Fleur De Lies Read online

“You want to take my camera with you?” asked Bernice. “I’ll start the slide show, and Osmond can look at the pictures in between pretending he’s listening to you.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” a heavily accented bass voice announced over the loud speaker, “please join us in the lounge for this evening’s entertainment of live jazzy music with Elodie and Jean-Charles. Tonight’s specialty cocktail is a Rob Roy at a 15 percent discount. The festivities begin in ten minutes.”

  “Hot damn!” cheered Dick Teig as he pumped his fist. “We’re outta here.”

  “Marion?” Margi sidled up to her. “Out of curiosity, how did the Norwegian break his leg while he was raking leaves?”

  Nana smiled. “He fell outta the tree.”

  I crossed the deck to where Osmond sat and pulled up a chair beside him. “You’ve had quite a day,” I said in a gentle tone.

  He nodded glumly. “She’s the only woman I’ve ever loved, Emily.”

  “Would you like to tell me a little about her? I’ve got all night.”

  He nodded again, his gaze riveted on the deck. “The night she found me, I noticed she was wearing a wedding band, so I thought she was married. But she wasn’t. She was a widow. Barely a bride, and then a widow. The Germans had hauled her husband off to prison a month after her wedding, and she never saw him again. But it wasn’t until the spring of ’44 that the Germans bothered to tell her he’d died in captivity. When I showed up in her barn, her emotions were still pretty raw, so maybe I made a difference in her life when she needed it. I hope so.”

  “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 lay low until things let up. I didn’t want to be declared MIA or AWOL, 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 other 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 whe
n 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 breakfast 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 dynamite 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 something. 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.