Lost and Found (37 page)

That's it! Fascinated, I keep reading. And with the next verse, my heart skips a beat . . .

Then Jesus said to his disciples, "Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For whoever wants to save their life will lose it, but whoever loses their life for me will find it."

The verses echo Jesus' words from the earlier chapter in Matthew—the wording is almost exact. One verse talks about seeking our lives, the other talks about saving our lives.

Andee's warning about self-protection comes to mind again. Is protecting myself the same as trying to save my life? I feel the fog of confusion roll in. . . . But wouldn't walking away from Brigitte be a self-protective act? Isn't that saving myself?

I pose my questions to God, but the light of clarity dims, and soon I'm wandering, lost, in a dense fog.

I get up from the sofa, go to the desk, and make a note to talk this through with Matthew.

I sigh.

Why does it have to be so complicated?

Do not regard the external, but the inward state of people.

JEANNE GUYON

SHE PAYS THE
fare and then waits for the cab driver to get out and open the door for her. Once he does, she tips him. She steps onto the curb and opens her umbrella while cursing the rain. She'd rather have met at her home office, but no, this is better. Neutral territory.

She crosses the sidewalk, and steps into the lobby of the office building, shaking the water off her umbrella as she does. She waits at the elevator with a group of businessmen just returning from lunch, it appears. When she reaches the top floor, she steps out of the elevator into the reception area of Shultz, Shultz, and Gorman.

The receptionist greets her. "Mrs. Bouvier, please go back, Mr. Shultz is expecting you."

She heads for Max's office. As she passes the receptionist's desk she says, "I'd like a cup of tea. No sugar." She walks into Max's office without knocking. "Maxwell, I trust everything is in order?"

He stands. "Hello, Brigitte. I'm fine. Thank you for asking. Please, come in."

"Amusing, as always." She sets her briefcase down and comes around the desk and gives him a peck on the cheek, then straightens his tie and pats him on the shoulder. "Much better, oui?"

There's a tap on his door and the receptionist comes in with Brigitte's tea and hands it to her. "May I get you anything else?"

"This will do."

"Thank you, Rachel." Max gestures to the round table in front of the floor-to-ceiling window. "Brigitte, have a seat. Everything is in order, of course. As we discussed in Napa, I'll give you each a copy of the trust and I'll go through it with Jenna. Then you can present your . . . what shall we call it? Your offer?"

She sniffs. "Yes, Max, it is an offer, and a very generous one at that, n'est-ce pas?"

"I suppose it depends on your perspective. I don't think you can assume Jenna will agree to your stipulations."

"Don't be silly, Maxwell. They're hardly stipulations. Just a few requests."

"And if she doesn't abide by your requests?"

"She will. I've seen to that."

"Yes, I know." He smiles. "I'm glad we're friends, Brigitte, I'd hate to be your enemy."

"Wise man."

The intercom on Max's desk buzzes. He walks to the desk and picks up the phone receiver. "Thank you. Send her in." Then he walks to the office door, opens it, and steps into the hallway and waits. "Jenna, good to see you. Please come in. Brigitte just arrived."

Brigitte stands to welcome Jenna. "Hello, chérie, have a seat next to me and we'll get this distasteful business over with. I still can't believe"—she shakes her head—"Well, you know. It still seems impossible that he's really gone."

"Yes, I know."

The three of them sit around the table and Max opens the file folder and distributes copies of the trust.

"Jenna, I can read through all the legal jargon, if you'd like, or I can tell you in general terms what's stated in the trust. Which do you prefer?"

"General terms are fine, Max."

"Good. You have a copy of the trust, and I'd advise you, once we've gone through it, to have your own attorney look it over if you'd like. Though, I assure you, it's all in order. Any questions before we get started?" He looks from Jenna to Brigitte.

Brigitte shakes her head. "Just get on with it, Max."

"Fine." He puts on his glasses and looks at the trust sitting in front of him and then looks at Jenna. "When Gerard's father died, as you know, Gerard was still a minor, so everything was left to Brigitte. Much later, I prepared a trust for Gerard in the event and with the expectation that Brigitte would predecease Gerard and that the trust would hold whatever he accumulated and whatever he inherited. Following me?"

"So far."

"Good." He leans back in his chair, and takes off his glasses. "Now, Gerard was paid an annual salary from Domaine de la Bouvier, and any monies in your personal accounts, retirement accounts, personal investments, things of that nature, are of course, community property." He looks at Jenna again. "Understood?"

She hesitates. "So, you're saying nothing will come to me through the trust?"

"Right." Max looks to Brigitte. "Brigitte, would you like to take it from here?"

"Thank you, Max." She turns in her seat so she's facing Jenna.

"Now darling, unless there are accounts you're aware of that I am not, then I don't believe Gerard made many personal investments. In fact, on more than one occasion through the years, I've given him additional funds so he could maintain the lifestyle you seemed to want. And of course, you also received the generous allowance each month." She sits back in her chair and looks at Jenna and shakes her head. "Sadly, we both know Gerard wasn't much of a businessman. He seemed more interested in, shall we say, enjoying life."

Jenna looks at her clasped hands in her lap, then looks back to Brigitte. "His time and efforts were committed to Domaine de la Bouvier. He felt that was his best investment and believed it would provide for retirement and beyond. He worked hard."

"Well, I'm the better judge of his work habits, non?" She reaches over and places her hand on Jenna's arm. "But that aside, chérie, it should have been me, of course, who passed first. When Gerard wanted to change his trust, to add"—she clears her throat—"provisions, I discouraged him. Perhaps I was in denial—I couldn't face the thought of losing him. You understand, of course." She pulls back from Jenna and continues. "However, now we're faced with the unfortunate task of discussing life without Gerard."

Jenna sits, hands folded, and jaw clenched.

"Darling, you look quite upset, pale even. Are you all right?"

"Yes. I'm fine. Would it be possible to get a glass of water?" She looks to Max.

"Of course." Max goes to the credenza behind his desk, reaches for a glass, and pours water from the pitcher sitting on a tray on the cabinet. He returns to the table, hands the glass to Jenna, pats her on the back, and then sits back down. "These meetings are never easy, my dear."

"Thank you." She takes a sip of the water.

Brigitte scoots forward in her chair, "Max, hand me a copy of the agreement we drafted."

Max opens the file folder in front of him and hands a piece of paper to Brigitte.

She sits back and glances at the document and then says, "You know, Jenna, I love you as if you were my own daughter. And now, it is just the two of us. You stand to inherit all I have—the company and all its holdings and, of course, my personal estate." She leans over and pats Jenna on the shoulder. "So you see, you have nothing to worry about, chérie."

Jenna nods and then takes another sip of water.

"Before I change my trust, there are just a few things we'll need to agree upon. Max has drafted an agreement for you to sign."

"May I see it?"

"Of course, darling." Brigitte hands the document to her. "Please, read it and then if you have questions, though I don't know why you would, we can discuss them here." She sits back, folds her hands in her lap.

Marveilleux
. All is going according to plan.

Jenna takes the document and begins to read, as she does, her hand, and the paper, begin to shake. She sets the paper on the table and folds her hands in her lap and then continues to read the paper on the table.

Brigitte watches—her gaze never leaving Jenna. When she thinks she's had plenty of time to read the agreement, she turns to Max. "Do you have a pen for Jenna?"

"Wait." Jenna's voice cracks. She takes a deep breath and looks at Brigitte. "My blog . . . how . . . how did you—"

"Are you surprised?" She doesn't even try to soften the hard, cold edge of her words. "No longer writing the blog won't be an issue, will it? We live in the public eye, Jenna, you know that—something like that leaves us open to criticism—makes us vulnerable. Surely you understand. It is time for you to re-involve yourself elsewhere. Now that the infection is gone, and once you've had the corrective surgery, you can immerse yourself in the charities you once enjoyed. Do something worthwhile again."

Jenna reaches for her water glass.

"Darling, you're shaking. Are you sure you're feeling well?"

She takes a drink of the water and sets the glass back down. Water sloshes over the edge of the glass onto the table.

"Here, let me get a napkin." Max starts to rise.

"Why not sign the agreement now, chérie, and then we can go enjoy a late lunch together. We'll go somewhere special."

"No."

Though Jenna whispers the word, it strikes Brigitte like a sledgehammer. "I beg your pardon?"

Jenna scoots away from the table and stands. "I said, no!" With that, she turns and walks out.

Out of the office.

And then, out of the building.

You must walk with God with a total sense of abandonment and uncertainty.

JEANNE GUYON

I STAGGER OUT
of the building and onto the sidewalk. A cold wind slaps me in the face. I pull my coat close, turn into the wind, and walk.

And walk.

And walk.

I weave between people crowding the sidewalk, and step off the curb to cross the street in an attempt to escape the masses. Cars honk as I dodge them. And someone yells, telling me to watch out.

I don't know where I'm going. I don't care. I just need to get away—away from Brigitte. Away from her control.

My relentless pace matches my racing thoughts.
How did she find out about the blog? How long has she known? What has she read? How much did I reveal?
And the thought that repeats over and over:
Stop writing the blog and inherit millions.

Does she really think she can buy me?

Of course she does. I've never given her reason to believe otherwise.

Stop writing the blog and inherit millions.

But that wasn't all. I stop on the sidewalk, close my eyes, and picture the agreement. There were three points, but I was so stunned by the fact that she knew about my blog that I just scanned the rest of the agreement. I try now to recall the second and third stipulations.

Ah, yes, of course.

The second stipulation was that I live with Brigitte for the remainder of her lifetime.

But what was the third stipulation? I continue walking, cutting through alleys and down side streets. It didn't register when I read it. My mind shuffles and again I picture the agreement and I see, in my mind, Matthew's name.

The wind whips my hair, the ends sting my face as they hit.

No further contact with Matthew MacGregor.

That was it.

Anger pummels me like a pounding fist.

I swallow the scream rising in my throat and wipe my face—rain mingles with my tears. When did it start raining? I slow my pace and look around. I have no idea where in the city I am. Heat from my exertion radiates from under my coat and I strip it off, drape it over my arm, and walk to the next corner where I can see the street signs.