Timeless Passion: 10 Historical Romances To Savor (37 page)

Louis is a fine man. Make no mistake in that. I am a coward by comparison. He is the brave entrepreneur, with new ideas, pushing to make the business work. I am the housewife who stays behind to mind the store. I am a family man, not a businessman. Buying him out, and running the entire business myself, was my idea of hell. I was very glad that the Sûreté recovered his sales money as evidence, and I was eventually able to reclaim it and press him to take back his half of our business. Such a relief for me!

I hope that, out of sight of his friends and neighbors of the island, he can work his way through his troubles and come back to us. I was hoping he would come back refreshed, but perhaps that is too much to hope. Perhaps, as you suggested in your transmission, I did see symptoms of something and hoped that a change of venue would make a difference to him. I hadn’t expected this, I promise you.

The physician says, a mild tranquilizer to help him sleep, or a simple headache pill, is all he should need. (Dr. Ferenc is also our family physician.) Louis doesn’t take many drugs, and not even more than a drink or two in the evenings. Cool compresses if he wants them, perhaps a neck massage if you have a masseur available, but it is not necessary. The best thing for him, Ferenc says, is to get him home and back into his old routine. But first we must get him here. There’s no other man I would be afraid of losing on two straight airplane trips, Washington to Paris and Paris to Saint-Denis, except him. I will not relax until I see him crossing the tarmac at Garros. Please do everything you can to make sure he is on that first leg of the flight, short of bolting him to the seat! I may come to Paris myself, to make sure he is on the second leg.

I know I have asked you to keep this letter confidential, but please, tell him Dr. Ferenc’s instructions and tell him I will be looking for him at Orly.

Thank you for your help in this matter.

Sincerely, Etien Campard

• • •

The tobacco crowd, an enlarged group of North Carolinians and curious Texans, came to Bishou’s apartment that evening with pizza (or as they called it, pizza pie), chips, and “pop.” Louis had never had pizza before, so they had great fun with him. He was obviously getting his strength back, barely touching furniture in passing as he made his way to the bathroom or the kitchen. They would not allow him to pitch in and dry dishes, however; Sukey sent him back to the couch with the menfolk around him, while the women — Bishou, Sukey, Isabel, and Sondra — stayed in the kitchen.

“How’d you spend your afternoon?” Sukey asked Bishou.

“I worked on my dissertation, and Louis read old French paperbacks that I had kicking around,” Bishou replied.

“I see at least he’s ‘Louis’ now,” Sukey observed.

“Tomorrow morning he’ll be Monsieur Dessant again, and I’ll be Mademoiselle Howard. But he did spend the afternoon camped on my couch.”

“His color looks better,” Sukey agreed.

Bishou nodded. “It does. Maybe an afternoon lying on a couch, reading trashy French novels, was just what he needed.”

“You nervous about having him here for the night?”

“A little. Then I think of having three brothers camped out in my dorm room half this size, and realize this is the height of luxury by comparison.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Isabel chuckled.

“But man, Bishou, you lucked out,” said Sondra. “The hot, unmarried one is the one who passes out on your couch. I am envious, girl, reputation or not.”

“You’re all married,” grinned Bishou. “You can talk.”

“Don’t you think he’s cute?” Sondra asked.

“Sure he is,” Bishou defended herself, “but I’m bespoke. By East Virginia University.”

“EVU will be done by the end of the year,” Sondra predicted. “If I were you, I’d keep that guy’s number in my little black book.”

“What’re you going to do after you graduate from here?” Isabel asked.

“Get a job. But to teach at the college level, I need that degree first.”

“Any idea where yet?”

“Not a clue. When I get set up, I’ve got to help my brother, Bat, take care of our younger brothers. Our parents are pretty much too old and helpless to do it.”

“Then are you gonna get married?” asked Sondra.

“I don’t know when or if I’m going to be able to fit that in,” Bishou admitted, “if I find the right man.”

“The right man’s on that couch,” said Sondra. “Don’t lose that number.”

Chapter 7

Morning came. Bishou had slept soundly. She’d heard Louis moving around during the night, from the couch to the bathroom, and once she thought the kitchen light came on. When her alarm chimed, she shut it off, tottered into the bathroom to wash up, and then back into the bedroom to change her clothes. Then she went into her tiny living room-study.

Louis’s beard had grown during the night, and of course he had slept in his clothes. He looked tatty, but no worse than her brother would have. He yawned and stretched. “Mmm — time to get up?”

“Yes. It’s six-thirty. I can make some coffee, if you wish.”

“No, thank you. I will wait until I wash and change at the hotel. The
médecin
was right. I feel much stronger now.”

He didn’t look it.

Bishou wrung out a washcloth, and brought it out to Louis, who still lay, tired and dispirited, on the couch. She sat down on the wooden chair and leaned toward him.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked him, in French.

“I did not sleep much,” he admitted. Even his voice was tired. “I am hot, and I feel very foolish.”

“Don’t feel that way.” She took the washcloth from him and folded it. “Here, let me put this cool compress on your forehead. It will help.”

Louis closed his eyes and leaned back again. He let her press the damp cloth in place. “Mmm. Feels good.”

Bishou rose and got aspirin and a tumbler of water from her tiny bathroom. “And one aspirin should be all you need.” Bishou placed the aspirin in his hand. Louis opened his eyes and took it, swallowing it with difficulty. He took a drink of water to help it down.

“I don’t take much medicine,” he said, “so a little should do much.”

Bishou smiled. “That’s what Dr. Ferenc said.”

His eyes opened suddenly and he sat up. “Ferenc?
My
Doctor Ferenc?”

“Will you lie down?”

“I will not. How did you contact him? You don’t even have a telephone here.”

“That’s the advantage of being a researcher. I used the library teletype services to send a message to Dessant Industries. The library thought it was research because it was in French, and didn’t charge me for it. Then they got a French answer, again a mystery to them, from a man named Etien Campard.”

“My partner!” Louis seemed surprised, but he was also delighted. “I hope you didn’t scare him.”

“Oh,
non, non
. I told him you had fainted, and wondered if it were
décalage
and fatigue. He said probably yes, it had happened before, and that you would be all right with mild treatment. Dr. Ferenc said compresses, aspirin, and maybe physical therapy if I knew a masseur. But I don’t know one, except my brother, and he’s too far away.”

“That’s all right. The rest will help.” The smile remained on his lips and in his eyes. “Etien. I am so sorry to worry him.”

“Then promise him, even if he cannot hear you, that you will go straight home after the conference. He’s worried enough to meet you at Orly.”

Louis admitted shyly, “Actually, I would like him to meet me at Orly. I hate traveling alone.”

“Good, because he’ll be there. I wasn’t supposed to tell you that part, so be sure you act surprised when you see him.”

Louis smiled in delight, reached out, and drew Bishou against him. He hugged her. “Thank you,
mon amie
.”

“
De rien
. Now let go, before someone sees us and we get into trouble.”

“
Oui
, Mademoiselle.” Still smiling, Louis released her. “You are a good friend, Mademoiselle.”

“And you are one hell of an education, Monsieur.”

He laughed, almost boyishly.

There was a knock at the door. Bishou opened it to find a university staff member there.

“I’m here to pick up Mr. Dessant,” he said.

“Ah.” Louis stood up — without falling over, this time. “My ride.” He made sure he had his wallet, pen, and other things in his pockets, and put on his jacket. “This gentleman will take me back to my hotel room, so I can wash and change. Will I see you at the lecture this morning?”

“Probably not. I must see Dr. Roth today.”

“Oh.” Louis’s face grew serious. “You are still in trouble — a man in your apartment, and what the neighbors will say.”

“If you don’t say a word, I can probably bare-face them out of this,” said Bishou. “Just don’t help,
d’accord
?”

Again he laughed. “
D’accord
. I am Monsieur Dessant, of the World Tobacco Conference, nothing more.” Louis reached out a hand at the same moment Bishou did, and they shook solemnly. “
Au revoir
, Mademoiselle.”

“
Au revoir
, Monsieur.”

• • •

Dr. Roth pulled out his bottom file drawer for use as a footstool, as was his custom. Bishou took the only other chair in his tiny office. The door was shut.

“You must have sweated bullets over this.”

“I’ll say,” Bishou agreed.

“And you’re working on a thesis on passion. Good God, Bishou, that man is sex in a white package.”

“Something like that.”

“I think we’ve soldiered through it okay.” Dr. Roth continued to use the pronoun “we,” which was a good sign. “Are you willing to assist him for the next week, or do you need to come up for air?”

“Who else could do it?” Bishou asked reasonably. “And besides, I think we’re through the worst.”

“What was ‘the worst,’ exactly?” Roth wanted to know. “Something kicked this off, didn’t it?”

“Yes.” Bishou grimaced ruefully. “Monsieur Dessant and I have agreed to bury it, but it was my fault, in a way. I got copies of some articles from the
Paris Gazette
about modern passion, which included a picture and story about him. When he glanced at my desk, he saw his face staring up at him. That’s why he fainted.”

“I don’t get it. Modern passion?”

“Louis Dessant did seven years at hard labor for a crime of passion,” Bishou explained.

“Oh, shit.”

“Yeah, well. That wasn’t even the reason I had the article. I had it because its author, Georges Goulard, wrote a book,
Sans Merci
. Heard of it? Published five years ago.”

“Yes, I read something. Major prize, wasn’t it?”

“Honorable mention, yes. But anyway, there was this feature article about crimes of passion, sitting on my desk — ”

“And in comes one of its subjects, to pick up his coat.”

“Exactly. As I said to Monsieur Dessant, what an education I’ve gotten out of this. I bet I’ve apologized to him at least half a dozen times. I also had to promise him that nothing about him or his case will ever appear in my dissertation.”

“That shouldn’t cripple you. It’s not researchable,” Dr. Roth observed.

Bishou nodded. “I explained to him about references and reproducibility. Tough concepts to explain to non-academics, but I think he got it. More along the lines of, I have to be able to pick up the same book in Calgary and follow your argument.”

“True enough.” Dr. Roth sounded relieved. “Let’s us bury it, too.”

“Fine by me. It’s tough enough that he’s, as you put it, sex in a white package.”

Dr. Roth smiled and cocked an eye at her. “Makes you sweat, does he?”

“And how. He says every time that article is reprinted anywhere, he gets scads of marriage proposals, offers to rehabilitate him, and worse.”

Roth laughed. “Most men dream of being in that situation.”

“He doesn’t. I can’t imagine how he can be so — unspoiled — after all he’s been through. No, that’s not the right word. But anyway, he’s only vaguely aware of it.”

“Maybe he
is
aware of it, Bishou.”

She shook her head. “I’m pretty sure not. My brother Bat has what Louis Dessant has, but the American version. So I recognize it when I see it, but I’m not sure what it is.”

“It’s the old S.A.,” Roth replied. “Sex Appeal and no mistake. One more week, and it’s over, Bishou, and you won’t see him again.”

Chapter 8

Bat’s letter was waiting for her when she picked up her mail on the way to the conference.

Hey, Little Sister,

I’m not shouting. See? No capital letters, no underlines. Anyway, I saw that you had your whole list of reasons not to screw up, laid out there for me. To my great relief, I admit.

You’re probably just stunned because your dissertation came to life and punched you in the face. But it could be the glamour of escorting a real-life millionaire, too, which I think he is. Don’t let it turn your head. I suspect, after all he’s been through, that he’s been kicked around enough to be human. That could be a plus.

You know, you really could actually be in love, if he’s a nice guy. Is he? Not enough to spike our deal, I hope? Doesn’t sound like you’re fou d’amour, from what you say in your letter.

If he’s just here because he’s a tourist, and he’s meeting some nice Americans including you, it might not be an issue. Keep your eyes front and your (ahem) in your pocket. Being in love is not bad, if you don’t let it take over your judgment. Sometimes good judgment is more necessary than love, because we’ve all got to survive. Sounds like that’s where your boy fell down on the job. But I’ll be the first man to say that feeling love, whether you show it or not, is an important part of being human.

Enough lecturing. You know by now I’m talking half to myself when I say stuff like this. You and I have just watched out for the family for so long. But Andy’s a high school freshman now. Gerry just started seventh grade. Soon they’ll be out in the world, and we’ll have the freedom we never had. NOT to be in ’Nam. NOT to be a grad student. Oops, sorry, I said I wouldn’t yell in capitals. Better quit now.