Lost and Found (5 page)

"NOON TOMORROW, OUI?
Perfect. We look forward to hearing your thoughts.
Merci,
Andee."

She hangs up the phone, turns to the computer on her desk, and types the details into her calendar. An e-mail to Gerard informing him of the lunch with Andee—and of his expected presence at 12:30 p.m.—follows.

Fini.

She purses her lips. Ah, Gerard. Her son is vice president of Domain de la Bouvier and its enterprises. Of course, it's only a title. Gerard, like his father before him, is . . . what is the American term? She taps her Montblanc pen on the edge of the desk. Ah yes, Gerard is the
figurehead
. His charm is what makes him valuable, not his business acumen.

Or lack, thereof.

She remains acting president, the reins in her hands. As they should be. That will be one of the topics for discussion tomorrow, she's certain.
C'est la vie.
Gerard may suggest, again, that it's time to begin shifting power. No matter. It is not Gerard's time. Not until she says it is.

Better for him to stay with what he does best—connect with the community here and abroad. After all, it was Gerard's connections that led them to Andee Bell. Andee's financial savvy is renowned and her recommendations for additional tax shelters and investments for Domain de la Bouvier have proven profitable.

Brigitte smiles. Andee continues to impress.

There is just one concern: Andee's relationship with Jenna's brother, Jason. Of course, Andee has the relationship under control—one more reason to respect her—but Brigitte will watch to be certain. There is no room for partiality in business. How far will she be able to trust Andee?

Time will tell.

She leans back in her chair and considers tomorrow's lunch.

Gerard will be included in the initial discussions of Andee's suggestions for the company, but the decisions? They will be made without him.

How unfortunate that there is no one to step in once she's gone.

She turns to the credenza behind her and opens a file drawer. She removes the Bouvier trust and peruses the clauses dealing with heirs and beneficiaries.

Heirs . . .

As always, the word gnaws at her. Not heirs, but
heir
. There is only Gerard. There should be more. Gerard should have a child, or several children, by now.

She taps the pen against the desk, more insistent this time.

Another of Jenna's failings.

She glances at a picture on her desk—Gerard and his father just before his father's death—a massive heart attack just before his fifty-third birthday. The photo was taken in one of the family vineyards in Eperny and appeared on the cover of a wine journal that year. Gerard and his father shared such distinctive traits. One could never doubt that they were father and son.

She reaches for the photo and holds it so the lamp on her desk illuminates the faces. She looks at her husband's features and sees Gerard today. At fifty-four, Gerard's resemblance to his father is startling. She runs a finger over the image. "What would you think of how I've grown your business,
mon amour
?"

Growing the business, that had never been the problem. But where to go from here . . . ?

She sets the picture back in place and shakes her head. She'd been so sure of Jenna. Such promising breeding stock . . .

Jenna
. She glances at her watch.
She should be back by now.
She reaches for the phone and presses the intercom that connects to the kitchen. "Hannah, has Jenna returned?"

"No, Madame. Not yet."

"Merci, Hannah. Let me know when she arrives."

"Oh, Madame, I believe she's just come in the front door."

"Merci,
encore
." She drops the phone in its cradle, turns back to the credenza, and returns the file to its drawer. She turns the key in the drawer, then takes the key and places it in the small safe under her desk. She stands and brushes a piece of lint from her wool slacks.
Eh bien,
no time like the present.

She leaves the office connected to her bedroom suite and heads down the stairs. On the landing above the entry, she pauses, listening, discerning Jenna's whereabouts. She hears the murmur of voices beneath her—Jenna and Hannah—then footsteps, indicating they head in separate directions.

Brigitte comes down the stairs from the landing. "Jenna?"

"Yes." Jenna stops in the hallway and turns toward her.

"
Ma chérie,
you're back. I was beginning to wonder . . . Let's take tea in the solarium." Brigitte reaches Jenna, places one hand on her cheek, and leans in and kisses her other cheek. "I want to hear all about your appointment. I'll advise Hannah. Take a few moments to freshen up and I'll meet you there."

"But . . ."

Brigitte's eyebrows lift. "But what, darling? Surely you have nothing else to do? Take a few minutes to yourself and then we'll catch up. It's been too long, amour, since we've had time together. I want to hear what the doctor said. I need to know that you're well. That's all that matters, yes?"

Jenna nods. "I'll be right there."

Brigitte turns, hiding her smile.
Bien sûr, she would be right there.

Anything less would be unacceptable.

How happy you will be when you no longer live by your own strength but by God's.

JEANNE GUYON

LOOKING BACK IS
a waste of time, and time is too precious to waste. So I have no use for my past, except when recalling it propels me into the future I've designed for myself. Then I discipline myself to remember.

I divide my history by sounds.

Michael Jacobs, my first crush, on his skateboard, wheels bumping across asphalt in front of our house. The lyrics of "We Are the World" coming from Stephanie Hall's open bedroom window next door. The annoying electronic rhythm of my little brothers' Mario Brothers Nintendo game that not even my closed bedroom door could block.

The before sounds.

My father, Charles Bell, puking in the shared bathroom of the apartment house. Tina Turner's "Private Dancer" coming through the floor from the apartment of the prostitute who lived below us. Our neighbors arguing and slamming doors as I tried to sleep each night.

The after sounds.

Before: the brown-shingled, craftsman-style, two-story house with the wrap-around porch, just a block from the water. An Alameda neighborhood of doctors, attorneys, businessmen, and their families. The security of my early childhood.

After: the peeling white exterior of a Victorian-style mansion turned low-rent apartment house. A neighborhood of sailors, prostitutes, and pathetic idiots. The bane of my adolescence.

The two addresses were just a few city blocks apart. Which meant that even after the move, I got to stay in the same school as the kids I'd known since kindergarten. Great. My mother, who fought for so little, did fight for that sense of stability for my brothers and me.
Gee, thanks Mom.
But the sounds . . . she couldn't stop those. Evidence of a permanent break between past and present. I'd prayed the move would take me to a new school, where I was unknown. But my prayers went unanswered.

Shocking.

It was during those formative years that I learned financial security is something to be grabbed by the throat and wrestled into submission. Security isn't determined by fate. It's determined by drive.

From those lessons came the mantra I'm known for:
Drive determines destiny.

Jack Welch, CEO of General Electric between 1981 and 2001, estimated net worth $720 million said, "Control your own destiny or someone else will." $720 million speaks. So I tweaked Jack's quote and made it my life philosophy.

Fate has no place in my life or in the lives of those who follow me and seek real security. If you want something, you focus on the goal and knockout anything or anyone that gets in the way. The premise is that you must be willing to let go of anything or anyone holding you back. The discipline of your drive determines whether you'll attain the goal.

Simple.

I reach behind me and pull my hair off my neck, twist the length of it into a loose bun, and grab a pencil from my drawer and stick it in the bun to hold the hair in place. I refocus on the project in front of me—the next book I'm contracted to write. I type in the title of the first chapter:
The God of Your Finances: You!
I shake my head and think back to my childhood prayers.
Why pray when you can act and determine your own outcomes?
Faith is fantastical thinking.

I deal in reality.

I scan the detailed outline I work from and begin the process of putting the outline into chapters—expanding ideas into a step-by-step format that will lead the reader, should they choose to follow the wisdom of my advice, to financial security.

My cell phone rings, disrupting my thoughts. Few people have this number—Cassidy, for work emergencies. My editor. And a new member of Andee's Cell Phone Club: Jason. I smile when I see his name on the screen. I pick up the phone. "Hey, what's up?"

"I have business to attend to in the valley this afternoon and wondered if you'd like to join me? I won't be long and we can have dinner at the winery. I thought . . . maybe you'd like to meet my dad."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

Meeting Bill before my meeting with Brigitte and Gerard is opportune. Though I hate disrupting my work schedule, this seems like a smart change of plans. "I'd love to."

"Really? I thought you'd say no."

"Well, that's part of the mystique," I purr into the phone. "I'm unpredictable."

Jason chuckles. "I'll pick you up at 4:00."

"Great. See you then." I hang up the phone and glance at my watch. I look down at the Ralph Lauren chocolate wool slacks and matching silk blouse I dressed in this morning—perfect for business, dinner, or both, which is often my prerequisite for clothing. I pull the pencil out of my hair, shake my head, and calculate how much time I'll need to freshen up. I set the alarm on my phone for 3:45 and return my focus to the chapter I'm writing.

But my mind wanders to Jason. I need to check my feelings for him. Feelings—not a realm I deal in much. But there's a softening, of sorts, when it comes to him.

Jason was—is—a purposeful choice in a companion. His connection to Brigitte and Gerard proves handy. He's stable. Good-looking. Pleasant. And he's easy-going, which gives me control of the relationship. Drive is essential in all people, except, perhaps, in those I need under my influence. Jason's a sure bet. And that's the only kind I make.

I know he's ready for more intimacy in our relationship. Not physically. The man is a gentleman in that respect. But he says he wants emotional intimacy.

My response? "What you see is what you get, babe." Emotional intimacy? I shake my head and laugh. "Whatever . . ." Maybe my meeting Bill will quell some need in him. Taking me home to daddy, and all that. It benefits me and that's what matters.

I look back to the chapter outline and rein in my thoughts. I only have another hour to work.

JASON OPENS THE DOOR
of his BMW 650i Coupe and I slide into the supple leather passenger seat. As I reach for my seatbelt, he leans down and kisses me. His kiss is gentle and something stirs inside. Not passion. Passion, I understand. Instead, this . . . this is tenderness. And I find it unnerving.

I pull away. "We'd better go."

"We're fine. We have the whole evening ahead of us."

I shift in my seat. "I don't want to keep your father waiting."

"Dad?" Jason chuckles. "He'd work straight through dinner and never miss us."

"Really?" I say. "My kind of guy."

Jason bends toward me again. "Careful. I might get jealous."

I reach my hand behind his neck and pull him toward me and place a placating peck on his lips. "Mmm, no need to worry."

"Well, that's good news." He stands. "He'd never miss us because he doesn't know we're coming. I'll call on the way. We spoke yesterday and he said he's working every evening this week but he'll stop for dinner. It's fall—the crush—remember? He'll grab a quick dinner with us and then get back to work."

He shuts the door and I watch him walk around the front of the car to the driver's side. His stride, like him, is relaxed. His casual attitude and boyish good looks are a definite draw. He opens the door and gets settled in the driver's seat. Once his belt is buckled he turns and smiles. "Thanks for coming . . ."

"Sure." I wink at him. "It isn't everyday that a girl gets an invitation to go home and meet the parents. Or"—I catch my mistake—"parent, I should say." I glance at Jason's profile to see if my gaffe troubles him. But he seems unfazed.

"So, what does your dad know about me? Does he know who I am?"

"Who you are?"

"Yeah, you know, the celebrity stuff."

"Oh, that." Jason turns his gaze from the road and glances at me. I see laughter in his eyes.

"What?"

"Nothing." He smiles at me and then looks back at the road. "I told him I'm spending time with someone I want him to meet. That's all."