The Frenchman's Slow Seduction (6 page)

Tim, who has just
walked in, raises his eyebrows.

“You’ve already told me
more than I need to know,” I tell Shane.

He laughs, takes a few
swings at an imaginary sparring partner, and then boxes his way
toward the kennel room, where he gets on with cleaning up last
night’s messes.

Acting on a whim, I
call Michelle’s workplace. The bastard answers.

“I’d like to speak to
Dr Lin, please,” I tell him.

“Who may I say is
calling?”

“Dr Wiley.”

“One moment.”

“Hello, Dr Wiley. What
can I do for you?”

“Michelle, I’m going to
Northcliff at a quarter to four. Can you come with me? They’re
having an entertainment afternoon, and I want you to meet Liz and
Verna.”

“I would have to see
him before I could really give an opinion,” she says, already
setting up a lie. “I may be able to go about three thirty today.
Just wait one moment, please.” She’s obviously checking with the
bastard. “Yes, I can be at your clinic about three forty-five.”

Later in the day, as
Michelle and I are driving up to the manor, I see Verna and Liz
returning from a walk. Liz is dressed in a bright orange
muumuu.

“We’ve been to the
park,” Liz says, when we meet up with them. “Just look at me. I’m
sweating more than a hen hauling logs.” She fixes her attention on
Michelle
. “Oh my!
What flower petal did you drop in from? A
violet, I think.”

Liz is right. With
shoulder-length hair that’s so black it sometimes shines blue and
with her beautiful light green eyes, Michelle
does
look like
a violet.

Turning to Liz, I say,
“Are you going to awaken the soul of Robert Burns for us
today?”

“Have either of you
ever heard his poetry read out loud?” she asks. When we tell her
that we haven’t, she says, “Then I shall recite some for you. To
not hear his verses is to miss out on a beautiful part of life, and
I wouldn’t want that for either of you.”

“Let’s go inside,”
Verna says. “The music is about to start.”

At the door leading to
the auditorium, Gert, a lady in her nineties, hands us a
program.

The main act, a
professional group called Emerald Isle, is scheduled to perform
traditional Irish songs. As we take our seats, the female lead
singer, who is avocado like in her dark-green velvet floor-length
dress, begins a lively tune. She’s very good. After the first song,
she tells us that her name is Maggie and asks if anyone in the
crowd is familiar with the other songs on the program. Janice, the
volunteer coordinator, is the only person to raise her hand.

“Why don’t you join
me?” Maggie asks.

Red-faced, Janice tries
to bow out gracefully, but the residents won’t allow it; they prod
her up to the stage, cheering. As Maggie begins to sing, Janice
joins in, and the whole room goes quiet. Standing on the stage in a
light-green chiffon dress, singing flawless soprano, Janice gives
us a glimpse into a better place. As Maggie’s voice wanes, Janice
is left to finish the song on her own. When she’s done, the room
claps wildly.

“I’m afraid that’s all
I’m good for today,” Janice says, and quickly ducks away.

Nearing the end of the
afternoon’s entertainment, a lectern is brought on stage. Liz gets
up from her seat, walks to the stage, and leans on the lectern.
With nothing to read from, she begins.

“I shall give you a
small taste of Mr Burns’ poetry.” Looking directly at Michelle, she
says, “This is for a bonnie lass I just met.”

Forlorn, my Love, no
comfort near,

Far, far from thee, I
wander here:

Far, far from thee, the
fate severe,

At which I most repine,
Love.

But, dreary tho’ the
moments fleet,

O let me think we yet
shall meet;

That only ray of solace
sweet

Can on thy Chloris
shine, Love!

O wert thou, Love, but
near me!

But near, near, near
me!

How kindly thou wouldst
cheer me,

And mingle sighs with
mine, Love.

Liz’s Scottish accent
and depth of emotion draw the spirit of Robert Burns into the room.
When I turn to look at Michelle, I’m surprised to see tears rolling
down her face.

“And now it’s dear
Rachel’s turn. A poem that I shall have to shamelessly alter.”

Laddie wi’ the
lint-white locks,

Bonnie laddie, artless
laddie,

Wilt thou wi’ me tent
the flocks,

Wilt thou be my Dearie,
O?

Now Nature cleeds the
flowery lea,

And a’ is young and
sweet like thee,

O wilt thou share its
joys wi’ me,

And say thou’lt be my
Dearie, O.

And when the howling
wintry blast

Disturbs my laddie’s
midnight rest,

Enclasped to my
faithfu’ breast,

I’ll comfort thee, my
Dearie, O.

“We’ll end with a dream
and a kiss,” Liz says.

Humid seal of soft
affections

Tenderest pledge of
future bliss,

Dearest tie of young
connections,

Love’s first snowdrop,
virgin kiss!

There’s no talking to
Michelle; she won’t respond. When Liz approaches, I give her my
seat.

“How did you know?”
Michelle asks Liz.

“I looked into your
eyes. Only people who have found and then lost their love have that
look. He’s waiting for you dear. I can feel it. You have no reason
to carry that sadness within you any longer. There are wonderful
days ahead of you with lots of bonnie wee bairns.” Michelle gives
her a wide-eyed look. “Oh yes, your life is about to change
dramatically. Now, why don’t you tell me about those
butterflies?”

“Pardon?”

“Why are there so many
butterflies around you?”

Stunned, Michelle says,
“He told me that when we first met he felt the wings of a thousand
butterflies as they flew by.”

“Seems to me you’re
being given a message then,” Liz says. Then she turns to me.
“You’re not far from being with your intended either, Rachel. You
and Michelle are very closely timed in your fate lines.”

“How did you alter the
poem you recited for me?” I ask.

“It’s really
lassie
wi’ the lint-white locks, but in your case it’s
laddie.”
She heaves herself up from her chair. “Well, I’m
off to get some punch. Come on, Verna. It’ll be to your liking.
I’ll put some vodka in it.”

At five o’clock,
Michelle and I drive to her apartment. Since I promised to phone
Reynaldo at six o’clock, I tell Michelle what happened the previous
night. Angry, she begs me to let her call him to kick some
over-the-phone ass. If there’s a bump in the middle of the road,
Michelle is one of those people who think you should speed up and
fly over it rather than drive around it.

“It won’t be any good
coming from you,” I tell her. “I have to be the one to tell him off
and mean it.”

Looking fierce, she
says, “You have to be careful of men like him, Rachel.”

“What do you mean?”

“They can confuse you.
They exude all this sexuality and passion, but it’s not really for
you, it’s for them. They screw passionately because it’s another
thing they want to be good at; it defines them. And they define
themselves by the women they screw. Here’s the rub: they don’t form
emotional attachments. It’s only a lot of panting and sweating,
moaning and groaning, with nothing behind it. They don’t have any
problem walking away and screwing someone else with just as much
passion. They can hurt you if you don’t know how to take them.
They’re great for a one-nighter, but that’s all.”

“Don’t worry, Michelle,
I’m not interested.”

But she is worried.
“I’m going to stick around while you talk to him,” she says. “I’ll
feel better that way.”

Taking a deep breath, I
hope my heart will beat less hard, but it doesn’t. Determined to
get the unpleasant task over with, I pick up the kitchen phone and
make the call. Michelle hovers around, drinking fruit punch.
Reynaldo answers on the third ring.

“Hi, Reynaldo. It’s
Rachel.”

“I’d recognize your
voice anywhere,” he says, his voice husky.

“Reynaldo, I don’t want
to see you, and I don’t want you phoning me or coming to my
apartment.”

“Whoa, slow down.
What’s the matter? I thought we had fun together.”

“We went out twice,
Reynaldo. That’s all. I don’t want to see you anymore.”

“Why, Rachel? What did
I do wrong?”

“You wouldn’t let go of
me last night. You shouldn’t have done that.”

“I was just excited to
see you. I was just kidding around.”

“Reynaldo, I’m serious,
don’t call me and don’t come to my apartment.”

“Come on, Rachel. Let’s
get together and talk. Why don’t you go out with me for dinner
tomorrow? I can pick you up at your place at six. We don’t have to
make any decisions tonight.”

Galled by his
arrogance, I shout,
“Lookit, Reynaldo, I’m sure you’d be an
incredible fuck, but I’m just not interested!”
and then slam
down the phone.

Shocked, Michelle
chokes on her fruit punch and spits out a large mouthful in my
direction, covering me in a splattering of red droplets. Looking
into one another’s equally astonished faces, we burst out laughing.
It’s only when I recall something my mother said that I have slight
misgivings about my outburst: “Never mention anything to do with
sex to a man, Rachel, not even jokingly. He’ll start thinking of
you in a different way; it’ll instantly turn him on.”

After I change into
some of Michelle’s clothes, we order a pizza. When we’re on our
second glass of wine, I ask Michelle why Liz’s poems made her
cry.

“Not tonight, Rachel.
Some other time. I’ll tell you about it some other time.”

Chapter 8

Our family lived in
Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan, which people call the Soo. My mother’s
family was French and not too well off. She used to say, “What we
don’t have in money, we make up for in fun,” and she was right. She
came from a family of ten kids, so I have lots of aunts, uncles,
and cousins. Grams, Mom’s mother, was the matriarch of the family,
the glue that held everyone together. Because Grams was musical --
she played the accordion and could play the spoons like nobody’s
business -- she coaxed her kids to be musical too, which meant we
had lots of musical soirees.

When I left for the
veterinary college at Michigan State University in East Lansing, I
was only a four hour drive away from the Soo, so I saw Mom’s family
a fair bit, but it wasn’t like the old days: Grams was gone.

Now that I’m working at
Mike’s clinic in Haslett, the people closest to me are friends and
colleagues I met at college. I can’t remember the last time I went
to the Soo.

Oh yes I can. It was
for my mom’s funeral.

Work on Friday morning
goes by problem-free. At lunch time, in celebration of the
uneventful day, Tim and I go next door to Larry’s to eat. On our
return, we find Mike talking to a bleached blonde with high heels,
a pink skirt, a pink blouse, a rhinestone purse, and lots of
make-up: a plastic woman. Staring at this real life facsimile of my
childhood idol, I find myself admiring her grip on unreality.

“Tim, could you get Ms
Bellamy’s dog, Bambi, for her?” Mike says. “She’s out back.”

“Sure, which one is
she?”

“You’ll know her when
you see her.”

I follow Tim out
back.

“
Oh no!”
Tim
cries. “Please tell me it isn’t so.” He collapses into
laughter.

A large white poodle,
lopped to topiary perfection, is wearing a diamond studded collar,
several glitter ribbons on her ears, head, and tail, and a baby
pink harness with a small backpack. But it’s the glitter toenail
polish that pushes us over the edge.

“Do you think dogs can
feel stupid?” Tim chokes out.

Bambi actually looks
embarrassed.

At five thirty, when
Mike and I are alone in the clinic, he calls me into his
office.

“What’s up, Doc?” I
ask, straddling him on a chair and strategically placing my hand to
get his attention.

“I want to make a
birthday dinner for you at my place, and I want to invite Vanessa
and Gordon.”

My stomach tenses and
my ardour instantly lessens. Standing up, I lean against his desk.
“Is that really necessary? They won’t enjoy it.”

“I really want to try
it, Rachel.”

I tilt my head back and
sigh. “Mike, they hate me. Please don’t make me do it.”

“Let’s give them
another chance, Rach. I’m going to talk to them about how important
it is to me that they treat you well.”

Righting myself, I say,
“Okay, but you owe me.”

He smiles. “How about
two Fridays from now, around six thirty?” My birthday is on the
Sunday. Undeterred by my silence, he says, “I’m having them over
for dinner tomorrow night, so I can make the plans then.”

“Friday would be fine,”
I tell him.

With a gleam in his
eyes, he gets to his feet and skims a finger along my cheek. “I’ve
got a charity fundraising meeting tonight. We’re going to The Blue
Lantern around seven. Why don’t you drop by? We could spend the
night at my place.”

I shrug. “I’m going to
stay here for a couple of hours to work on the conference stuff.
I’ll see what I feel up to when I’m done.”

Deflated, I go to my
office. Sitting down at my computer, I check for emails.

Dear Rachel:

Did you take the
autumn photograph? It immediately made me think of my childhood in
France. Thank you. I was just given the agenda for the upcoming
veterinary conference. Why did you not tell me that you and your
colleague are presenting a paper? It would be a pleasure to pick
you up at the airport. I would like to show you our research
facility and the local area if this pleases you. Are the autumn
leaves compensation enough for the winter ahead? Kind regards,
JP