Lost and Found (21 page)

There's a disparity between who I thought Brigitte was and who that call revealed her to be.

This is the source of my agitation. Regarding Brigitte, the columns in my head aren't adding up and I don't want to work the numbers to find out why. But I have to. It's what I do.

I begin a mental tally. For each characteristic I've attributed to Brigitte, I negate it with another characteristic I've seen. I add. I subtract. I come up with a bottom line. The sum of who she is.

A sum that is far from appealing.

Perhaps it's the setting—a service to memorialize a man who was still in his prime when he dropped dead—that makes me introspective. But today I can't help comparing myself to Brigitte. In a Dickensian moment, I wonder if I'm being given a glimpse into my own future.

If so, I don't like what I see.

I glance at her again, surrounded by the wealthy, powerful, and beautiful. Yet, she is alone. There have been no hugs or words of assurance for Brigitte. And being alone, I sense, is what she fears most. That is why she called just after Gerard's death. To manipulate. To control. To ensure she'd never be all alone.

I am privy to the vast Bouvier financial holdings. Yet, money didn't prevent Gerard's death. Or his father's death.

The hand of control only reaches so far, Brigitte.

I think again of the way Brigitte models my philosophy. I consider the words:
Drive determines destiny.
I think back to my college English classes and, for the first time, it occurs to me that drive, in the context I use it, is a noun. Drive meaning ambition. But when drive is used as a transitive verb, it's attached to an object. And now I see the object of Brigitte's drive is fear.

The thought disgusts me.

I shift in my seat and put my chin to my chest to ease the tension in my neck and shoulders, then I lift my chin and do the stretch again.

This whole line of thinking is ridiculous.

This is why I like numbers. Absolutes. Plug in a variable, and you can still count on the outcome. But when you're dealing with emotions, the outcome is a crapshoot. Those aren't odds I deal in.

There are similarities between Brigitte and myself. But so what? I can learn from her mistakes. And adjust my own life, right?

I look at Jason again and remember the sense that I should hang on to him. Well, maybe I will. It doesn't have to be an emotional decision—it can be a practical decision. Okay, the fact that he's financially destitute and doesn't even know it poses a problem. Can I get over it?

Maybe. There's no doubt I have enough money for the both of us. There are, I imagine, benefits to having a kept man.

I settle in for the duration of the service satisfied that the time has proven productive.

Oh, Love! You are the pure, total, simple truth which is expressed not by me, but by You through me.

JEANNE GUYON

A WEEK AFTER
Gerard's services, Brigitte still hasn't spoken to me beyond the absolute necessities, like the pleasantries spoken before and after the services when others were watching. Otherwise, she's communicated through Hannah and the other household staff. I am accustomed to following her lead, so I haven't made any attempts to initiate a conversation either. It's evident she still blames me for Gerard's death. But as time passes, questions nag.

Does Brigitte expect me to continue living with her?

How were things left in Gerard's trust?

Will I be provided for?

Does she know Gerard asked me, more than once, to care for her should anything happen to him?

Does honoring Gerard's wishes mean that I have to live with Brigitte?

These are the questions that plague me as I lie awake at night. During the day, I vacillate between denial, grief, and acceptance. There are both tears and moments without feeling.

But at night, my mind and my heart race.

Though I'm attempting to participate in the dance Matthew suggested and allow God to lead, so far He seems to be standing still.

So I wait.

Eight days after the memorial service, Brigitte taps on the door of my suite.

"Come in," I call from the sofa near the window.

She comes in and stands in front of me. "I think it would be good for you to get away for a few days. To get out of the house. Take some time to . . . regroup, oui? I've called Marcus. He and Estelle are expecting you. When you come back"—she waves her hand in the air, like she's brushing away something distasteful—"we'll deal with the trust and . . . issues."

She turns to leave.

The idea of the valley is appealing, but . . . "Wait, Brigitte. What . . . what will you do?"

"What do you mean?"

"While I'm gone. What will you do? Will you . . . will you be okay?"

She sighs and her eyes speak of her weariness. "I'll be fine. I have business to attend to. You focus on yourself."

It is so like her to act as though nothing has transpired between us. To move forward without a backward glance. An apology. An acknowledgment of any sort. These are the times that leave me feeling crazy. Doesn't she remember blaming me for Gerard's death?

Once she's gone, I get up from my desk and head to my closet. I will pack now and leave this afternoon. An idea took root just days after Gerard's death, and now I will implement it. The music has begun playing, and my Partner is reaching for my hand.

He will lead.

I pack a few items of clothing—most of what I need is already there in my closet at the chateau. Then I go to the back of my closet and reach for the sealed dress box that I keep on an upper shelf. I search for the matching shoes, and then open the safe and take out a small turquoise-colored ring box. I place the box in an inside pocket of my suitcase, and close the suitcase.

I am grateful for Brigitte's suggestion and the sense of purpose I feel.

Before I leave, I sit back at my desk and write a quick e-mail to Skye letting her know where I'll be. And I type another to Matthew:

Dear Matthew,

I am heading to the valley for a few days where I will carry through with the idea I shared with you. Just wanted you to know.

Following His lead,

Jenna

I send the e-mails, shut down the laptop, and pack it to take with me. Then I go downstairs and tell Hannah that I'm leaving. Less then forty minutes after Brigitte's suggestion, I'm on the road.

MY FIRST MORNING IN
the valley I wake long before dawn, roll over in bed, and reach for Gerard. I experience his death all over again when I realize he isn't there. I lie there, alone, yet not alone. I sense God's presence—His nearness—as I have since the night Gerard died. The dark room seems alive with Him, as though the walls are inhaling and exhaling.

This is the day that I have made, rejoice and be glad in it, Jenna.

Yes, this is the day.

I get out of bed and get ready to go.

I park the old ranch truck in front of the cave entrance, reach for the bag I packed, and get out. I stand by the truck for a moment. The air is cool and the scent earthy, organic. The rolling acres of vines appear as mere shadows. Above me a silver moon is slung low and a million stars twinkle their welcome—a heavenly host here as witnesses. The hush of predawn stills the fluttering of my heart and prepares me for what's to come.

I thought of doing this in the prayer chapel, but the memories of our time there together are still so fresh—the grief still raw. Instead, I opted for the cave.

A new place for a new beginning.

I pull the flashlight from my bag and shine it in the direction of the cave—the beam of light illuminates the massive oak door fitted to the mouth of the cave. I look heavenward again and smile in anticipation.

He is here.

And He waits for me.

For these moments, I will set my grief aside.

I walk to the cave and shine the flashlight on the small panel next to the door. I key in the alarm code and hear the faint electronic whir of the alarm disarming, followed by the click of the lock releasing. The heavy door glides open with just a push. Just inside the entrance is another panel—this one a series of switches that light the cave. I touch just one switch and small lights come to life along the bottom of the cave walls, illuminating the path ahead. I make my way into the cavern and head for the alcove bored into the side of the cave, just a hundred yards or so from the entrance. It is a space used for private tastings or small parties. Beyond here are hundreds of barrels filled with aging wines and champagnes. I point the flashlight along the back wall of the alcove and see the three large, wrought-iron candelabras standing guard. I switch the flashlight off, drop it in my bag, and reach for the lighter I brought. I click the lighter on and let the flickering flame lead me to the candleholders.

One by one, I light the dozen tapers in each stand. Behind the candelabras hangs a large mirror in which the three-dozen flames are reflected, bathing the alcove in a warm hue. I stand back and watch the shadows dance on the wall of the cave. In the center of the alcove, just as I requested when I called ahead yesterday, is a small table covered with a white linen cloth and two chairs. There are three candles in the center of the table. I light the outside two and leave the one in the middle to be lit later. There is also a decanter of red wine, a glass, and a round of sourdough covered with a white linen napkin on the table.

I slip my coat off and drape it across the back of one of the chairs. Then I smooth the ivory satin, ankle-length dress I'm wearing—the one in the sealed box I brought with me. My mother's wedding dress. I'd wanted to wear it when I married Gerard, but Brigitte had insisted on a gown created for me by the French designer, Monique Lhuillier. It was beautiful, but held no meaning for me. I turn back to the mirror and study my reflection. The glimmering light disguises my scar and I can almost believe it isn't there. Instead, the pearls at my lobes and neck shimmer, as do the seed pearls sewn on the bodice of the simple dress.

I am pleased, for once, with what I see reflected back to me. Though I know it doesn't matter. I am here for One who doesn't notice the outward appearance but instead looks at the heart. And through the unfathomable work of grace, I know He sees a pure heart, virginal, and white as snow. I still struggle to grasp the magnitude of such a gift.

I turn back to the table and reach into my bag, then pull out my Bible and the small turquoise box and place both on the table.

I shiver in the musty chill of the cave and wrap my arms around myself.

My whisper breaks the silence. "Is this silly?"

You are My beloved.

I open my Bible to the Song of Songs. "'I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine.'" I leave the Bible open on the table, reach for my coat, and fan it out on the floor in front of the candelabras. I walk back to the table, close the Bible, and take it and the little box back to my coat. I kneel on the coat and set the Bible and box on the coat as well.

In the flickering glow of the cave, I bow my head. But before making the vow that's woven itself into my mind and heart since Gerard's death, I think of Matthew.

I see the ease of his smile and hear the exuberance of his tone. I think of his passion. His love. His strength. And all he represents to me. Matthew embodies my deepest desire—the Spirit of the One I love.

"Lord, I want no other. No one but You." I shiver again. "I give myself to You now and for all eternity."

I pick up my Bible and turn to the verses I have marked for this moment and read aloud:

"Do not be afraid; you will not suffer shame. Do not fear disgrace; you will not be humiliated. You will forget the shame of your youth and remember no more the reproach of your widowhood. For your Maker is your husband—the Lord Almighty is his name."

I claim God's words to the Israelites for myself today.

Cold, I wrap my arms around myself again and consider picking up my coat and putting it back on, but decide to wait until I'm finished and stand again. Instead, embracing myself, I bow my head again. I wait. Silent. Wondering. Will the Spirit speak to my soul on this day?

As I wait, I'm aware of a warm sensation beginning in my chest. It spreads inward and then outward, from chest to neck, shoulders, and then down my arms. Soon, every part of my body is flushed with a radiant heat, from fingertips to toes. I unwrap my arms from around my torso and let them rest at my sides. I lift my head and open my eyes. But there is no explanation for the warmth that envelops me like . . .

I smile. Like the embrace of a lover on a cold winter morn.

I lean my head back, inhale, and raise my arms heavenward. I offer myself body and soul to my Beloved.

Loving.

Desiring.

Trusting.

"I will have no other god before You." My vow echoes through the chambers of the cave and in the recesses of my soul. "You are my Husband."

I bend and reach for the little turquoise box. I open it and smile. Inside is a simple platinum band inlaid with small baguette diamonds. It has none of the flash of the four-karat Bouvier heirloom or its recent replacement. But it is, I'm certain, the ring my Beloved has chosen for me.