Second Chance Sister (17 page)

“That is good to hear. I had so hoped to become an aunt — ” Adrienne bit her lip.

“You may still be,” said Bishou.

Adrienne placed her hand on Bishou’s. “Then — when you are ready to christen Celie-Ange — telephone me.”

“You have my promise.”

“You and Jean-Baptiste, and your brothers — you are rather independent of your parents, are you not?”

“Yes and no. Our mother is in a wheelchair. Our father forgets things. Jean-Baptiste and I made it our business, long ago, to be certain that Andre and Gerard did not lack for anything because of that. We determined until Gerard is eighteen, one or other of us would always be at home with our parents and with the boys. It — ” she paused, but could not find a simple way to say it, “ — it has proved necessary.”

“But you got your doctorate. Jean-Baptiste served in the military.”

“We took turns. It was part of our deal with each other.”

“Ah, I see.” Adrienne was very thoughtful. “Forgive me for sounding rude, but — are you just transferring your mothering instincts to Louis Dessant?”

“That’s a legitimate question. I wondered, a little bit, myself. But I think the answer is no. I hope we have children, yes. If we do, I hope I will know what to do for them. But Louis himself? Non. He is a man — an incredibly attractive, sexually mature man. We are a man and a woman together, husband and wife. There is no mothering there.”

“And you and Jean-Baptiste?”

“
Nous sommes les jumeaux
. The twins together, mock parents together, brother and sister when apart.” Bishou drank her tea, and smiled. “We can balance a checkbook, change the oil filter on the car, call in a plumber, or take everyone to the cinema.”

“Family survival skills,” said Adrienne with a wry smile. “As I once did for my little sister Celie.”

“That’s it, exactly. Survival skills. That is what Jean-Baptiste and I do together, survive. But there is much more to life than merely survival.” Bishou did not feel comfortable telling her about Amy. Let Bat tell his story, if he wished. Not her.

Adrienne was lost in a memory. “We were alone in the world, after Maman and Papa died — Maman of cancer, and Papa of a heart attack, within a year of each other. I so felt the responsibility for taking care of my little sister. And she was so — so starry-eyed, Bishou. Everything would be wonderful. She would place marriage advertisements, and Prince Charming would appear and carry her off, and we would all be happy forever after. And then my baby vanished, and I just went mad.”

“Well, you have met Gerard — my little brother, Gerry. I am just as certain that Jean-Baptiste and I would go mad if anything happened to him.”

“But you let him take my gun and run off with it.”

“The Howards are a team, not a parental unit. Gerry and Andy are both part of that team. We never replace our parents, just supplement them.”

“Hm,” said Adrienne. “You decided that long ago, did you not?”

“Yes, when our father’s memory first started to disappear. We felt that our brothers had a right to the life of normal boys, and it would be the duty of Jean-Baptiste and me to make sure they had that opportunity. Above all, they needed security and trust.”

They finished their tea, and hunted up the bus stop. Soon, another island bus came by, driven by a different Creole driver. Bishou laughed, climbed inside, and dropped four or five Dessants in his hand. “So how are you related to Papa Armand?”

“Son-in-law,” the driver replied promptly, grinning. “Merci, Madame Bishou. Bonjour, Mademoiselle. Where to,
université
?”

“
Oui, université
.”

Sitting beside Bishou in a cramped, crowded bus, but smiling, Adrienne asked, “Are they all related?”

“Even my hairdresser,” Bishou confirmed with a smile.

“I thought your hair looked rather nice. Rather — free and natural,” Adrienne said. “If I was going to be here longer, I would hunt up your hairdresser, but not for this short a trip.”

“Next time,” said Bishou, and Adrienne chuckled.

They got off the bus at the Université stop. The gates and courtyard of UFOI, so tiny and provincial and quaint, amused Adrienne, compared to what she knew in Paris. She walked with Bishou to the Humanities building, and entered the front office with her.

Mme.
Ellis stood up immediately. “Dr. Dessant! Your timing couldn’t be better. I just finished typing up your contract!” She brought it to the front counter.

Bishou read carefully. Sure enough, it was a one-year teaching contract for an adjunct part-time professor of comparative literature. She passed each page over to Adrienne as she finished reading it.

“This is good,” Adrienne murmured. “You have medical rights to the university hospital. I hadn’t realized there was a medical school attached to this. The medical and pension benefits are pretty consistent with my own.”

“And where do you work, Madame?” asked
Mme.
Ellis.

“Bibliotheque Nationale,” Adrienne replied.

“What!”
Mme.
Ellis exclaimed.

Bishou looked up from her paperwork. “Oh,
mes apologies
,
Mme.
Ellis. Adrienne,
Mme.
Ellis of the Humanities Department. Madame,
Mlle.
Adrienne Bourjois, my sister-in-law.” They greeted each other.

“What do you think?” Bishou asked Adrienne of the contract.

“It’s all right. Are you satisfied with the wage?” Adrienne returned.

“It’s a wage appropriate for a doctorate, and they’ve spelled out my class-hour obligations fairly well. I don’t think I’ll really know until I try it for a year.”

“And vice versa,” said Adrienne. “You may find that your other obligations eat up too much of your time.”

“I was about to mail this to you, certified mail,” said
Mme.
Ellis. “Why don’t you take it with you, to study, and just give me a receipt?”

Bishou nodded, wrote on a piece of blank paper that she had both copies of her contract and its contract number, and tucked the contract and its copy into her purse.

“By the way, Dr. Dessant,” said
Mme.
Ellis, almost blushing, “I truly enjoyed your lecture.”

“Me too,” said one of the other, younger, secretaries.

Bishou thanked them, and they left the office. They went back to the bus stop, and took the next bus for Rue Dessant. As they rode, Bishou told Adrienne about the expository lecture she had given. It was a pleasant ride back into the countryside. At last, their stop arrived. They hopped off the bus and walked up Rue Dessant.

The white car and the yellow Panhard were parked in front. It was well past one o’clock. Louis and Etien were at table. The men stood as the women entered the dining room. Adrienne was introduced to Louis’s shy, bespectacled business partner. Bishou and Adrienne took their packages upstairs, washed up, met again outside Adrienne’s door, and came down to luncheon.

Louis explained that Etien would be needed at this afternoon’s business appointments, so he had invited him home for lunch. Bishou could see, however, that Etien had been on pins and needles about Adrienne. He needed to see for himself that everything was all right. As Bishou and Adrienne talked about their morning shopping trip, tea break, and trip to the université, Etien relaxed visibly.

At last, they excused themselves to Adrienne, who announced she had no plans but a nice bath, a try-on of the new clothes, and perhaps some laundry, and went back out to their respective automobiles.

Louis and Etien pulled up in front of Caisse de La Réunion, the Bank of La Réunion, at the same time. Louis and Bishou waited at the door for Etien and they entered together.

Louis walked to the receptionist and said, “Dessant? We have an appointment with Monsieur Mouillard.”

“Ah,
oui
, Monsieur Dessant.
Un moment, s’il vous plaît.
” The receptionist pushed a button on her telephone. “Monsieur Mouillard? Monsieur et Madame Dessant and Monsieur Campard are here.”

They waited only a moment before a respectable graying banker appeared, making a beeline for Louis. “Ah, Monsieur Dessant,” he said, reaching out a hand. “So nice to see you again.”

“
Bonjour
, M. Mouillard,” Louis greeted him. “
Ma femme
, Bishou — ”

“Mme. Dessant,” the banker greeted her, clasping her hand.

“ — and of course, Monsieur Campard you know.”

“Certainly. Welcome, welcome. Please, come into my office.”

Bishou was aware of almost a pre-concerted effort as she walked between the men, into the banker’s private office. Louis and Etien knew where to sit without the banker motioning to seats. There was no question that Etien was tense.
They’ve done this before
, she thought suddenly.
They’re repeating exactly what they did with the first
Mme.
Dessant.

Bishou met the banker’s gaze. He was staring at her. She raised one brow. M. Mouillard saw, dropped his gaze, and tried not to smile. He’d been tense, too.

Louis was unheeding. “Monsieur, we must arrange my wife’s signatures on my accounts.”

M. Mouillard stared. “All of them, Monsieur?”

“Oui, all of them.”

Bishou and Etien, both equally surprised, spoke at once. Etien halted, and motioned to Bishou to speak.

“Louis, I am not sure that is such a good idea. I was thinking more of a household account, where both you and I could transfer funds to pay household bills — ”

“Yes, that would be a good arrangement.” Etien almost interrupted her in his anxiety.

Louis Dessant’s hand hit the arm of his chair imperatively. “
Non
.” At their silence, he said determinedly, “Above all, I
must
be able to trust again. I
must
be able to trust my wife, do you see? I
must
.”

Etien Campard sighed, knowing he had just hit bedrock.

Bishou sat back in silence, meeting her husband’s gaze. At last, she said quietly, “I see you have thought about this.”

“Assuredly,” said Louis. “It isn’t about the money. It is about the trust.”

“Monsieur Mouillet’s job,” Etien interjected mildly, “is about the money.” At least he had learned not to take Louis head-on. “How best to satisfy him? And, for that matter, me? We’re in the same room, in the same chairs, you know.”

Louis smiled, across Bishou, at Etien. “At least this time, you are admitting you’re frightened,
mon frère.”

“Petrified,” Etien admitted.

His admission made them all laugh, including M. Mouillet. The banker said, “For all the conversations in this office about love, trust, and money, my job never gets any easier. The final decisions, of course, are yours, Monsieur Dessant. But I encourage you to work this out among you. Monsieur Campard is your partner in business.
Mme.
Dessant is your partner in life.”
That was the perfect thing to say,
Bishou thought.

“Louis, I am going to be receiving a université paycheck,” Bishou said. “It has been my intention all along to open a small account here, and use that paycheck as my
argent
. I don’t want to take and take and take from you. I don’t want to be a parasite — and you don’t like parasites, either.” Despite herself, her voice gentled. “I did not marry you for your money.”

Louis smiled at her. “I know. We can discuss why you married me later. But I want to
give
you things. That’s different from a woman who takes everything from me, ma Bishou.”

M. Mouillet said reasonably, “Might I suggest a savings account for you, then,
Mme.
Dessant? As a separate account, it carries separate government insurance, and if you won’t be writing checks on it — just cashing paychecks or depositing to your savings — it might be all you need.”

Bishou turned to Louis and smiled. “And it falls under government guidelines for full reimbursement if the bank fails — unlike your accounts, Louis, which have too much money in them to qualify. So if we must move to a little apartment in Saint-Denis if our bank’s fortunes reverse, we will not starve.”

Louis eyed her for a moment. “How do you know so much about government bank insurance?”

“Are you kidding? I’m from Boston. The motto of the entire city of Boston is ‘Don’t touch the principal.’”

Monsieur Mouillet snickered appreciatively at a banking joke, which he was sure to be sharing with his friends at dinner tonight. “Madame, do you have any familiarity with bookkeeping? Truly, if you can journal what you spent on which purpose, the drawing account will not matter. The journaling would also help for tax purposes, not to mention such things as entries for a clothing allowance, or a grocery allowance.” He was using financial terms with someone he knew would understand them.

“Who reconciles your bank accounts?” Bishou asked Louis.

“Anna and Claire,” both men replied at once.

“Good. They double-check each other, and have the business’s interests at heart,” said Bishou.

Etien admitted, “That was one of the changes I made — after — after our last major mistake.”

“It was a sensible thing we should have been doing all along,” Louis agreed, “but it took a disaster to see it.”

“They are good women, too,” said Bishou.

“Oui, they are,” said Etien.

“You must have been responsible for a great deal of reinforcing of the business,” Bishou said to Etien admiringly. He blushed as if he had been told he was a candidate for Mister Universe.

Louis chuckled again. “We will buy each other drinks later,” he said. “Now, let’s settle this.”

“
Bien, mon mari
.” Bishou sat forward, paying attention to him. “Tell me what you want.”

“Now those are the words I like to hear from my wife,” said Louis, and Etien grinned.

“Do you think we should have two checking accounts, though?” she asked, “just to make certain they’re insured? One for daily use and one for special occasion?”

The banker jumped in. “The special-occasion one, if only two or three checks are drawn on it per year, can earn a higher rate of interest. There is no interest on an ordinary drawing account.”

Louis usually made snap decisions, and this was no different. He looked calculatingly at Bishou, then at Mouillard, and said, “
Bon
. Split my personal drawing account down the middle, Monsieur Mouillard, half in a regular drawing account and half at the special rate. The business account, monitored by
Mlle.
Aucoeur, which now has my name, Etien’s name, and the company treasurer’s signatures authorized for it, you will also add
Mme.
Dessant’s name, and we will change the rules on that account so that any check drawn for over one hundred thousand francs must have two signatures.
D’accord?
”