Fleur De Lies (8 page)

“How long were you together?”

“Less than three weeks. I tried to find a way to get to the evacuation beach so I could be shipped back to England for rehab, but the fighting was so fierce on the ground after the invasion that I had to l
ay low until things let up. I didn’t want to be declared MIA or AWO
L, so with the help of a hay wagon and a half-starved horse, the family finally got me back to where I needed to be.”

“And that’s the last time you saw her?”

He nodded.

“Did you contact her after the war ended?”

“I wrote her a couple of times, but the letters came back all marked
up with official stamps saying they were undeliverable.”

“Did you try phoning?”

“Yup. You had to go through special overseas operators back then,
but they could never find a number for her.”

“She never wrote to you?”

“She might have, but I never received anything.” He shrugged. “All of Europe was a mess back then, so mail service was pretty much a disaster.”

The corners of his mouth curled upward as he studied his misshapen fingers. “She’s still a beauty, isn’t she, Emily?”

“She is indeed.”

He heaved a sigh. “Do you think I’m pathetic for moping over what might’ve been?”

“Certainly not! But when you’re through moping, you might want to look at the bright side.”

“There’s a bright side?”

“There’s
always
a bright side.” Unless your name was Bernice
Zwerg. “Look, Osmond, what’s past is past. It’s like water under the bridge or over the dam. You can’t change what’s already happened.”

He nodded dejectedly. “Will you let me know when you get to the
part that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“What I’m trying to say is, you might have lost track of Solange
once, but that was decades ago. The world has shrunk. You never have
to lose touch with her again through the miracle of iPhones, iPads, laptops, email, Twitter, Facebook, Skype.”

“I don’t know how to Skype.”

“Nana can help you figure it out. You’ll be able to talk to each othe
r face to face whenever you want. It’ll almost be as good as being in the same room together.”

“What if she doesn’t have a computer?”

“Madeleine will have a computer.”

He inched his chin off his chest, looking desperate to believe me.

“But I still don’t know how to get in touch with her. We left before I got a chance to exchange any contact information.”

“Have you Googled the French white pages?”

“Yup. I entered Solange’s name and village, but I didn’t get any hits. I didn’t get any for Madeleine either.” His voice grew thready with anxiety. “What if the family has gone wireless? How will I find her if they only use mobile phones? There’s no white pages for cell phone numbers.”

I reached for his hand and squeezed hard. “That’s true, but … Madeleine is an employee of the tour company, so she
has
to communicate with them somehow. Why don’t I try to convince the person in charge of that stuff to share her contact information with us.”

His rheumy old eyes lit up like the grand finale in a fireworks display. “Really? Are they allowed to do that? Even with all the privacy laws?”

I offered him a reassuring smile. “You know me. I can be very convincing.” And if that didn’t work, I had my usual ace in the hole: Nana could hack into anything.

“Golly.” He propped himself higher in his chair. “All of a sudden, I feel a whole lot better.”

“Of course you do! You’ve just caught a whiff of the world’s most natural mood-elevating elixir.” I smiled. “Hope.”

Blinking away tears, he leaned sideways and threw his bony arms around me. “I’m going to invite Solange and her whole extended family to Iowa,” he vowed, sniffling into the crook of my neck. “Her last name isn’t Spenard anymore, so I reckon she got married again, but that doesn’t matter. I’ll reserve a whole floor of that new hotel opposite the waterpark. And she can bring her kids and grandkids and great-grandkids if she has any.”

“You’d better ask about a senior citizen discount,” I teased as he released me. “You might need it.”

He swiped moisture from his cheeks as his newfound generosity
introduced itself to his Iowa practicality. He gave his jaw a self-
conscious scratch. “Not that it matters, Emily, but do you suppose Solange had a whole brood of kids?”

“Well, she had at least one—Madeleine’s mother. That’s about all we know for now … other than your name is apparently a popular one in the family.”

“Isn’t that something? I’ve never known another Osmond in all my life, and here Madeleine says there’s a whole bunch on her family tree. I wonder what the deal is? Why Osmond?”

“I’m sure Solange will be happy to take you through the family genealogy the next time you talk to—” The words leaving my mouth suddenly jogged something in my brain, prompting me to consider a possible twist in the family genealogy. Was the name Osmond popular because it had been carried down through the centuries? Or was it popular for another reason entirely? One that had me staring at Osmond, gobsmacked.

“Osmond? This is none of my business, so please don’t feel obligated to reply, but during the war, did you and …” I gave my head an awkward bob, suddenly tongue-tied. I cleared my throat and tried again. “What I’m trying to say is, were you and Solange … you know … an ‘item’ while you were together in France?”

A faraway look crept into his eyes, chased away by a hint of a smile
that slowly slid into an incredulous grin. “Holy smokes. I could be a father.”

seven

The following morning, in
an attempt to avoid a repeat performance of last night’s dinner, I showed up at the restaurant ten
minutes after it opened and staked out a quiet table for four. It stood in an intimate corner, was happily unoccupied, and best of all, sat in the direct path of the morning sun, which splashed across
the table in a warm flood of blinding light. Anyone foolish enough to sit
with me would face the risk of having their retinas incinerated.

I’d stopped at the reception desk before returning to my cabin last night to inquire about the possibility of obtaining Madeleine
Saint-Sauveur’s contact information and was thrilled when the purser
told me she’d be happy to share the information if Mrs. Saint- Sauveur agreed. “I’ll send her a message, Mrs. Miceli,” she told me in her clipped British accent. “I don’t foresee any problem. Guests are usually so enamored with Mrs. Saint-Sauveur that they often ask for an email address so they might continue to correspond with her.”

Yes
!

I felt giddy with anticipation as I slid my oversized designer sunglasses onto my face and opened the breakfast menu. Would my efforts pave the way for Osmond and Solange to reunite permanently? Would the star-crossed lovers decided to tie the knot after all these years? Would Osmond learn he really
was
a father? Oh, my God. The poor guy probably wouldn’t know what to send out first: wedding invitations or birth announcements.

“Mrs. Miceli? Why do you sit here in the sun with all these other tables to choose from?” Patrice appeared out of nowhere, wielding a beverage carafe in each hand. “Come. I move you.”

“Not necessary.” I tapped my sunglasses. “I’ve adapted.”

“But the sun. You find it annoying, yes?”

“Not half as annoying as I hope some other guests will find it.”

He squinted at me, clearly uncomprehending.

“If one of those carafes contains tea, I’d love for you to pour me a
cup, and I’m going to skip the buffet this morning in favor of the break
fast special.”

“Ah.
L’omlette de jambon et de legume avec le raifort a infuse la sauce
. An excellent choice.” After pouring my tea, he set the carafes down and made a notation on his order pad. “
Très bien
.”

“Don’t go anywhere, Patricia!” Woody’s voice boomed out behind me. “Not before you pour me some coffee.”

I sagged in my chair.
There was no God
…
There was no God
…

He rapped his knuckles on my table as he drew abreast. “This seat taken?”

“The sun, monsieur,” fussed Patrice. “Would you not prefer to sit—”

“Hell, I invaded North Africa in ’42. Don’t talk to me about sun.” He pulled out the chair opposite me and sat down.

“You’re all alone this morning?” I asked in what I hoped would pass as a normal tone. “No Cal?”

He offered up his cup for Patrice to fill. “The boy is slower than molasses. He was still in the shower when I left the cabin. Not sure how his wife puts up with it. Someone needs to light a stick of dyna
mite under him. You can’t get ahead in life if you spend all your
time pulling up the rear.”

“Maybe Cal has a different idea about what getting ahead in
life actually means.”

He rolled his eyes as he took a sip of coffee. “I’m passing on the family business to a man who’s the proverbial guppy in the shark tank. Great-grampa Jolly, who was one of the first lions in the funeral industry, is probably rolling over in his grave. But look, I don’t want to talk about Cal. I want to talk about Victor.” He downed another mouthful before setting his cup on its saucer. “Is it just me, or is there something fishy about that fella?”

“Fishy … how?”

“He talks funny. If he’s a Texan, how come he doesn’t talk like one? There’s a story there. And you heard him last night. No way was he going to tell me where he fought in the war. Don’t you find that strange?”

“From what little I know of the men who fought in World War II, the experience was so horrific that a good majority of them chose
never
to talk about it. Maybe Victor falls into that category.”

He shook his head. “There’s more to it than that. I’ve got a good
nose for sniffing out funny business, and I say Victor’s hiding some
thing. All that rubbish about Solange and how haunting he found her
eyes. Guys use that as a pickup line when they’re in their twenties, not when they’re the age of that old duffer. And
never
in front of the wife. What the hell was he thinking?”

“Speaking of Solange,” I said, taking advantage of the opening, “do you have any idea why she reacted to you the way she—”

“Mornin’, y’all! I’m thinkin’ that little chair next to the window has my name on it. Y’all mind if I make your twosome a threesome?”

I debated banging my forehead on the table until I knocked myself out, but I was pretty sure I couldn’t do it before Krystal seated herself, so what was the point?

“Come sit yourself down,” Woody boomed as he stepped into the aisle to let her by. “Would you look at me? Having breakfast with two beautiful women? They never mentioned this in the cruise brochure, but it’s a great selling point if they want to attract old codgers like me.”

“You gotta promise though,” Krystal insisted as she settled next to him. “None of that depressin’ talk about funeral plannin’, or I promise I’ll leave y’all and sit somewhere else.”

Pleeeease revert to your default setting … Pleeeease revert to your default setting
…

“Where’s your girlfriends anyway?” Woody asked as he glanced around the dining room.

“They’re not my girlfriends,” she corrected in a tight voice. “Not after what they said last night.” She gathered her platinum locks in one hand and draped the long tail over her shoulder as if it were a giant python preparing to mate with her overly tight snakeskin top. “They know I’m a shoe-in for Victor’s bonus, so they’re miffed. And all’s they’re provin’ is what poor losers they are. No one has ever outsold me at Mona Michelle. I know it for a fact, and so do they.”

“Have you seen a spreadsheet comparing the actual sales figures?”
I asked.

“I don’t need to see the figures, hon. I just know.”

Right. Kinda like the politicians who didn’t actually need to
see
the WMD to know they were there.

“Why’re you wearin’ sunglasses indoors?” She wrinkled her adorably upturned nose at me. “That’s kind of affected, idn’t it? Are you hopin’ someone’ll mistake you for a celebrity?” She giggled. “Big disappointment there!”

I took solace in the fact that breakfast was the quickest meal of the day. “The sun,” I said calmly as I pointed skyward. “It’s in my eyes.”

“Have you got sensitive eyes, darlin’?” She slapped her palm on the table. “Do I have a deal for you. Mona Michelle sells clump-free mascara for sensitive eyes, and if you apply enough coats, your lashes will get so voluminously long and stiff, you’ll never have to worry
about seeing the sun ever again! I swear by the stuff. See?” She blinked several times to demonstrate the usefulness of stiff, overly long lashes. “You want I should write you up an order? It’s only $49.95
, excluding postage and handling fees.”

“FOR MASCARA?”

“It’s not just
any
mascara, darlin’. This mascara is transformational. Men will be dazzled. Your boss will beg to give you a raise. I guarantee you’ll feel more sexy, empowered, confident, influential—”

“—ripped off. Don’t you sell anything for like … $8.99?”

She lowered her brows dramatically. “For $8.99 I can sell you a travel-size bottle of alcohol-free mouthwash.” Her voice dipped to a whisper. “The alcohol thing can be a
huge
deal breaker in the Bible Belt.”

“You sell any products for guys my age?” asked Woody.

“Is the Pope the Pope?” she teased.

I guess it wasn’t relevant if he were Catholic or not.

Lifting Woody’s hand off the table, she examined his fingers with dollars signs spinning in her eyes. “You would
love
the seaweed based cuticle treatment we sell, hon. And from the condition of these nails, I’d say, the sooner you buy it, the better. In one quick treatment, I can guarantee you healthier nails polished to a liquid shine … or your money back. Three-way buffer and nail file not included.”

“How much’ll that set me back?”

“The oil is only $49.95, excluding postage and handling fees,” she tittered. “And the three-way buffer and file are on special, so I can let you have them both for an inclusive charge of $49.95, excluding postage and handling fees. I’ll thank you for noticin’ that I’m practically givin’ ’em away.”

Even through the film of UV protection coating my lenses, I could see every ounce of blood drain from Woody’s face. “You got anything else?”

Focusing on his hand with renewed interest, she patted his finger. “Well, idn’t this just the cutest ring. What’s this doohickey on the top here? Some kind of flower?”

“Yup. It’s either a lily or an iris, stylized up the wazoo. The French call it a fleur-de-lis. We’re supposed to see them everywhere over here—on flags, coats of arms, postage stamps. I think at one time it was the symbol for the French monarchy.”

“How come one of the petals is broken?”

Woody shrugged. “Beats me. But that’s what makes it special. It’s not perfect. The jeweler put a daring spin on an old theme.”

“Look at it, Emily.” She twisted his hand around to show me. “Idn’t
it just the purdiest thing?”

I nodded. “Very eye-catching.”

“Fourteen carat?” asked Krystal.

“Gold? Not on your life. It’s solid brass.” He rapped it on the edge of the table. “Gold is for sissies. Real men wear brass.”

“Is it a family heirloom or somethin’?”

“Yup. Been in my family as long as I can remember. I’ll hand it down to Cal when I’m gone.”

Patrice arrived with my breakfast before Krystal could attempt another sales pitch.

“That looks pretty tasty,” Woody commented as he eyed my plate. “What is it?”

“
L’omlette de jambon et de legume avec le raifort a infuse la sauce
,” said Patrice as he freshened Woody’s coffee and poured a cup for Krystal.

Woody nodded. “What is it in English?”

“Ham and vegetable omelet with horseradish-infused sauce,” Patrice translated.

“Sounds good. That’s what I’ll have. I could do with a good ole American breakfast.”

“Make that two,” said Krystal as she perused the sumptuously fluffy creation before me.

“
D’accord
.” Patrice scribbled the orders on his pad before whisking himself off to the kitchen again.

“I can’t handle the buffet this morning,” Krystal complained. “Too
many men waiting to ogle me.”

“Could be the mascara,” I said as I poured a ramekin of what looked like ketchup over my omelet. “Maybe you should try something less transformational.”

“So, where’s the bus taking us this morning?” asked Woody as I savored the flavorful herbs of the most appetizing omelet that had ever occupied my mouth.

“Someplace that begins with an E,” said Krystal. “Which reminds me.” She dug a whole bottle of jumbo softgels out of her totebag and
plunked it on the table. “You wanna try one of my supplements, hon?”
She unscrewed the cap and offered one to Woody. “I guarantee it’ll work better than those little weenie pills you got with you.”

“Hell. Why not?” He plopped it into his mouth and downed it with a gulp of coffee.

“I don’t imagine you’ll be needin’ one, Emily. Yankee women
aren’t known for their delicate constitutions.” She downed one herself before tossing her hair back over her shoulder and fanning her face. “This mornin’ sun is an absolute killer. I’m about to burn up.”

I waved my fork in several directions. “Lots of empty tables in the shade,” I said hopefully.

“Change places with me,” urged Woody as he got to his feet. “Shoot,
I haven’t been hot since the North African campaign in ’42.”

Krystal grabbed her tote and slid over onto his chair. “So … what was happenin’ in ’42 that sent you to Africa, hon?”

She’d obviously bypassed the war museum in Arromanches.

“Were you huntin’ big game?
Euw
! Did you get to shoot one of those elephant guns? I would
kill
to pull the trigger on one of those puppies.”

The dining room started filling up as Woody launched into a detailed history of Axis invasions, Allied strategies, and the best World War II movies available on Netflix. As I devoured my omelet, an army of waiters flew past our table, some wielding beverage carafes and order pads, others carrying chafing dishes of hot food to the central serving station. The noise level increased. The wait staff quickened their steps. By the time a young waiter arrived at our table, Krystal’s attention span was so maxed out with world history, I figured she might even be desperate enough to discuss advanced funeral planning. Specifically, Woody’s.

“Two breakfast specials.” The waiter slid the plates onto the table and paused a bit breathlessly to ogle Krystal. “
Bon appétit.
”

“Did y’all see the way he looked at me?” she whispered when he’d departed. “I get those looks
all
the time. It’s so annoying.”

I dabbed my mouth with my napkin and pushed away from the table.

“Of course you get those looks,” Woody allowed. “I mean, a fella would have to be blind not to stare. Isn’t that right, Emily?”

“Absolutely.” I stood up. “I’m off. See you guys on the bus. And a word of warning to the faint of tongue: go easy on the horseradish sauce. It’s got a kick.”

“The hotter the better!” boomed Woody as I grabbed my shoulder bag. “So tell me, little lady,” he asked Krystal, “where was I in my narrative? Had I reached V-E Day yet?”

As I made my escape, I heard Krystal’s voice cut through the rising din. “Can we save that for another time, darlin’? I’m just dyin’ for y’all to tell me what kind of advanced funeral plannin’ you’ve done for yourself.”