Paradise Found (12 page)

Chapter 19

The funeral was typical Seychellois. Victoria had to adjust to the island rituals, though she found some of them morbid. She joined her mother’s close friends in cleansing the body and preparing it for viewing. Bessy was attired in her best cotton dress, her hair curled and combed. She lay in a simple wood casket set in the main room of her home. As tradition required, her head faced the mountain and her feet the ocean. Candles created an eerie glow, with shadows of visitors bouncing off the walls and ceiling.

Victoria sat nearby, greeting guests who came from all over the Islands to pay their respects. She tried to act composed though she was aching inside. Each handshake and word of condolence reinforced the fact that her mother was gone to her forever. The unfamiliar faces reminded her of how little she knew her mother. Most of the people were strangers, some distant relatives she didn’t even know. Fellow employees and management from the resort where Bessye worked came with tears in their eyes. Flowers and plants were set about the room, adding fragrance to the otherwise hot and stuffy space. The largest arrangement was from Eden Resorts with a personal note of condolence from Alexander Wells. Even the coldest heart melted at word of Bessye’s passing.

Victoria sat keeping vigil as guests came and went, as daylight turned to dusk, to night, to dawn and back to daylight. The sound of neighbors playing dominoes outside rattled the silence and, supposedly, kept evil spirits at bay.

Though exhaustion stiffened her bones, Victoria was the dutiful daughter. She refused to leave her mother’s side, though others offered to take her place. Sleep evaded her as memories of her mother and regrets over the years they had spent apart replayed in her mind. She joined in prayers, in song, and cried with the other ladies.

As the next day dawned, Victoria rose only to get freshened up and changed for what was to be another long and difficult day. Alone. She had never felt so alone. There was no one to hold her, no one to offer words of comfort and encouragement. She no longer had a parent. She no longer had family.

Men came with a handcart. While they waited outside, Victoria pressed a last kiss on to her mother’s cold cheek before the coffin was nailed shut.
Mamma! Oh, Mamma! What am I to do without you?
The finality of it all made her heart lurch. Men carried the coffin out and loaded it on the cart as Victoria stood by weeping into her handkerchief. The men pushed the handcart to the local church, a procession of mourners following.

A full mass conducted by the local priest was celebrated. A choir sang. Victoria looked up at the stained glass and could feel her mother’s spirit through the shades of blue, red and yellow. She knew that her mother was watching over the proceedings, impressed. The church had meant a great deal to Bessye and the priest’s homily reflected her dedication.

After, the handcart was pushed to the cemetery. Many vaults and granite headstones were above ground, most with flower niches, tiny alters with crosses on top. The ground for Bessye had been dug and prepared. Victoria stared, the reality of her mother’s passing evident in the scene. The priest read “The Lord is My Shepherd …” while mourners wailed. Though the sky was blue and the sun shone brightly, the mood was as somber as Victoria’s drab black dress.

Victoria perused the gathered crowd. There were familiar and unfamiliar faces, young and old, all races. Her mother had touched more lives than she had ever thought and was deeply missed. Bessye Montcherry may have lived on an island, isolated by most of civilization, but she hadn’t lived as an island. Her impact was far-reaching.

One man caught her attention. He was standing on the edge of the crowd, leaning on a brass tipped walking stick. He was white and his attire all white linen. Even the tilted fedora on his head was white straw. From what she could tell, he was probably in his sixties, tall, and sophisticated and didn’t seem like a native. He hadn’t been at the viewing but watched the funeral proceedings with interest. When he removed a handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes, Victoria had the urge to find out who he was.

“I’m sorry, Victoria.”

Victoria turned to see Daemon. He stood in a tan tropical weight suit, conservative yet dapper. He grabbed her hand and held it in his. His touch was warm and welcoming. How did he know to come, right when she needed him most? They stood in silence as the priest finished his prayer and the graveside service ended.

Daemon continued to hold her hand as they walked through the cemetery. His grasp offered a sense of comfort and strength. Victoria gave one more glance over her shoulder, catching a glimpse of the gravediggers

“I can’t believe she’s gone,” Victoria said, choking on her words. “She’s really gone.”

“I just learned of her passing today or I would have been at the
vyey mortye.”
He squeezed her hand.

“Trust me. Viewings are far from pleasant. You didn’t miss a thing,” she said with trembling lips.

“I missed being with you in a time of need.”

She cast a look his way as they walked. She needed him now. Daemon had been concerned enough to attend her mother’s funeral. She was touched. His presence meant more than he could realize. He came and it was as if a dark cloud had been lifted. She looked up at the sun and wondered if her mother had a hand in this.

“I know how devastating it is to lose one’s family,” Daemon continued. “You’re not alone, Victoria. I want you to know that as long as I’m around, you’ll never be alone.”

She didn’t know what to say. Tears glistened in her eyes and she didn’t know if they were from grief or from Daemon’s words.

“We need to talk. I know this isn’t the time or place. As Bessye would attest, life is far too short for regrets.”

Daemon had to hit on her mother’s last words without even knowing them. Once again, it was as if he knew everything about her.

“Yes, we can talk,” Victoria said.

Though she looked at Daemon, she couldn’t help but notice the man in the white suit walking away. He had a limp but had a dignified way of walking, his head held high and the posture of a man of wealth and breeding.

“Who is that man?” she asked.

Daemon quickly replied, “Jacques LeGrande, the famous writer.”

“Writer?”

“Yes, in France he’s considered on par with Hemingway,” Daemon explained, looking at the man.

“What is he doing here?”

“He lives here. Has lived here for years. Actually, he owns his own private island. Extremely talented but lives like a hermit,” Daemon said.

“Why would he be at my mother’s funeral?” Her mother had touched many lives, but a famous writer?

Daemon just shrugged.

Victoria sat cross-legged on a woven rug on the floor of her mother’s house, a house that was far too quiet. Without Bessye, the atmosphere had changed. Without Bessye’s vibrant personality and wisdom, the house was just a structure and no longer a home. Without her mother, Victoria was no longer someone’s child but an adult. Alone.

One reason she had returned to the islands was to reconnect with her mother, to make up for all those lost years when she wandered the world in search of herself. Yet, the real Victoria Montcherry was found in the Seychelles Islands. Did she have to find herself at the same time she lost her mother?

What would she do without her mother? She would miss the “I told you so’s” and the island gossip. She would miss the contentious conversation as well as the unconditional love only a mother could give. Tears pooled in her eyes and she choked them back. Though she knew her mother had been in ill health, she never expected her to die so soon. So young
.

In rummaging through her mother’s scant belongings, she came upon a woven box. Inside were envelopes. Some were letter-sized wrapped carefully in satin ribbon. Others were large clasp envelopes, filled with photographs and memories. Unwrapping the ribbons, Victoria looked over her shoulder, half-expecting her mother to appear, scolding her for the invasion of privacy. A shiver tingled her spine and she wondered if this was a good idea. Maybe some memories were better left with the dead. Discretion should have made her go and burn the yellowed letters and photographs.

Curiosity made her open them. After all, if her mother had intended for the correspondence to follow her to her grave, would she not have destroyed them herself? That is, if the letters contained words and events to be cherished. Wrapping them in satin ribbon made them important.

Victoria reached down and grabbed the chilled bottle of Seybrew she had set beside her. Nothing like a little alcohol fortification. She took a sip and rubbed the cold bottle across her forehead, the condensation cooling in the heat of mid-day. After, she took a swig.

Fanning through the stack of letters, she realized the one on top was the oldest. The postmark went back over thirty years and it had been sent from Paris.

The cursive script bordered on calligraphy and was addressed to, “
Mademoiselle Montcherry
.” In opening the envelope, she slid out the letter, its fold marks creased yellow over time.

The French words flowed like the text of a romance novel. They were written by a young man smitten with a woman. He had met her while on holiday in the Seychelles and had fallen deeply and passionately in love. He had just graduated from the Sorbonne and had been traveling around the world, a grande tour, before settling down in his homeland of France. His intended two-week stay on the remote island chain had lasted three months because of his love affair with the beautiful native island girl. Though he had returned
home, he swore to her that he would one day return. Victoria gasped at the signature. Jacques LeGrande.

Intrigued, she slid the first letter back into its envelope and proceeded to read the remaining letters in order. They told a story of a part of her mother’s life that had remained a well-kept secret. Only Bessye Montcherry and Jacques LeGrande knew the truth.

Victoria wiped tears from her eyes, feeling the longing expressed in the letters. Jacques’ family had plans for him in the family business, a business that kept him in France. But it was evident his heart was in the Seychelles.

One letter made her tremble. Jacques had learned of Bessye’s having borne a child, his child. He was stunned yet determined to come back to her and to see the daughter they had created. He had also pledged financial support and the letter had, apparently, been sent with substantial funds.

“Oh my God!” Victoria screamed. “Oh my God! My father is Jacques LeGrande. All along I thought my father was dead. He’s alive and he’s here, in the Seychelles!”

She polished off the bottle of Seybrew.

She continued to read the letters, letters that now referenced her. The little girl had Jacques’ features, blond hair and coloring. Every time she looked at the baby, Bessye had thought of Jacques. She had named the child in honor the Island’s capital, Victoria. Apparently, the town had personal meaning to the couple.

Jacques did return to the Seychelles, ten years later. He had walked away from his family’s business and fortune and had pursued his dream of being a writer. Only after having been published to critical acclaim had he returned to the Seychelles.

The letters stopped.

Victoria sat perplexed. If her father had returned to the Islands, why hadn’t he returned to Bessye? Why didn’t he marry her and be a part of her life? Why wasn’t he a

father to Victoria? She swallowed hard. All she had were unanswered questions.

Hoping to uncover some of the questions, she withdrew photographs from a large envelope. Many were island shots of Bessye as a child with her own mother. Some were of Bessye as a young woman. Some were of Bessye and a man Victoria presumed was Jacques. Peering into his face was like staring into a mirror. She was as white and French appearing as he with the same curve of chin, the same patrician nose, and familiar wavy blonde hair. There was no doubt that Victoria was Jacques’ LeGrande’s daughter.

Victoria Montcherry. Victoria LeGrande. Thoughts kept spinning around in her head at what could have been.

Chapter 20

Daemon was livid. In reading the latest edition of Eden Resorts’ e-newsletter, he noted the recent news. Listed were Marcella Gruen’s promotion and also the official hiring of Victoria Montcherry as Vice President of Development for Eden Resorts International. Not only was the woman selling out, she was working for his father. Worse still was the fact that she would be based in the Seychelles.

He clicked off his e-mail and sat in stunned silence. After seeing her at her mother’s funeral, he thought he had a chance at rekindling their romance. Now, there wasn’t a chance in hell.

Seems that Victoria had suddenly become cozy with his father. The thought of Alexander with her made him nauseous. Having her working out of the Seychelles office, his office, made his skin crawl.

Ever since her return to the Islands, Victoria thought her life had become a series of unfinished business. Her mother’s illness, her son and now the discovery of her

father all had to be dealt with. Her mother was deceased and her son had his own life independent of hers. All that was left was her father.

She pondered whether meeting Jacques LeGrande would be in her best interest or whether it would just lead to more heartache. No regrets. Her mother had said that one should not live with regrets. If she didn’t meet her father she knew she would regret it. No matter what the outcome, the meeting had to take place. If not, an empty spot would remain in her heart that could never be repaired.

Jacques LeGrande lived on Ste. Sabastian Island off the coast of Mah’e. She decided on chartering a yacht to sail to the private island.

Victoria watched the crewman dock the yacht on the private pier at Ste. Sabastian Island. She had decided it was worth the risk of being caught trespassing on private property to sail over to meet her father. The island was less than a half-hour from Mah’e. Though small in comparison to most islands in the archipelago, it possessed the same tropical charm. A sandy beach dotted the shoreline, palm trees bending over in the trade winds, lush forests beyond. The wood pier was well maintained and a  sandy path led into the forest. A path, Victoria presumed, that led to Jacques LeGrande. She knew how important it was to meet her father in order to reconcile her past and just hoped that Jacques would be as forthcoming to her. The man, after all, had lived like a recluse. Islanders knew little about him other than his being a famous French scribe.

The moment of reckoning had come, Victoria thought, standing on the teak deck. She wore the crisp cotton sundress she had recently purchased in Victoria, wanting to make a favorable impression so Jacques would be proud to have her as a daughter.

The walk down the sandy forest path was long but the towering coconut palms, African Tulip Trees, ginger and ferns shaded and scented the way. The only sounds were
rustling leaves and cooing and squawking of island birds. The island was truly a private tropical oasis.

Victoria could imagine why someone would prefer the serenity and peace of an island to a major city. Like walking into the Garden of Eden, where life began.

Visiting her father was like rediscovering where her life began.

She wondered how Jacque would react to her sudden appearance. Would he be stunned into silence? Would he be welcoming with open arms and an open heart? Or would he prefer she stay away and out of his life forever? Soon, she would have her answer. She needed an answer instead of being left in limbo.

A slight breeze swept up from the ocean with its scent of salty water and seaweed. Victoria drew a deep breath of the refreshing perfume of home. Home. She wondered if she would ever really be at home in the Seychelles or, for that matter, anywhere else on earth.

Wasn’t it fitting that her father, a famous writer who championed utopian ideals, lived on a private island in the middle of paradise? He had found his home.

The simple timber frame cottage was built in the center of a clearing. Flowering purple bougainvillea formed hedges, climbing up the home’s walls added color. The garden surrounding the cottage was reminiscent of Monet, the same vivid hues and varied textures. The scent was sweet and enticing.

She approached the veranda where overflowing baskets of impatiens hung from posts. Wicker furnished the space with colorful striped cushions. Pots of pitcher plants and hibiscus were set nearby.

He lives well for a hermit, Victoria thought, scanning the warm and welcoming setting.

She stepped on to the porch and the floorboards creaked.
Best to get this over with. I just hope he’s home.

With a trembling hand, Victoria rapped on the solid wood door. She was sure unexpected guests were uncommon in such a remote place. No Jehovah’s Witnesses or solicitors way out here.

The door squeaked open and Victoria’s heart lurched. For a moment she couldn’t breathe in anticipation. As the door opened wide, she stood face to face with her father.

The man stared at her, squinting to get an even closer look. “Do I know you?” he asked in French.

“
Oui,
” she answered in his native tongue. “I am Bessye Montcherry’s daughter.
Your
daughter, Victoria.”

Victoria stood tall and unwavering, determined to put on a strong front, though her knees were shaking.

The man continued to stare at her, his dark eyes perusing her from the tip of her toes to the top of her head.

She, in turn, looked at him. Donned in white linen slacks and shirt, his hair was pure white and wavy. Wrinkles lined his face, especially at the corners of his

mouth and at his eyes. Surprising her, he smiled and chuckled in a robust way she found disconcerting.

“My, oh, my, you sure don’t resemble your mother. You look like me … at least how I looked some thirty years ago. Come on in.” He waved her inside.

Victoria hesitated before entering, knowing she was crossing the threshold into an unknown past. She swallowed hard.

Jacques led her into a simply furnished yet comfortable living room. The furniture was a hand-hewn timber upholstered in native batik. Fans rotated overhead, distributing a cool breeze.

“Sit. Sit,” her father said, motioning to a sofa as he lowered himself into a matching armchair. He appeared nervous, as well he should after having met his daughter
face-to-face.

Victoria just stared at Jacques LeGrande. He admitted he was her father.
Her father
. He actually said that she resembled him. If he never said another word, she would be pleased. Her heritage was no longer a mystery. She now knew whose blood flowed in her veins.

“Some lemonade?” he asked, standing. “Lemons from my own trees.”

“That would be nice,” Victoria managed to say, lips trembling.

After Jacques left, she glanced about the room, the design as warm and informal as Jacques. To her surprise, he had welcomed her into his home as family. She had hoped for such a response but had expected less.

Jacques returned a short time later with two tall glasses of frosty lemonade and a full pitcher. He served and set the tray and pitcher on a coffee table.

For a moment, they stared at each other, fidgeting.

Victoria sipped the refreshing lemonade. It was as sweet as the tone of their meeting. “I’m sorry I didn’t give you any advance warning but I had no idea how to reach you without sailing over,” Victoria explained. “I hope you don’t mind the intrusion but I needed to meet you.”

He sipped his lemonade, analyzing her over his frosted glass. “Sometimes circumstances occur that are beyond our control, like being a father, Victoria.”

She liked the slow and easy way he pronounced her name and the way he said the word “father.” “After my mother’s death, I found letters and photographs in her belongings. I also found your novels on her shelves and read them. They led me here to you.”

“Our meeting was inevitable. At least, I surmised it to be once I had heard of your returning to the Islands,” he said, leaning back in his chair.

“You knew of my return?”

He smiled. “Island gossip travels everywhere.”

“So I’ve learned.” She smiled. “My mother had saved all the letters you had written to her. I read every one.”

“Bless Bessye’s soul. I loved that woman. I truly loved her.” He sighed, closing his eyes for a moment as if in silent prayer.

“Yet, you returned to the Islands but not to her, not to me.” Victoria met his gaze as tears glistened in her eyes. He had abandoned them and she needed answers.

“I supported her and I supported you. I kept up with your lives as best I could,” he said, voice cracking.

“But you weren’t a physical part of our lives. I never met you.” Victoria swallowed hard.

“I met you, when you were born.”

Tears glided down her cheeks. “The only time.”

He leaned forward in his seat and began wringing his broad hands. “Victoria, it was difficult. I didn’t return to the Seychelles alone. I brought my wife.”

Victoria slumped in her seat, stunned.
“Wife?”

“I had been married in France, a marriage my family had arranged. I didn’t love her. Clarice had grown to be my best friend but was not my love. I loved Bessye. I persuaded my wife to join me in the Islands under the guise of it being inspirational to my writing. Little did she know that my greatest inspiration was Bessye.” He choked on the words, wiping perspiration from his wrinkled brow.

“You stayed married?”

“I couldn’t break the vows I made to her. I couldn’t cheat on her. She was an innocent who did nothing wrong but to marry me. Clarice died a few years ago, never knowing of Bessye or you. It was for the best.”

“Any children?”

He shook his head. “You are my only child, Victoria.”

The revelation brought consolation and her heart rate slowed.

“I saw you at my mother’s funeral,” Victoria said, remembering the day as if it had just happened, the sadness cutting as deep.

“I had to be there. I couldn’t attend the viewing. Seeing her in a wood box would have been far too much for me to bear. I’m a coward, Victoria. I’m not as strong as Bessye or, I suspect, as strong as you.” He swiped at tears glistening in his eyes.

“I’m not that strong. I’m only human.” Victoria brushed away her own tears.

“I’ve heard a great deal about you and I want you to know how proud I am of you. I am mostly proud of how you returned home to the Islands. The Seychelles are like no other place on earth.” He cleared his throat.

“I know.” It took a journey around the world and a return home for her to realize it. If she realized it.

“So, now that you are home, what are your plans?” He stared at her.

“I … I purchased land. I’m planning on building a beachfront home on Mah’e. The other property is for investment.”

“Investment?” His brows shot up.

“Yes, I’m working with Eden Resorts as Vice President of Development,” she said with pride in her voice, hoping to impress him.

“Development? Is Eden planning on constructing more luxury resorts?” He sat up straight and alert.

“In the future, when the Seychelles are more friendly toward tourism.” She smiled.

“Quite frankly, my hope is that the Islands become less developed. We don’t need every acre of land on this earth to be paved over with concrete and over run with people who have more money than brains." His voice boomed.

Victoria’s smile faded. Instead of making him proud, she was making him angry. This was not the scene she had in mind.

“Young woman, I hope the return home will educate you as to the fragility of nature and of these islands. I choose to live here because the Seychelles are not polluted, overpopulated and exploited. Peace and tranquility should remain on some parts of this planet.” He stared at her, the same fire in his eyes that Daemon possessed when he spoke of ecology and conservation. She fidgeted in her seat.

“I do believe development and conservation can work hand-in-hand,” she said, trying to remain calm.

He grunted. “Being of Bessye’s and mine flesh and blood, I can’t see you doing harm to your homeland. You will do what’s right, I’m sure of it. Your mother loved these islands, so much that she refused to leave them. I loved them so much I had to return.”

“Did my mother have the chance to leave?” she asked, pondering his words.

“I wanted her to run away with me. Instead of returning to France, I planned on disappearing with Bessye to begin a new life in Reunion, where no one would know of us, where we could have lived together,” he said, his voice trailing off, his gaze wistful.

“She wouldn’t go?”

“No.”

Victoria squeezed her eyes shut. Oh, how different her life would have been if her mother had moved to Reunion with Jacques. She would have had two parents to love her.

Her life would have been different and, most probably, without a son. Justin. She wouldn’t have had Justin!

“Victoria.”