Lost and Found (2 page)

Gerard hasn't noticed the lost items. There is, it seems, a benefit to his detachment after all. Nor has he noticed the most essential thing I've lost.

Myself.

What
isn't
lost is the irony: Brigitte owns all three missing items.

I walk from the closet and stand in front of the mirror in the master bedroom. Downstairs, I hear guests arriving. I take a deep breath and, out of habit, glance at my reflection. I don't allow my eyes to linger on the image reflected back to me. I turn with the intent of heading downstairs for the charity brunch Brigitte and Gerard are hosting this morning, but once I reach the first floor of the house, I turn toward the solarium rather than taking the final flight of stairs to the ballroom.

I slip into the solarium through the open double doors. I ease the doors shut, not wishing to draw attention to my presence. I need a few moments alone. Time to prepare myself for the event ahead—the stares of those who don't know me.

The averted glances of those who do.

I used to enjoy such events—raising money for a worthy cause. I sat on the boards of various charities and planned many events. I built relationships. I found a place for myself. A purpose.

But that was before.

I walk to the middle of the room and stand in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, which offer an expansive view of the city and the bay. I breathe deep and bow my head, releasing all thoughts of what is lost and focus instead on what is found.

Solitude is my companion and peace its offered gift.

Love swells within.

With eyes closed against the sunlight streaming in through the windows, I feel a flutter against my cheek. I lift my hand and tuck the loosed strands of my dark hair behind my ear. A breeze swirls.

Refreshing.

Restoring.

The aromas of honeysuckle and jasmine encircle me as the strains of a string quartet soar in crescendo. The wind catches the end of the chiffon scarf around my neck and it tickles my bare shoulder. My mind searches for words but none convey the stirring I sense. I wipe away the tears slipping to my chin.

Wind rushes.

Love calls.

Somewhere behind me a door clicks shut. I raise my head, open my eyes, and strain to focus against the light. White linen fabric drapes across decorative rods and pools on the floor on either side of the paned windows around the room. The linen billows in the breeze.

As my eyes focus, I step forward to close the windows, wondering who opened them. But then I see they are closed.

Latched tight.

The drapes settle.

My breath catches and my skin prickles.

"Jenna!"

I jump.

She hisses through clenched teeth. Her heels tap in military precision against inlaid marble as she comes up behind me. I turn from the windows to face her just as she reaches for me. Her acrylic nails dig into my upper arm.

"We. Have. Guests."

"Yes. I'll be right there. I'm sorry."

I chide myself for apologizing—again.

"You'll come now!"

She pulls on my arm and I stumble. Once she has let go of me, I find my stride behind her. At seventy-six her gait is still swift. With each step she takes the red soles of her Christian Louboutin pumps flash against the white, gray, and black marble of the solarium floor. When she reaches the doors, she stops. I stumble again, trying not to bump into her. She turns on one heel and looks at me. Her gaze lands on the jagged scar that follows what was my jawline on the left side of my face, pulling my mouth into an awkward smirk. "You called Dr. Bernard, yes?"

Her French roots slip out in her phrasing. There are times her accent almost sings. Other times, like now, it drips with the attitude so often attributed to the French: disdain.

"No." I lift my chin intending to meet her gaze, but with just one glance my heart beats like the wings of a hummingbird and I end up staring at the floor.

"I'll call him myself. I've told you, he can fix . . .
that
."

"It isn't that simple." I force my gaze to meet hers.

"
Mais oui
, it is." Then her look moves to the red, crescent-shaped welts on my arm. "Slip your cardigan over your shoulders before you return to our guests." She opens the door and speaks to one of the staff in the hallway. "Hannah, find Jenna's cardigan and bring it to her." With that, she turns and walks out.

I wrap my arms around myself and exhale. I turn back toward the wall of windows and see the bay glistening in the distance. I inhale deeply, trying to catch my breath—the scent of honeysuckle hangs in the air. Just as I turn to go, I notice the drape on the end window nearest the French doors stir and billow again. I smile and feel the right side of my mouth rise up to meet the left side.

"Jenna, your sweater." The staff dispensed with
Mrs. Bouvier
soon after I arrived—not out of familiarity, or even fondness, as I would have hoped, but instead upon
her
orders. Hannah reaches to place the sapphire sweater, the exact color of my eyes, over my shoulders, but stops.

"You'd better put it on." She holds the sweater out for me as I slip my arms into each sleeve. "You also better watch yourself and stop wandering off. You know your role here. Madame Bouvier's made that clear."

Hannah looks at my jaw. Do I imagine her sneer? She turns and walks out ahead of me. I hesitate at the open door. The quartet plays, glasses clink, conversation drones. I lower my gaze to the floor.

Yes. I know my role. Help me
. . .

I make my way across the formal entry, and down the staircase to the lower level ballroom. The ballroom shares the same exposure as the solarium and opens to the gardens surrounding the mansion. The San Francisco Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge set a stunning backdrop.

The Georgian-style mansion was built in 1912 and is one of the crowning jewels of the Pacific Heights area. An invitation to a soiree at the Bouvier home is coveted in many circles. Even today's brunch, a benefit for the de Young Museum, is a gold star on the social credentials of those who paid to attend.

I walk into the ballroom and stop a moment to admire the scene. The room is set with round tables, covered in pale sage damask, with tall fluted vases burgeoning with trailing ivy and white spring blooms as centerpieces. The china is the finest antique Limoges paired with Baccarat crystal and antique French silver, each piece stamped with a boar's head. The staff floats among the guests serving flutes of
Domaine de la Bouvier
St. Helena 2004.

I take a glass offered by one of the servers and drain the flute of champagne, then return the glass to the tray and reach for another. I take a deep breath and exhale. My heart rate returns to somewhere near normal and I attempt to put the scene with Brigitte out of my mind. I've become adept at denial, but now, it seems, there's a chink in the gear of that mechanism.

"There you are." Gerard places his hand on the small of my back and guides me to the head table. "We've been waiting on you. The committee chair wants to make a toast to the hosts before brunch is served. Stay close, Jenna." Gerard, with a slight nod of his head, signals my arrival to the waiting de Young trustee.

A knife clinking against a Baccarat flute calls the guests to attention. "Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to take this opportunity to thank our gracious hosts, Madame Brigitte Bouvier and Mr. and Mrs. Gerard Bouvier . . ."

I raise my glass and sip, this time allowing the bubbles to play on my tongue.

Gerard's hand still on my back applies gentle pressure as he bends to my ear. "Smile, Jenna. You know you need to smile." He nods as his guests applaud his charity. His smile engages everyone in the room. The smile demanded of me simply balances my facial features and makes me look more acceptable for the role I'm called to fill.

It is a role I aspired to—a role I longed for: Mrs. Gerard Bouvier. Wife of the famed vintner whose label,
Domaine de la Bouvier
, originated in Epernay, France in 1743. Gerard was groomed to oversee the Bouvier empire and Brigitte groomed me, the daughter of a native Californian vintner, to be Gerard's wife. I married Gerard on my twenty-first birthday—the day I could legally toast our union. He was forty-three. That was eleven years ago.

After the toast, Gerard guides me to the head table where we're seated with his mother; two members of the de Young Board of Trustees, including the vice president for Annual Support, Carolyn Harris, who organized this fund-raiser, her husband, Bryce; and my brother, Jason, and his date, whom he introduces as Andee Bell. Jason winks at me during his introduction of Andee. Should I know her?

Carolyn smiles. "Andee, it's a delight to meet you in person. You are a dear friend of the de Young."

Translation: Andee's a big donor.

"Thank you, Carolyn. I'm always thrilled when I can play a small part in something bigger than myself." Andee turns to me, "Jenna, so good to meet you. We'll talk. Jason tells me we have a lot in common."

I smile as I shuffle memories—has Jason mentioned Andee?

"Andee, good to see you again. I thought you and Jason might hit it off—it's not every day I get to enjoy the role of matchmaker." Gerard lifts his glass and salutes Jason and Andee.

I raise my glass and then empty it.

"Jenna, of course you know who Andee is?"

At Brigitte's question, a blush begins at the base of my neck and crawls up toward my face. I pull the chiffon scarf close to my neck, reach for my water glass, take a sip, and nod. "Yes, of course. Thank you so much for joining us, Andee."

I turn, make eye contact with one of the servers, and with an almost imperceptible nod, make known my desire for another glass of
Domanie de la Bouvier'
s best. I turn back to the conversation at the table.

It seems I am the only one unaware of Andee's identity. Not unusual. I am often in the dark regarding important people and issues—as Brigitte is fond of reminding me.

As conversation flows around the table, I'm given a few moments to study Andee. Even seated, I can see she is taller than my 5' 4" frame. Her long, thin torso is enviable as are her dark chocolate eyes and thick blonde hair that cascades over her shoulders. Her porcelain skin is flawless and her small chin and delicate jawline are perfect.

Gerard reaches for my fingers—wrapping my hand in his. Startled, I realize I've been tracing the scar on my face. He whispers, "No need to draw attention to your imperfection. You're beautiful." His compliment confuses me but I let it go.

I lean close to him, "How do you know Andee?"

"Why? Jealous?" His tone teases but strikes a chord.

Brigitte, seated on the other side of Gerard, places her hand on his arm and whispers something to him. I'm grateful for the interruption so I don't have to respond to his question. There is truth in what he asks. Am I jealous of Andee? Yes, but not for the reason Gerard implied. What I envy is her flawless beauty and the confidence with which she carries herself.

I push back from the table, bumping it as I stand. Water sloshes over the rims of the glasses. "I'm sorry . . . excuse me for just a moment." I say this to no one in particular, and as I walk out of the ballroom, I can almost feel Brigitte's stare branding my back.

I take the hallway that leads to the elevator—less chance of running into household staff. I press the button and wait for the door to open. Once inside, I exhale, close my eyes, and let the back upholstered wall hold me up until the door opens on the landing of the third story of the house. I step out of the elevator, bend down, take off my patent pumps, and pad my way to the master bedroom. Once inside, I close the double doors and head to the hand-carved Louis XVI vanity. I collapse on the stool and rest my head atop my arms on the vanity. Hot tears spill. Envy hisses its condemnation.

She's gorgeous. You'll never be that beautiful again. You're worthless now.

I pick up the gold hand mirror from the vanity, hold it up to my face, and stare into the cracked glass. The abstract image staring back at me is Picasso-esque—segments of my face reflect in geometric shapes. Sapphire eyes, lined in indigo, seem set at opposing angles. Full, glossed lips are askew. And the angry scar stretches wide.

"Shattered beauty . . ."

I set the broken mirror down, stand, and turn to the mirrored wall that runs the length of the room.
"I want to see your reflection no matter where you are in the room,"
he'd said when we remodeled the suite.

I smooth the fabric of my skirt over my slender hips, and turn to observe my profile. My sweater hugs my torso, and when I pull the scarf around my neck aside, the deep neckline of the sweater exposes my ample cleavage. My long, dark hair is swept up in a twist and sapphire and diamond earrings sparkle at my lobes. I close my eyes then open them. The scar remains and with it the strangling sense of shame.

I turn my back to the mirrored wall and recall the swirling breeze of just an hour or so ago—along with my fledgling awareness of late that, like the breeze swirling in the solarium, a longing for change swirls within me.

I recall the words spoken to my soul last week.
Stand back, Jenna.
I'd emptied the contents of my aching heart before Him, as I so often do. I cried out. I begged for an answer to the nagging question: How do I please Brigitte? How do I honor You in my relationship with her?

Stand back, Jenna.

I'm still grappling with the meaning. What does it mean to stand back from Brigitte? From my life? While I don't yet understand, there is a knowing that change is on the horizon. Change that somehow rests on my willingness to obey.

Still standing in front of the mirror, I dare myself to glance at my reflection again—to really see what's there. But, dizzy from the champagne, my balance is precarious, and I sidestep back to the stool at the vanity.

How soon I forgot my recent declaration to face the present rather than escape to the bliss of denial. That, I recall, is the chink in my self-protective mechanism: my decision to face reality.