generally disliked it when
people touched her. She wasn't a touchy-feely person. Yet André was so open,
his touch seemed natural and reassuring. She didn’t pull away.

"
Oui,"
André said. "Perhaps you will yet observe the result of such dark
karma. Then I am persuaded that you shall pity him, too. In life I would much
prefer to be sinned upon than the sinner. It is easier,
vous
comprenez
?
With the clear conscience one sleeps very well. The sinner may deny it… but in
his heart he knows. He does not deserve to be happy."

"Oh,"
she said.

André
gave her a faint smile, his expression as eloquent as his words. "Just
so."

Mortified
by her outburst, Marcy's cheeks burned with shame. This man had treated her
with respect. He offered her an incredible job. And how did she repay him? She
yelled at him for no reason at all. What had she been thinking?

"I'm
sorry for losing my temper," she said. "I… I'm not sure what came
over me. I don’t usually do that."

"It
is nothing,
ma belle.
" He shot her a genuine grin, his white teeth
flashing against his tan skin. "It stirred the blood, did it not? To raise
the voice? To release such anger?"

"It
sure did," she said with a low chuckle. "Right up to the point I
realized that I'd misunderstood you. Then I felt like an idiot."

"I
say
bravo
,
ma belle,"
he spoke with fervor. He pressed the
start button on the high performance car, and it roared to life. André put on
the blinker, checked the rear view mirror, and pulled back out onto the
highway.

"I
love the passions. They create such sensation! Anger, grief, fear, love, hate,
excitement. The fierce emotions make one
feel.
Such are a gift, so one
knows one is alive. To live without passion is to have no life at all.
"

It
didn’t take long for them to get back into Las Vegas and both remained quiet
for the rest of the journey. The silence wasn't uncomfortable by any means. If anything
it was companionable.

Recent
events rolled through Marcy's mind. In truth, yelling at André
had
been
invigorating. Being angry, aggressive and standing up for herself was something
she didn't have much experience with, but she was learning. Unfortunately, just
like the Shakespeare quote,
"Me thinks thou doth protest too
much,"
Marcy's rage at André had been misplaced.

She
recalled her angry demand:
"Do you really think that women need men to
make them feel valued and worthwhile?"

As
much as she wanted to deny it, the irony of it was that for many years that is exactly
what Marcy thought.

I
yelled at André, but I think I was actually mad at myself.

As
a child Marcy constantly sought her father's rarely given approval, and this
inbuilt behavior carried on into adulthood. Talk about daddy issues! She was such
a cliché. Avoiding confrontation, backing down when a man yelled at her. She
even sought to appease her ex-husband throughout their divorce, which was the
height of his incredible prickishness.

God.
I was so pathetic,
she berated herself for
those years spent with Trent.
I was foolish and naive, but I'm smarter now.

She
was every bit as good as a man - better in fact! So why did men give her such a
mind fuck? Why did she feel the need to placate and please them? Even when some
jerk made a rude pass at her, Marcy felt guilty for upsetting them when she
refused their attentions. What was that about? It just wasn't in her to be
mean. Why was she so pitiful?

It's
best to keep away from the opposite sex all together,
she decided for the thousandth time.

One
area where she had a backbone of steel was with her daughter. Like a mother
lioness, Marcy could do battle with a hundred men and win when it came to
Katie.

André
drove underground and parked in a private, well-marked spot. Then he took her
on an express elevator to the penthouse levels. There she met Pascal Duval, the
Chef, and Pascal's wife, Anne, as well as a number of Mr. Chevalier's other
staff in the kitchen.

Her
welcome by André's staff was overwhelming with smiling, loud voices raised in
French with smatterings of English and much gesticulating.

Marcy
sat down at the thick wooden table that seemed out of place in the huge
stainless steel commercial kitchen. Pascal plied her with fresh croissants,
strawberries, melted chocolate and cream. Two security guards sat down one on
either side of her and chatted about food and fashion. Marcy thought that they
might be gay, but who could tell?

Maybe
they were just French.

Gustave
eventually got everyone to settle down and stop talking at once. It seemed that
unless they were working and clients were nearby, everyone was allowed to call
Mr. Chevalier, André. They really did act like close relations, bickering and
interrupting and laughing as any group of close family members might.

It
was surreal.

André
gave her an elegant bow of farewell and left Marcy with Gustave, who was tasked
with showing her around. His security consultant would be along to interview
her later.

As
she sat at the oddly rustic kitchen table, surrounded by these friendly and rather
overwhelming strangers, Marcy mused over the circumstances of the day.

André
Chevalier was a man with surprising depths. He was the most transparently
honest person she had ever met. His emotions, actions and words all perfectly
aligned. He was exactly what he appeared to be and he made her feel… what?

The
answer made something inside her flutter with pleasure. How did she feel?
Lucky? Happy? Grateful to be alive? Yes, all of those things and something
further. André made her consider that she was special, not just as a woman. It
took a moment to realize.

Oh,
she mused.
I feel valued as a human being.