The Good Sister: Part One (12 page)

I threw back the covers and placed my feet upon the hardwood floor. I walked over to the shutters, opening them up wide. Dust moats floated, having dislodged them from the wooden shutters. I sneezed, and wondered when they had last been dusted. My eyes took in the brightness then the snow. I blinked and moved my hand to my eyes for just a moment before gazing out. Several inches of white perfection was on the ground, and the sun was out, glistening off the white in blinding brightness. I noticed the building across from my view had long winding icicles hanging from the eaves of the roof, melting, and dripping water in hastened drops. Glancing down, there were deep penetrations in the snow below.
Snow
. It was good to see snow, but I needed to get on with my day.

I took a bath. The essence of lavender oil I added would give my skin a sinful touch of scent. I felt pampered and leaned back into the tub. My head fit into the curve of the white porcelain. I placed a wet hand towel over my face and eyes, and relaxed. Enjoyed the heat of the water. Took in a soothing breath. I imagined everything smelling of lavender, and lost track of time. I only noticed it had been a while when the water turned cool and my fingertips looked like the cartoon version of the California raisins.

When I stepped out of the bath, I was reminded this was winter. Immediately I felt a chill that was foreign to my sunny California acclimation. Wrapping the large fluffy white towel around my glistening skin, I needed to hurry and get dressed. I ran to my suitcase. Luckily I didn’t have far to run. Nevertheless goose bumps were flashing quite noticeably across my skin.

Behind me there was a
hissing gurgle
. I turned to eye the old water radiated heater coiled against the south wall. I gathered my supplies and stood in front of the heater as I slathered my skin in lotion. Not wanting to leave the glorious heat, I stood in front of the radiator until my buns felt toasty. I hopped over to the wall sink, brushed my teeth quickly then pulled out some new designer jeans from my suitcase. Next, I pulled out one of my sister’s cream colored sweaters and quickly put it on. I wiggled my hips to get into the jeans. I stared at the image in front of me. She had wide eyes, as if a different person looked back from the mirror. This person had shapely legs, tight curves, and hips. I saw my breasts. My breasts actually made themselves known through the sweater, not being covered in an ugly sports bra and two large oversized layers of shirts. Beneath this sweater was a lacy bra that lifted and defined what I had, instead of pressing and confining.

I combed my fingers through my curls then added some frizz controlling gel. My curls were prominent but controlled as I styled them. I recalled how my sister would style my hair so I followed that exact pattern. I sat down at the mirror and began to mimic my make-up application like my sister had done many times when we completed one of the many, many makeovers. I smiled ruefully with the thought. I was once again an oversized Barbie, only this time I wasn’t only the Barbie, but the person making me into the Barbie. I’d be my own creation.

My usual pale face was still my face, keeping the shape, but I was in vivid color. My lips were glistening wet with rosy luster. My cheeks were defined and blushed. My eyes were done in a smoky eye shadow that highlighted the deep shades of emerald green, and my long lashes looked even thicker with the application of mascara. Could it be possible that my own face was fascinating? For once I wasn’t hidden behind the wild curls or the oversized pop-bottle glasses.

I slipped on my knee high boots, placed my coat and scarf on, and headed out of the confines of my room. With an uneven breath I stopped at the front desk of the hotel.

“Bonjour!” the pale faced man greeted with a large toothy smile. He was an older gentleman but handsome in an exotic kind of way.

I almost froze, but took in a breath and lifted my chin. “Good morning,” I returned.

“May I be of assistance, ma beauté?”

“Ma beauté? I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

He smiled. “My beauty.”

“Oh, I…” I seemed to lose the ability to speak for a moment. He called me, my beauty. I needed to consider his words.

“Joli blush,” he said then paused. He must have figured I didn’t understand what he was saying. “Oh, uh, you have a pretty blush.”

“Thank you,” I whispered. I sat my purse up on the counter, pulled out the picture of the chateau, and laid it down on the countertop. I kept my eyes firmly upon the photograph. “Do you know this place?”

He picked up the photo and seemed to study it for a moment before laying it back down onto the counter.

“Oui, I know of this place.”

“Is it near here?”

“Oui, twenty minutes south.” He paused for a moment. “I am not,” he placed his hand to his chin, “how do you say… convinced this place is for you.”

“Why?”

“It is a place of many pleasures.”

“Pleasures?”

“Oui.”

“I don’t understand,” I admitted.

“This is why I am not convinced you should be seeking such a place.”

“I am looking for a friend of mine. I believe he is staying at the chateau in this picture.”

The man made a clucking sound with his tongue. “Ah, la, la … this would probably be,” he agreed.

“Do you know of anyone who may be able to drive me to this place?”

“Go to the Café Louis. Ask for Marcelo. He gives tours. This place is on his tour.”

“Marcelo,” I echoed.

With a nod he said, “Oui.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“The friend you are looking for, he was…” the man gestured with his hand to his head, “nuts for leaving you.” He picked up the photograph once more, glanced at it then set it lightly into my hand. “Bonne journée, ma belle.”

I placed the picture into my purse and headed out the door of the hotel. I felt my head spin for a moment, but focused on what I needed to do. No time for a panic attack. Besides, the village was pretty, not overly crowded, and I needed to find Marcelo at the Café Louis.

I studied the signs as I looked down the snow-covered cobblestone. All of the buildings held rustic, old world charm. Some looked hundreds of years old. It was like walking into another time. I raised my hand to my nose, to lift my glasses. The habit of sliding my glasses up my nose made me giggle. Thank God I did not need my ugly glasses any longer.

I walked, passing shops that were closed and some that were open. I passed a sweets shop then backtracked. I stepped inside to grab a pastry and
ooh,
I thought,
perhaps a hot cocoa.
The shop smelled wonderful. Like fresh baked bread, fruit, and chocolate. My mouth watered. It took me a moment to convey what I wanted since the lady who worked there only spoke French.

“Hot chocolate,” I said, making a gesture of lifting a drink to my lips.

“Chocolat chaud?”

“Yes, chocolate.” Gesturing to drink again.

“Oui.”

Yes
.
That word means yes.

“Yes,” I said. I wished I’d been smart enough to have taken a foreign language elective in high school, specifically French.

The lady smiled wide, making her chubby cheeks into the picture of the Campbell’s soup kid as she nodded.

Along with nods, in coordination with quite a bit of pointing, I finally obtained my chocolate covered pastry with my hot cocoa. Food and drink in hand, I chose a seat at a small wooden table by the window. Besides the lady behind the counter, I was the only person in the sweets shop, so I felt no hint of anxiety at the moment. As I took a sip of my cocoa, I realized I couldn’t remember the last time I sat inside of an actual restaurant.

“Vous êtes américaine,” the sweet voice of a young boy rang out. I shifted to see him, standing at my table.

The little boy was maybe five years of age. He wore blue overalls with a blue plaid shirt. His face was cherubic with a large dimpled smile, and his hair was the color of white cotton that curled around his rosy cheeks. In his little hand he held a small toy fire truck, which he quickly placed on the table top and began to run it along the edge making
vroom
sounds.

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand what you said.”

The little boy grinned, and ran his truck along the table.

A beautifully elegant and regal woman entered the shop. I didn’t mean to stare, I really didn’t, but I could not help myself. This woman had a presence that drew the eye. I noticed the woman was wearing spiked heeled leather boots of exquisite craftsmanship. They zipped up the side, leather forming to overtop her knee. Her black pants looked almost like riding pants, and hugged every curve of her voluptuous body. She wore a white fur coat with a white fur hat. Her hair was the color of raven, and flowed down the curve of her back in long spirals. Her face was exotic with a high flair to her brow, but beneath the arch of her brow held eyes the color of autumn. I also noticed her lips were the shape of a perfect lush heart and glistened deep shades of ruby.

“Vous êtes américaine,” the boy said again.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“He is saying you are American,” the beautiful woman offered in a proper almost haughty tone. It was obvious she had a French accent; however, it played around the edges of her cadence as if she’d been working many years to rid herself of the intonation.

“Oh, thank you,” I said. I watched this woman sashay gracefully to the counter where she began speaking in perfect fluid French to the rubenesque woman behind the glass encasement.

The little boy giggled, tapped my hand then ran off. He barreled through a swinging door that obviously led to the back of the sweet shop.

The beautiful woman took a seat with a coffee. She seemed to be waiting. She took off her coat, gloves and hat, and placed them meticulously onto the espresso colored chair to her right.

“Excuse me, but do you know where I may find Café Louis?” I asked.

The woman turned and looked at me. Her twinkling autumn eyes narrowed. Her gaze roamed over my face. I looked down. Of course it was an easy habit to tuck my chin and look down.

“There are many other places to find tasty food. May I recommend a better place?”

“Oh, I’m not going to eat. I am going to find a person named Marcelo.”

I lifted my chin to find the woman with a surprised expression upon her face.

“Marcelo? May I ask why such a beautiful woman would want to waste her time with a horse’s ass such as Marcelo?”

I giggled. “Um, I was told he provides tours, and I am looking for a specific chateau that I understand is part of his tour. I was told what I am looking for is located about twenty minutes south of here.”

The woman took a gentle sip of her drink. “Ah, I see. And what would be the name of this chateau you are looking for?”

“I don’t know. I only have a picture.”

The woman pulled out the chair beside of her. “Please, come sit, my petit. Tell me of this place. Show me the picture. I am greatly curious as to why you have found the courage to come here.”

H
ow did this stranger know about finding courage to come here?
I
felt a strange sense of anxiety. The room began to blur. In an attempt to calm down, I closed my eyes for a moment. I counted my breaths only to find I was trying too hard to settle my heartbeat before I lifted my chin to look back up. As though this woman read every sign of stress and anxiety that I was experiencing, she spoke again in a gentle voice.

“It is all right, my petit. You have nothing to fear with me. You might even find we have many things in common.”

I gazed at this elegant yet rather intimidating woman, doubting very much we would ever have anything in common, but I took my shaky hand, found my cup of hot cocoa, and walked over to the table, where I took a seat. I wasn’t sure why, but I just felt a sense of need. I was compelled to join her, even though this beautiful woman was a stranger.
A stranger,
I pondered, amazed.

“
My petit. It is love which has brought you on this journey.” The elegant woman kept her sharp eyes honed in on my face.

Was this woman a psychic or a sorceress? She was probably the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. Definitely the most elegant woman I ever met, yet I was somehow obligated to speak with her. Answer her.

“Yes, how did you know?”

“Ah…” the woman said with a slight smile, “love can make us do many things, and you have the look of a desperate love.”

“Desperate?”

“Oui, my petit.”

The beautiful woman picked up her coffee cup, gave a look of almost camaraderie from under her long lashes at me, then took another delicate sip of her beverage. Once she sat the cup back upon the table, she fixed her gaze upon my face yet again.

“Desperate love can be the worst kind of love. It makes us crazed. We yearn for the impossible, and seek out a way to make the impossible possible, do we not?”

This woman stroked a fingertip down the side of her coffee cup. I noticed a gold and ruby ring with the insignia JCR.
Could this be the woman Reid was with?
She was extremely beautiful, well spoken, elegant, bold…. My heart beat faster. There was no way I could compete with this woman. My stomach sank.
Maybe coming here was a horrible idea?