Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle. Mary Jane Maffini
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her head. “No, he does not. Sometimes he is so...”
Josey said, “Pig-headed?”
Hélène frowned, “No, not exactly, I was going to say he is more...”
Luckily, I stopped myself from saying, “Sleazy?”
“Serious,” she said. “Un homme sérieux.”
“Oof,” Josey said.
“I suppose he is,” I said. A thousand adjectives would have popped into my mind first, but I had to keep in mind the feelings of the lovely person who was handing me a drink in a tall, frosty glass.
“Oui,” Hélène said, narrowing her eyes a bit.
Something told me that serious didn’t have all that much appeal right at the moment. I had no problem with that. I never understood what a lovely person like Hélène saw in St. Aubaine’s version of Donald Trump anyway. All right, better looking, better hair. But even so.
Josey said, “I wonder if Rafaël likes sangria?”
Hélène arched her back. “Certainement. He would.”
I took a sip, savoured the citrusy sweetness and waited for the little kick. I lay back on the stylish padded lounge chair.
Hélène took the chair beside me. “Fiona, you are gripping that glass so hard, I can see your knuckles. Even Harriet cannot be that bad.”
My mind was whirling from everything that had happened that day: the horrible image of the burning Cadillac Escalade, Marc-André lying in his hospital bed, my empty bank account, my invisible ex-husband, Jean-Claude’s attempt to get my property while I was down, and now the guilty knowledge that he might be having a fling with Anabel Huffington-Chabot behind Hélène’s back while the village watched and smirked.
I sighed. “Harriet and her wallet are the least of my problems.”
Lala’s Contribution
One can of whipped cream, or more as desired.
Technique: Apply whipped cream to selected areas. See what happens.
Four
When I got home, I checked my messages. Aside from the earlier ones from Hélène, nothing. Nada. No offers of work. No calls from Philip. Nothing at all about that damn wallet. I tried to find a phone number for the Domaine Wallingford, but nothing was listed. I googled it. Nothing. I tried Philip five or six more times. Then I left a message with my new agent, Lola. I hit my office and dusted off a few proposals and old articles. I sent out some emails to long-ago colleagues and editors, checking the waters. I knew that the start of the summer months wasn’t the best time to get a bit of government writing or editing work, especially when you’ve been out of the loop for a few years. But I had to try something. I opened the file with my novel and closed it again.
I distracted myself by rigging up two ancient fans to get a breeze going in the house. Outside was cooler of course, but much too buggy by the river to stay long. Josey had decided to spend the night at my place. In return for the use of the futon in my office, she was making a fresh supply of icy lemonade, using lemons borrowed from Hélène. I had sugar and ice on hand, mint that Josey had planted and a crystal carafe to contribute to the effort. I had left Josey in the small pine kitchen and just started out to take Tolstoy for a walk, when my friend Dr. Liz Prentiss drove up in her Audi Quattro.
“Make yourself at home,” I said.
“I will.”
Of course, I knew that only too well. But what are friends for?
By the time it took me to get Tolstoy out for his constitutional and back, Liz had managed to ferret out my last bottle of Courvoisier and had already helped herself to two fingers. I was sure I’d hidden it better than that.
I was still feeling the effects of the sangria, so I had some of the lemonade Josey had made. I could hear her humming in the kitchen. I sat in the wingback chair. Liz might be a physician, and she is a close friend, but she is not the kind of person to tell your worries to, so I left out the accident, the money problems and all that. But I had to talk about Marc-André.
“You need to lighten up, Fiona.”
Liz had been my friend since kindergarten some forty-one years earlier, so as a rule I cut her some slack. However, there are times when she pushes the limit. This was one of them.
“I am lightened up.” I eyed her from the wingback chair, where I was fanning myself furiously. The evening mist on the river gave a visual clue to the stifling heat and humidity. The fans didn’t really cut it.
“And you need to get air conditioning.”
Air conditioning is not an option for me, partly because of the shape of my converted cottage home, mostly because of the cost. “Don’t push your luck.”
Liz shrugged. She had a talent for pushing her luck.
She peered into her brandy snifter then raised the bottle again. I was too hot to heave myself out of the chair and snatch the Courvoisier from her. I clutched my icy glass of lemonade and said, “I can’t believe you told me to lighten up. I am talking about a man I care deeply for. You’re a doctor, for heaven’s sake. You should be capable of some small amount of compassion.”
“Pull yourself together. It’s not like he’s dead. He was in a coma for months, and now he’s coming out of it. Great. But you let yourself get so worked up about every little thing.”
Every little thing? I almost choked on that. “He’s finally regained consciousness, and he doesn’t remember my name!”
“And that’s too bad, because you seem to be so besotted with him.”
“What is the matter with you? He’s a wonderful person, who didn’t deserve to die at the hands of a crazed killer. And now he doesn’t deserve to live without a memory.”
“That’s the trouble with head injuries, they have hellish implications.”
“But he’ll get his memory back, won’t he?”
She shrugged. “I’m a GP, not a neurosurgeon. Sometimes they’re left with gaps.”
“Oh.” I knew all about gaps. There had been a serious one in my life since a screaming ambulance had carried Marc-André away from a crime scene.
Liz said, “He’s going to need a ton of physio just to be able to walk. And when he was at his best, you only knew him for, what, a couple of weeks? It’s not like you were married to him. You have no idea what you’ll be taking on. This guy is probably going to have impaired cognitive ability for the rest of his life, and you’ll end up taking care of him. I see the impact of that in my practice all the time. Don’t take this personally, but you’re not that great at looking after yourself, let alone some guy who will be totally dependent. Maybe it’s best if you move on. Oh, don’t get that look on your face. You’re just getting your life together after those miserable years with Phil. Who listened to that sad story? Trust me, I have your best interests at heart.”
I scowled at her.
She said, “You’ll find the right man. You’re still attractive, Fiona. Men seem to go gaga over all that kinky ash-blonde hair. And your eyes are your best feature, that unusual violet blue. I keep telling you to play them up a bit, slap on some make-up. Just don’t give up.”
I didn’t plan to give up on Marc-André, that was definite, or on myself for that matter, although I’m not the type for eye make-up. I felt a surge of sympathy for the patients in Liz’s medical practice. Even though I knew she believed she was helping me avoid problems, I searched my mind for a suitably scathing retort but came up empty. Didn’t matter, because Liz had changed the topic back to her where it usually was.
“Do these pants