Tangled Ashes (6 page)

B
ECK’S FIRST NIGHT
in the château was memorable. In the early-morning hours when sleep had eluded him, he’d had all the usual impulses—find an open bar, surf the Internet, order up some late-night takeout. And each one of his cravings had been foiled by his new location. There was probably no such thing as Chinese takeout in Lamorlaye. No more than there was high-speed Internet in the castle or a bar around the corner—though he planned on investigating that tomorrow.

Somewhere around 4 a.m., after he’d dragged his mattress away from the stench of his apartment and up to the second-floor hallway, sleep had finally claimed him. The combination of jet lag and nervous exhaustion rendered his slumber dreamless and deep, so deep that the sound of footsteps on the stairs the next morning didn’t wake him until two pairs of sneakers—one white and one pink—stood in front of his face.

He focused on the shoes while fragments of reality swirled in his mind and finally fell into place. He was in a castle in France, lying on a mattress in a hallway and staring at what appeared to be two pairs of children’s feet. As he had no particular fondness for children, the feet were not a welcome sight. His displeasure was only compounded by the lack of sleep he’d suffered during the night.

Feeling like his eyelids and brain were weighed down by cement blocks, he closed his eyes just long enough to gather courage, then opened them again resolutely. Grunting into a sitting position, he gave his scalp a vigorous scratch, ran a hand over the stubble on his cheeks and jaw, and stretched his stiff back, still avoiding looking directly at the children standing next to him.

“He’s ignoring us,” one of them said. It was more a statement of fact than a complaint.

“He might be deaf,” said the other, just as matter-of-fact as the first. “Or blind.”

Beck drew back his blankets and stood, a little unsteadily at first. He stretched his neck to one side and felt something pop. His morning disposition was seldom very people friendly, and waking up to pint-size strangers wasn’t improving his mood. He raked his fingers through his hair and bent over to pick up his mattress, sheets and all. “Get out of my way,” he said, cutting a look at the children.

The little girl, redheaded and freckled, stared at him with wide, surprised eyes. The little boy crossed his arms and jutted out his bottom lip, a study in childhood defiance. “That was mean,” he said more forcefully and loudly than Beck thought was strictly necessary. “I’m going to tell Jade!”

Beck wasn’t sure who Jade was, but he was convinced that a beer would make it matter less. Or a glass of red. Anything to dull the drumming in his skull and the ache in the small of his back. “Sure . . . whatever, kid,” he said absently, moving with his mattress toward the narrow corkscrew staircase that led down to his
apartment. He peered over his shoulder before taking the first step. The boy was still standing there, arms crossed, glaring at him, and the girl stood just behind him, peering around her brother at the scary stranger carrying his bed down the castle stairs.

He had just dropped his mattress back on the bedsprings and pulled off his T-shirt to head to the bathroom when light footsteps ran up the stairs and past the door to his apartment. “Philippe! Eva!” It was a soft voice, nearly a whisper, but it commanded attention. “What are you doing up here? I told you to wait in the kitchen!”

The children launched into simultaneous loud reports as Beck stepped onto the landing to hear what was going on.

“There was a man on the floor . . .” Beck was fairly sure that was the boy.

“With a mattress and a blanket . . .”

“And he was mean to me.”

“Really, really mean.”

“And then he got up and said, ‘Get out of my way!’”

“Yeah, just like that!” the little girl chimed in.

“And then he carried his bed downstairs. He has a really lot of hair.”

“And he’s not happy.”

The other small voice repeated with emphasis, “Not—happy!”

Beck tried to duck out of sight as the trio came into view, but the boy saw him before he could retreat. “That’s him!” he yelled, pointing at the disheveled and now mildly uncomfortable Beck. “He’s the one who was mean to me.”

The woman descending the stairs with one child’s hand in each of hers seemed as discomfited by the encounter as he was. She paused briefly and glanced in his direction. “I’m so sorry, Mr. . . . ?”

“Becker.”

“Mr. Becker. I instructed them not to come up here and bother you, but . . .” Her dark ponytail bobbed with the sincerity of her
apology. Her wide-set brown eyes and small, upturned nose accentuated her youthful look, and Beck found it hard to believe she’d be celebrating her fortieth birthday in just over two months.

Realizing he was standing there in his flannel pajama bottoms, bare chested and unshowered, Beck figured it might be best to postpone official introductions. “No problem, Mrs. Fallon,” he said gruffly, gradually closing the door to his apartment as he spoke. “No harm done. . . .” She opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off. “Just have to—” he motioned over his shoulder toward the bathroom—“take a shower.”

He closed the door and leaned his forehead against the wood, the stench of the rear bedroom nearly distracting him from the awkwardness of his first encounter with his boss’s wife. “Nice job, Becker. Brilliant.” He bounced his forehead against the door a couple times, a sort of penance for his self-humiliation, then padded off to the bathroom on bare feet. His first day as an official castle renovator was starting off pretty inauspiciously.

It was a clean, shaved, and dressed Marshall Becker who strolled into the kitchen several minutes later, his mood only slightly improved by his shower in a space that was too confining for his large frame. He’d followed the smell of coffee to the kitchen, his need for caffeine overpowering his aversion to early-morning conversation.

“Beck, my boy!” Fallon exclaimed when he appeared. “Come,” he said, patting a stool next to the stainless-steel table in the middle of the kitchen where he sat. “Pull up a stool. We’ve got some introducing to do!”

The two children sat across from Fallon, each dipping a buttered piece of French bread in a large bowl of what looked to be chocolate milk. There was a butter slick on top of the brown liquid, but that
didn’t seem to be bothering anyone. Fallon’s wife sat next to the boy, instructing him to use his napkin on his chin. Only a small amount of the hot chocolate the bread was absorbing was actually making it into his mouth.

“You’ve met my children, I hear.” Fallon beamed, his chest puffed out with pride.

“And your wife, yes,” Beck said, taking a seat next to his employer, reaching for the pot of coffee in the middle of the table and hooking the empty mug next to it with his finger. “We ran into each other upstairs.”

Fallon’s wife ducked her head and blushed, shooting a look at the children, who were suddenly hiding giggles behind their hands. Fallon himself wasn’t quite so subtle. He roared so loudly that it made Beck jump. And then he smacked him on the back with unbridled joviality, his guffaws subsiding into chuckles.

“Something I said?” Beck asked.

“Becker, my boy, I’d like you to meet Jade Loubry. My children’s nanny and our family friend.”

So this was the Jade the kids had mentioned earlier. Jade wiped some milk off the little girl’s chin with a napkin and smiled up at Becker from under thick, straight bangs. Her voice had the melodious lilt of the French language, but her English was nearly flawless. “I would have explained earlier,” she said quietly, still a little embarrassed, “but you seemed in a hurry to shut your door.”

Becker dropped his chin and rolled his head back and forth. This day was starting off just swell. Not that the night had been anything to brag about. Its only saving grace had been the absence of dreams.

“Tell Mr. Becker your names, children.”

Becker looked up and met two pairs of curious eyes.

“Philippe?” Fallon prodded.

Philippe looked at Jade, who nodded. “My name is Philippe,” he said. Then he poked his sister with his elbow.

“Ow,” she whined.

“Can you tell Mr. Becker your name?” Jade coaxed.

The pale, freckled redhead rubbed her arm where Philippe’s elbow had connected with it and looked cautiously at the stranger across the table. “Eva,” she said. Then, on a courageous streak, she added, “I’m six. Philippe too.”

“So you’re twins?” Beck asked, trying to appear friendly.

Eva looked up at Jade as if the question were too ridiculous for her to waste her time on. “Yes, they’re twins,” Jade said.

“But you’d never know it to look at them, would you,” Fallon said. He was right, of course. Philippe’s light-brown hair and blue eyes were a stark contrast to his sister’s red hair and direct brown gaze. He was as stocky as she was delicate and, apparently, as little-boy as she was little-girl. Beck had the feeling that the average woman would have oohed and aahed all over herself at the sight of these two kids, but all they inspired in him was prudence. It wouldn’t be a good thing to antagonize the boss’s children.

“Come on, you two,” Jade said, standing and motioning the children out of the kitchen. “Time to get some work done. We’ll clean up later.”

They grabbed their large bowls with both hands and downed the last of the buttery hot chocolate. Eva reached for her napkin to dry off her chin, while Philippe opted for the elbow of his long-sleeve T-shirt instead.

When they’d left, Fallon moved to the other side of the broad stainless-steel table and pushed a basket of bread toward Beck. “The children usually study at home in the mornings, then have the afternoon for other activities, but now that Sylvia is expecting our third, we’ve had to somewhat change the arrangement.”

Beck felt surprise cross his face and quickly schooled it into something looking more like idle curiosity. “Your third, huh?”

Fallon leaned in conspiratorially. “It was my wife’s idea at first, but I’m quite delighted about it now.”

“Yeah? Congratulations.” Beck focused his attention on buttering his bread and not imagining a forty-year-old pregnant woman posing on his grand staircase on her birthday.

“The timing is actually quite convenient,” Fallon continued. “Sylvia is getting more and more tired as time passes and would prefer some peace and quiet around home, so it seemed like a perfect solution to have Jade and the kids spend their days here. The grounds are safe and secluded, and the castle is every child’s dream playground.”

Beck swallowed the chunk of buttered bread lodged in his throat. “They’re going to be here?”

“Yes, of course. But they’ll be doing lessons with Jade during the morning—probably right here, as it’s out of the workmen’s way. And in the afternoon, they’ll play on the property.”

“Every day?” Beck had never tried to complete a major renovation while a child-care facility operated on-site, and he wasn’t too enthused about this first experiment of the sort.

“Most days. That won’t be a problem, will it, lad?”

“I guess it’s fine.” His tone held little sincerity or confidence, despite his greatest efforts to sound accommodating.

“Right, then. And your reward for so much flexibility will be Jade’s cooking. She needs to feed the children anyway, so I’ve suggested that she just make a little more to feed you, too.”

At this, Beck raised an eyebrow and gave the arrangement a second chance. If Jade was any kind of cook, her meals would be a welcome change from the restaurant and takeout food on which he’d lived for the past ten years.

Beck and Fallon spent the rest of the morning discussing the finer details of the renovation as they pored over the drawings and blueprints Beck had brought with him from Boston. They
wandered the castle, this time in daylight, comparing ideas and reaching compromises that both preserved the authenticity of the site and increased its profitability. The local company Fallon had hired to redo the wiring and plumbing had started two weeks before with Beck’s apartment and were well into the mammoth operation. With Fallon’s wealth and renown—not to mention the prospect of additional jobs in the future—companies seemed to be tripping over themselves for a part in the project, deploying large crews and doing the work in record time. That was just fine by Beck. The more of the grunt work they did, the freer he’d be to concentrate on the historical details of the daunting renovation. Once the new wiring was in place, Becker would be able to begin work in earnest. That left him with just a couple days to settle in, gather supplies, finish sketching his plans, and begin the process of turning a centuries-old château into a modern enterprise.