It was quarter of six in the morning in Paris when Louis de Coyes, his coffee in hand, went into his study and turned on the computer. Christmas morning alone was an unhappy prospect. At least later he would join friends for Christmas dinner. The house was lonely without Jacques and Giselle, but Louis was well satisfied with his daughter’s choice of a husband. Richard Dalton was the kind of man any father would like to see his daughter marry.
And they would visit a great deal, he was confident of that. They had promised that the lessons he had begun to give Jacques on the Internet would be continued. Someday before too long, he and his grandson would be able to communicate regularly by E-mail. In the meantime, it was now almost midnight on the east coast of the United States, and he wanted to read the Christmas message that Henry Parker Britland IV was about to send to his well-wishers. Louis had once met the former President at a reception at the American embassy in Paris and had been impressed by his ready wit and genuine warmth.
Five minutes later, an incredulous Louis de Coyes was staring at the picture of his grandson, whom the former president had described as a missing child.
Six minutes later, Richard Dalton, while preparing to form some excuse for Giselle not coming to the phone to speak to her father, was shouting, “Oh my God, Louis, oh my God.”
At 2:00 A.M. the bell rang. Henry and Sunday were waiting for Jacques’s parents. “He’s asleep upstairs.”
Jacques was having a dream, but this time, it was a very good dream. Maman was kissing him and whispering, “Mon petit, mon Jacques, mon Jacques, je t’aime, je t’aime. “
Jacques felt himself being lifted up, blankets tucked around him. Richard was holding him tight, was saying, “Little boy, we’re going home.”
In the dream, Jacques slept in Maman’s arms in a car for a long time.
When he awoke, he opened his eyes slowly, the sad feeling creeping over him. But he was not on a couch in the big house. He was in his own bed. How did he get here? Was the dream not a dream after all? Had Maman and Richard come for him because they loved him?
“Maman! Richard!” Jacques called eagerly as he hopped out of bed and ran into the hallway.
“Down here, Jacques,” Maman called. And then he heard another sound floating up from downstairs. The chug-chugging of his trains, and the whistle blowing for the gates to lower. Jacques’s eager feet barely touched the stairs as he rushed down them.
“Not much sleep last night,” Henry observed as he and Sunday drove home from church.
“Nope, not much,” Sunday agreed happily. “Henry, I’m going to miss that little guy.”
“So am I. But before too long I expect we’ll have one —– or two —– of our own.”
“I hope so. But isn’t it incredible how fragile life is? I mean that call about my mother last month?”
“She’s doing fine.”
“Yes, but we could have lost her. And little Jacques. Suppose that woman who took him hadn’t had the accident right here in town. God only knows if she wouldn’t have panicked and maybe hurt him. I hope they catch her soon. We do all hang by a thread.”
“Yes, we do,” Henry agreed quietly. “And for some of us, that thread is going to be cut very soon. Don’t worry, the police won’t have a problem finding that woman and her accomplice. Both were apparently clumsy about covering their trails.”
They drove through the open gates of Drumdoe and down the long road to the house. Henry parked the car in front of the steps. Sims had obviously been watching for them, because the door opened as they crossed the porch.
“Little Jacques is on the phone, sir. His mother tells me he has been playing all morning with his trains. He wishes to thank you for your goodness to him.” Sims beamed. “He wishes to offer you a joyeux Noël.”
As Henry hurried to the phone, Sunday grinned at Sims. “Your French accent is almost as lousy as mine,” she said.
Mary Higgins Clark, My Gal Sunday
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