Tangled Ashes (14 page)

T
HE PROGRESS BEING MADE
in the castle was astonishing. On a rainy Friday morning, Fallon, Thérèse, and Becker toured the site, consulting with the artisans and master craftsmen they encountered and marveling both at the extent and beauty of the work already accomplished. In the two adjoining dining halls, the crown molding and wainscoting had been painstakingly removed and restored, several layers of paint steamed and scraped off each piece to return the artistic accents to their rich wood finish. Several layers of old wallpaper had also been stripped and the plaster beneath them prepared for the wall treatments Thérèse had ordered. They would be covered with two different historically accurate patterns printed on modern wallpaper and the artistic use of molding designs.

The passageway between the dining rooms and the kitchen had been used as a food preparation site in decades gone by. Originally, floor-to-ceiling built-in cupboards had lined one wall, and a giant
cutting board across the room sported a sort of guillotine intended to make quick work of slicing French baguettes. The floor in this area had previously been covered in old, cracked tiles now replaced with small, unglazed marble tiles in shades of gray and brown. The cupboards had been ripped out, and Thérèse had ordered some new organizational features for the space. She liked to call the style she’d selected for this area and the kitchen
“nouveau vieux,”
which, translated, meant “new old.” The men had to agree, almost reluctantly, that her choice was in keeping with the colors and lines of the dining halls, while modern and spacious enough to add practicality and efficiency to the room. Thérèse tried to hide her pleasure at their praise and failed miserably. She glowed with satisfaction and expressed her pride with a nonstop flurry of words that threatened to sap Becker of whatever sanity he still possessed.

Becker led the trio into his office to show Fallon the progress he was making on the staircase features. Fallon looked around, taking in the workbench crowded under the window, the thick layer of wood chips on the floor, and the draped sheets protecting the furniture in the sitting area.

“Made yourself at home, did you?” he asked, smiling.

Becker realized that he hadn’t consulted with his boss before making the office his carpentry studio. “I just thought it would be more practical . . .”

Fallon interrupted his explanation with a hearty thump on the back. “No need to explain yourself, my lad. I can see this office is serving you well, and that’s exactly what it was intended for.”

They’d spent a few more minutes discussing the progress of the project when there was a quick knock on the door. Sylvia poked her head into the room. “I thought I heard my husband’s voice,” she said, smiling at him as she entered. “Mr. Becker,” she said, “I hope you’ll forgive me, but we have a doctor’s appointment—” she glanced at her watch—“a half an hour ago, so I’m going to have
to forcibly remove your boss from the premises!” She linked an arm through her husband’s as she spoke and gently propelled him toward the door. “Nice to see you, Thérèse! That shade of red looks just beautiful on you.” She was at the door now, pushing Fallon out. “I’m sure he was very pleased with your progress, Mr. Becker,” she said, turning to smile at him, then calling out the door, “Weren’t you, love?”

“I was indeed,” came Fallon’s jovial reply from the landing outside the office.

Sylvia was just about to pull the door closed when Thérèse took a few furtive steps forward and interrupted her. “Madame Fallon!”

Sylvia stepped back into the room, clearly preoccupied by the passing time. “Please. Call me Sylvia.”

“Sylvia, then. I’m just wondering how you’re feeling,” she said.

Becker frowned and took a closer look at the high-strung woman whose eagerness to ask about her employer’s wife’s health seemed just a little excessive. She seemed to be torn between staring with odd intensity at Sylvia’s swollen belly and averting her eyes from the sight.

“With the baby, I mean,” Thérèse answered. “Is everything all right?”

Sylvia too seemed a bit nonplussed by Thérèse’s concern. “I’m doing fine, Thérèse. I’m . . .” A thought struck her. “Oh—you’re referring to the doctor’s appointment!”

“Yes, of course. You mentioned that you were seeing him this morning, and . . .”

“Her. We’re seeing her. And it’s just a routine checkup. Nothing to worry yourself about.”

“Oh, good.” Thérèse sounded genuinely, deeply relieved. She fingered her pendant, a flush on her neck and cheeks, her eyes earnest. “One just doesn’t know. Pregnancies can be so . . . unpredictable, sometimes. And even with modern medicine . . .”

Sylvia smiled and said, “I’m sure everything is just fine, Thérèse.” She nodded at Beck. “It’s been a pleasure seeing you both.”

When the door closed behind her, Thérèse’s tension collapsed in a visible way. She let out a shaky breath and grabbed the backrest of the couch with an unsteady hand.

“Thérèse,” Beck said, a little embarrassed by the woman’s behavior, “she’s the pregnant one, you know. There’s no need to work yourself up about someone else’s baby.”

“No—of course not,” Thérèse conceded. “It’s just that—you know—” She seemed to be racking her mind for a plausible explanation. “I’ve come to care about the Fallons, and I guess I get a little overprotective of those I feel close to.”

“Yeah, well—your overprotective is someone else’s over-the-cuckoo’s-nest, so you might want to put a lid on the hysterics.” He realized too late that his words had been unnecessarily harsh. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Thérèse cut in before he could say anything.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, her back once again ramrod straight, “I’ve got some wallpapering to attend to.” And she marched out of the office.

Sundays were the only day of the week when his meal routine was altered. The kids were home with their parents on that day, and Jade spent only enough time at the castle to bring Beck croissants for breakfast and fix him lunch. They had agreed that he’d snack on leftovers for dinner and allow Jade to spend some time at home.

It was nearly one when he realized there had been no sign of life from the kitchen, and he went out to investigate. Jade’s purse hung on the hook next to the back door and there were some groceries on the counter, but the kitchen was otherwise empty. Beck went to the
sink to start some coffee percolating and looked through the bags of groceries. There was broccoli, potatoes, cheese, and a pot of cream. Anyone else might have known how to turn those ingredients into a meal, but Beck’s culinary specialties were Kraft mac and cheese, microwave popcorn, and Thai takeout. Anything beyond that was Greek to him.

He had his head in the fridge and was scrounging for leftovers when he heard the door open. Jade smiled when she saw him and immediately raised a hand in apology. “I’m so sorry it’s so late . . . ,” she began.

“Well, it’s about time you showed up. Look at me. One more minute without food and the UN would be sending in a humanitarian convoy.”

Jade sent him a small smile and hung her coat on the usual hook, grabbing an apron and moving slowly toward the bagged groceries on the counter. “I’ll have it on the table in fifteen minutes.”

There was something in her demeanor that caught his attention. Maybe it was the slight shuffle of her feet or the look of forced concentration on her face. Or maybe it had more to do with the fact that she hadn’t made eye contact with him since she’d arrived.

“Um . . .” He was slightly out of his league here. Sensitivity had never been a strong suit. “Are you sure you’re up to cooking? I mean . . . there are leftovers in the—”

“I’m fine,” she interrupted, her voice a little raspy.

“But if you’re not feeling well . . .”

“I’m
fine
,” she repeated.

He held up his hands in surrender. “All right. I’m sorry.”

She sighed and turned away from the sink where she was washing the broccoli just long enough to cast him a weary smile. “I’m just a little tired. And church went late, so . . .”

He thought he saw something more than fatigue in the dullness of her eyes and smile. From the moment he’d entered the castle
and mistaken her for Fallon’s wife, she’d had a sparkle in her eye—something infinitely alive and aware. He hadn’t seen that just then. He’d seen something dim and forced. It had the dual effect of making him want to pry
and
flee. And since he was neither good at asking personal questions nor at beating hasty retreats, he was left anchored to the spot, at a loss.

At the sink, Jade filled a pot with water and seemed to strain as she carried it to the stove to light a flame beneath it. She took a cast-iron pan from the shelf beside the stove and poured a dribble of olive oil into it, placing it too on a flame. Beck watched her tear open the package of meat she’d taken from the fridge—it looked like steak—and sprinkle it with an assortment of spices. She seemed as unaware of him as he was aware of her, which left the onus of any conversation on Beck. Under other circumstances, he might have left her to prepare the dinner in silence, but there was a frailty about her that he hadn’t seen before, and it made him feel . . . concerned. Granted, concern was a bit of a new emotion for him. At least, of late. And the coward in him would have preferred to ignore it. But as much as he had fought it, there was something about Jade that had gone beyond intriguing him. It had engaged him. And that small spark of new life in the high-strung void of his existence was reason enough to push past his reservations.

He walked over to the stove before he lost his resolve and leaned on the counter next to it, crossing his ankles in an attempt at nonchalance. From that distance he could see more clearly the pallor of her skin and the determination in her eyes. She was fighting some sort of battle, and he was watching from the sidelines. He grasped at conversational straws and finally settled on “So you go to church?”

She paused in the act of dropping diced onions into the frying pan and gave him a look. “You’re making conversation?”

He had to admit that, given the tenor of previous interactions, she had a right to raise the issue. “I am,” he said. “And I’m not sure
why, except that you look like you’ve been broadsided by something really large and really heavy, and I figure if you won’t tell me what it is, at least talking might get your mind off it. . . .” He let the sentence trail off, hoping for an “Okay, let’s talk” or a “What, are you kidding me?” that would give him a clearer picture of what he was up against.

Instead, she said, “Yes, I go to church,” and left it at that.

As far as conversations went, this one was shaping up to be painful. “Here in Lamorlaye?”

She gave him another look. Given the fact that she owned no car, the likelihood of going somewhere distant for church was slim. “Can you cut me a little slack here? I’m just trying to . . .”
Trying to what?
“I used to go to church,” he finally said. The moment the words were out, he wondered where they’d come from. His churchgoing days were a farce to him. And certainly not worth discussing.

Unfortunately, Jade seemed to have a different opinion of the topic, and though she didn’t regain any color and her eyes didn’t recover their spark, there was a fresh focus on her face when she said, “Tell me about that.”

Beck held up his hand. “Wait a minute—you can’t turn the tables on me like that.”

Jade smiled. “It’s called conversation,” she said, using a fork to transfer steak into the frying pan where the onions sizzled in the oil.

Beck was starting to regret the concern that had prompted his foray into verbal territory. “Actually, since I asked you first . . .”

Jade rolled her eyes, then put a hand on the counter, as if the eye motion had set her off balance. “Okay,” she said, a sheen of perspiration breaking out on her upper lip, “what do you want to know?”

Becker shrugged and contemplated possible scenarios that would put an end to this conversation. Before he’d opted for any of them, Jade went on.

“I’ve attended church since I was . . . I can’t remember, actually.
Since I was a child.” She looked at him and smiled, a vestige of her usual feistiness in her gaze. “Why did I go to church, you ask? Because my parents dragged me there, kicking and screaming, every Sunday. Why was I kicking and screaming, you ask?” She smiled again, enjoying the conversation “they” were having without any need for Beck’s participation in it. “Because I thought church was this austere place where people went when they didn’t have anything better to do, or—worse yet—when they were so lonely that the only company they could find was the priest who sat in the confessional.” She let a moment or two pass while she flipped the steak and seasoned the other side, then washed a potato and placed it in the microwave. She glanced at him and said, “It’s your turn to ask a question.” She dropped several broccoli florets into the pot of simmering water.