Unwritten

  “A bit paranoid, aren’t we?”

  “No. Maybe.” I smiled. “Okay, yes.”

  She returned to her ingredients. Smiling. I noticed in moments like these that she talked much like some of the NFL’s great running backs played football—she could change directions on a dime. Catching people off guard was her version of a truth serum and a guarded attempt to communicate beneath the surface but only on her terms. “And how far have you run?”

  I considered my answer—and its ramifications. I erred on the side of vague honesty. “A long way.”

  She accepted my answer then scribbled on a piece of paper and handed it to me. “Flashlight in that drawer right there.” She pointed to the back of the kitchen. “That door there will drop you down into the wine cellar. The first two are in bin thirty-seven. The third is in forty-three, I think. Maybe forty-four. I get them confused.”

  I clicked on the light and made my way down into the dungeon, talking to myself. “Yeah, my wine cellar below my château always confuses me, too.”

  I wound down the stairs, down a hallway lit with a string of lights, down another set of stairs, and eventually into the first large cave we explored that morning. I got my bearings, then descended down the second set of stone steps, and landed in the Reserva. I opened the iron gate, searched the labels, matched them with her note, and began walking out.

  The flashlight created the shadow that caught my eye. Small steps carved into the stone at my feet led up and to a small round opening over my shoulder, large enough to turn sideways and wiggle through. I set down the wine, climbed up, and shone the light. It was something of a loft to my current cave. Someplace you had to know about to get to. Get into. I wiggled in, and stood hunched over, my back pressed against the ceiling. The empty room was eight by eight. The entrance was worn where someone—or someones—long ago, had slid in and out. The only sign that anyone had ever been here was a hand-carved date on the wall: May 5, 1992. Some twenty years ago. The numbers were curved and not too deep, suggesting a girl had carved them. I traced them with my fingers, doing the math in my mind. If Katie Quinn or Isabella Desouches had carved them, she would have been fifteen. Meaning, a year later, she would land in Miami.

  I returned with the wine and she put me to work setting the table in the smaller of the two dining rooms, which I found down a short hallway from the kitchen. The back of the château sort of bled into the mountain, or hill. That meant that the dining room we were eating in had been shaped into the mountain. A cave itself. Low ceiling. Fireplace. Dark wooden table. Candles on the wall. I set the table, and because the temperature was a constant fifty-two degrees Fahrenheit, I built a fire and lit the candles. No one has ever accused me of being romantic, or even understanding what romance might look like, but I had a feeling that room fell into the category.

  Three hours later, we finished the best dinner I’d ever eaten. Three courses. Starting with tomato soup. Three different types of fresh-baked bread. The best butter I’d ever put in my mouth. Lamb. White asparagus topped with parmesan cheese. Some sort of cheesy potato thing. Salad with strawberries and walnuts. And one more thing—the French are serious about their wine and they don’t just drink one bottle with dinner. They drink all or part of a bottle with each course. We drank three different bottles: Blanc de Lynch-Bages 2007, Château de Liscous 2005 Saint-Émilion Grand Cru—my favorite—and Château Lafon-Rochet Saint Estephe 1993. I know their names because I wrote them down.

  I also learned that French folks do dinner backward. Soup. Main course. Then the salad. And along with the salad comes a selection of what they call cheese. Notice I said they call cheese. I didn’t say that’s what I’d call it. She served the salad, then passed a plate. The smell nearly made me vomit. I gagged. She tried to suppress the smile and look surprised. “What’s wrong?”

  I turned my head. “What is that?”

  “Goat cheese?”

  It was all I could do not to retch. I handed the plate back.

  She proffered again. “Try it.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Really. You’ll like it.”

  I pointed. “That could gag a maggot.”

  She cut a slice and ate it. Savoring it. “Suit yourself.”

  She chewed and swallowed.

  “How do you eat that?”

  “It’s a French thing.”

  I shook my head. She took a bite from a different roll of cheese, this time using a spoon. My lip curled. “You might want to use some mouthwash after that.”

  The words had just exited my mouth and she was in the process of laughing when we heard a loud and purposeful knock on the door. She stopped chewing, turned white, and began looking around. As in, looking for a place to hide. I asked, “You expecting someone?”

  “No.”

  She looked at herself, shook her head. “I don’t have time.”

  I stood. “I got it.”

  “What if they speak French?”

  “Follow me. Climb the steps to the second floor. If they don’t understand me, you can yell down and tell them you’re on a conference call.”

  She followed behind me, holding on to my shirt, hiding behind me. “You’re good at this.”

  “I’ve had some practice.”

  We slid through each room, I turned off the lights as we walked. She climbed the steps. A man’s shadow stood outside the front door. I stood to the side, clicked on the porch light, and saw Ian Murphy standing on the porch, a bottle in his hand. I pulled open the door. He said, “Bonjour, mate.”

  I still had my napkin in my hand. “Oh, hello.”

  He leaned his head forward but didn’t step inside. “Is Madame Desouches available?”

  I was about to open my mouth when she hollered down from the second-floor balcony. The sound echoed through the foyer. “Ian, I’m on a conference call with people in the U.S. Can it wait ’til tomorrow?”

  “Oh, right then. Sure thing. Well—” He offered the bottle. “This is for you. Some of our best. Cheers.” He shook my hand.

  “Good night.”

  I stood at the window and watched his red taillights disappear down the drive. I felt her walk up behind me. She put a hand on my shoulder. I felt her breath on my neck. “That was close.”

  I nodded.

  She tugged on my shirt. “Come on. Soufflé’s getting cold.”

  “Soufflé?”

  We returned to the dining cave. She shook the intrusion off quickly, pulling the soufflés out of the oven and telling me to have a seat and close my eyes. I did. She set it in front of me. As if I could eat another bite. A swollen tick had more room than me. The smell wafted up to my nose. My mouth began watering. She sat. “Okay, dig in.”

  I opened my eyes. It was a chocolate soufflé covered with some sort of raspberry sauce and dusted with powdered sugar. A scoop of cinnamon ice cream sat along one side.

  The mixture of hot and cold, chocolate and raspberry, cinnamon and sugar was celestial. Five minutes later, I set my spoon down. Plate empty. She stared at me over her spoon. “Good?”

  “Hands down best dessert ever.”

  She nodded. “Thank you.”

  We sat, each painted in reddish-orange firelight and golden candle flame. I was sleepy. The moment was perfect and I tried not to think past it but it was difficult. Pictures of her raced across my mind’s eye: covered in flour in the kitchen, standing on my bow casting across the current, seated on a scooter zipping through Paris, weeping at the graveside, standing in the caves beneath us, the various personas. I couldn’t shake the thought of the life she had in front of her. How long could she keep it up? How long would she last? And when she let down her guard, who would be there to answer the door?

  The candles burned down, the fire died. I pushed back, wiped my mouth. “I think that was the best meal I’ve ever eaten in my life.”

  She was lost in the firelight. She spoke without looking at me. “Thank you.”

  She yawned. I stood. “You cooked. I’
ll clean.”

  “Thanks.” She dropped her napkin on the table. “I’m going to take a bath and go to bed.”

  “See you in the morning.”

  She walked to the door, leaning against the frame. Her toes swept across the floor. “I know you’re probably missing your boat about now and… I just need a few more days here.”

  I began collecting our plates. “My boats will be okay without me.” I rubbed my swollen tummy. “I’m just starting to get used to the food.”

  “I guess I should’ve asked this before. Would you like to see any of the countryside? Maybe a tour before we head back?”

  I sensed she was stalling. Needed more time. “I’d like that very much.”

  “Really?” She seemed surprised by this.

  “Really.”

  “So, you’re not in some great hurry to get back?”

  “The tarpon don’t start running for a couple of weeks. I’ve got time.”

  “Must be nice planning your life around the fish.”

  A shrug.

  “Tomorrow morning then?”

  “See you in the morning.”

  I retired to my room and The Ice Queen.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  She appeared bright-eyed at breakfast. A new persona. One I’d not seen. She looked midsixties. White hair pulled back. Pants suit. Narrow waist. The jewelry I’d taken from the bank lockbox in Miami now displayed across her body. Watch. Ring. Necklace. Diamonds were the color of the day. “It’s going to be tough for me to take you seriously. I mean…” I looked around the kitchen. “At your age, do we need some adult diapers?”

  “Funny.” She slapped my shoulder and handed me a set of keys. “Hush and go get the car. Black Range Rover. You’re the driver.”

  “Who am I driving?”

  “Mrs. Claremont. A wealthy widow, and dear friend of the owner of this château. She always stays in the blue suite when she visits. She likes to redecorate her house in London, and Isabella advises her on where in the area to find the best antiques.”

  I pointed at the jewelry. “How much is all that worth?”

  “Couple hundred.”

  “Define ‘couple hundred.’ ”

  She figured, adding it up. “Six-fifty to seven.”

  “That’s what I figured.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Now I’m a bodyguard, too.”

  We pulled out of the drive and exited the gate. She waved her hand across the windshield and the valley beyond. “They call this the ‘Valley of the Kings.’ ”

  I laughed. “Well, you’d fit right in.”

  She smirked. “Are you going to do this all day? If you do, we’ll never get through everywhere I want to take you.” She was trying not to laugh. “Now, hush. We have a lot of ground to cover.”

  Another wave. “They say it’s the cradle of the French language and, given the vineyards, the garden of France. Hence, beauty is spoken, and grown, here.”

  “Who’s they?”

  A smile. “People who know better.”

  I spoke without looking at her. “Well, they certainly got that one right.”

  She liked it here. A tulip at daybreak. She laid her head back against the headrest, staring out the window. Her finger pointed directions while her mouth gave the history. “This is the Loire River—the longest river in France at a thousand kilometers long. Today, more than four hundred castles exist along the river. Most private.” She swung left. “That large black-and-white bird is called a ‘pie.’ ” She pronounced it “pee.” “Looks a lot like the American magpie.” She swung right. “Those huge, gorgeous trees are cedars of Lebanon planted sometime in the nineteenth century. You may have heard of them—Solomon used them to build the temple.”

  “Wow. You really are good.”

  She shook me off. “Leonardo da Vinci moved to Ambois—which is that way—late in his life, bringing with him three unfinished paintings, one of which was the Mona Lisa. He’s buried in the chapel at Ambois. We can go there if you like.”

  I tried to say something cute but she cut me off. “Now, listen up because this is important.”

  “I am engrossed.”

  A smile. “Hush. My father used to tell me that the most important date in all of France was November eleventh because three very important things happened.”

  More bait. I nibbled. “You don’t say.”

  She spoke through her chuckle. “First, it was the date we signed the—”

  “ ‘We’?”

  “Yes, we.”

  “Wouldn’t Mr. Thomas be surprised to hear that?”

  She shushed me with another wave. “Let me finish. This is important.”

  I smiled. Saying nothing.

  A deep breath. Lecture face resumed. “We signed the armistice with Germany ending World War I. Second, it’s St. Martin’s Day. St. Martin was a Roman soldier who became a monk and later bishop of Tours. He died in Candes-Saint-Martin on November eleventh, 397.”

  “Candes-Saint-Martin” echoed in my mind.

  She continued. “When he died, mourners took his body upriver to Tours for burial. As his body reached Tours, the flowers in the fields alongside the river bloomed—in winter.” She spoke with certainty. “A documented miracle—it’s called the ‘Summer of St. Martin.’ ”

  “You know if the whole acting thing doesn’t pan out, you could hire out as a personal tour guide. You’re pretty good. I see real potential.”

  She ignored me. “And lastly, and, according to my dad, most importantly…” Another smile, which she was doing a lot. “It’s my birthday.”

  “I don’t suppose Queequeg knew that date, either.”

  “He knew the date I gave him.”

  “And your dad?”

  A shake of the head. Long silence. “Died when I was fifteen.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Diddier. Diddier Andrais Maximilien Beaunier Claveaux Desouches.” A moment passed. A finger in the air. “When it was just us, Papa called me ‘ma cherie.’ ”

  I waited for the translation.

  She tasted the words. “It means ‘my love.’ ”

  “It’s… tender.”

  A nod. “Even more so when it’s aimed at you.”

  We drove for hours. Places named Chenonceau, Villandry, Azay-le-Rideau. She understood the architecture, the gardens, the history. At some locations—depending in large part upon the crowd—we bought a ticket and entered, while others we simply drove by as she explained the who, what, where, when, and why. Her knowledge was encyclopedic.

  Late in the afternoon, we stopped at a café alongside the river in Candes-Saint-Martin, the medieval town where the saint was said to have died. The Church of St. Martin rising up above us. More than a thousand years old, its edges were worn and smooth. She pointed at the dozens of headless statues that had been carved high into the walls of the church. She said, “One way to win a religious war is decapitate the things your enemy holds dear.”

  The café was little more than a bait shack at a boat ramp at the foot of the town. I felt rather at home. The river flowed below us. Old wooden boats, a kind I’d never seen, floated upriver. She sipped cappuccino and waved her hand across the water. “The river is shallow. Swift currents. Lots of undertow. Those boats are very old. The smaller ones are called ‘thoue’ and the larger are ‘garbarres.’ They’ve been used on this river for hundreds of years.”

  I nodded. “The original flats boat.”

  She smiled.

  After coffee, she ordered two crêpes dipped in Grand Marnier.

  They arrived and as I was stuffing one in my mouth, she held her hands up, made a square, and framed me as you would in a photograph. A mixture of butter and liqueur was dripping off my chin. “You go good in France.” She sat back. “You’re good at watching the world spin by.”

  “I’ve had some practice.” I stopped midbite. Something was nagging me. “Tell me again the name of this town.”

  “Candes-Sai
nt-Martin.”

  There it was again. I repeated it out loud. Then again. Finally, Steady’s words returned. “Fifth pew…” I grabbed her hand and dropped money on the table. “Come on.”

  “What? Where are we going?”

  We began running uphill. “Church.”

  We stepped along the cobblestones uphill. “You want to tell me why?”

  “Just keep your shorts on.”

  “But you’ve never been here.”

  “Right. But Steady has.”

  She held my hand as we climbed the steps into the church. Stained glass. Cathedral ceilings. White stone. Lined with pews. Deep, dark, hand-worn wood. The tops and backs were darker due to centuries of hand oil. It would seat several hundred but, at the moment, the church was empty. Our steps and whispers echoed. I walked to the fifth row and began crawling along the ancient marble floor. Left to right. Glancing beneath each section. She leaned down. “What are you doing? They’ll throw us out of here.”

  The words were over sixty years old yet they weren’t too tough to find. Weathered, but he’d carved it with his bayonet so the letters were deep and not going anywhere. I rolled over, lay on my back, and beckoned her toward me. She knelt, eventually rolling over and lying alongside me. Shoulder to shoulder. I pointed. “During the war, Steady spent a night here when his unit marched through.”

  She read the words. Smiling. They were classic Steady. “If you let me survive this—I will be your priest. Carrying both stretcher and blade. Whose robes are stained. I will walk back across the battlefield. Rescuing the wounded. Offering to cut out gangrene. What happens after that is up to you.”

  She ran her fingers through the carved letters. Whispering, “Even here—”

  I tore a sheet from my notebook, laid it across the neatly carved letters, and began making a charcoal rubbing with my pencil.

  We lay there several minutes, reading and rereading the words. I slid the impression into my notebook. When we heard footsteps shuffle near the front door, we sat up, exited the church, and strolled back down the street. It had been a good day. A real good day. I turned to her. “Thank you for today. I really enjoyed it.”