Young as she was, Katie blamed herself whenever her stupid father let her down. Why did women always think everything was their fault when a man screwed up? Was it genetic? Cultural? Marcy had sailed on that guilt ridden boat of desperation for far too long already. Now she was done with men. They were way too much trouble.
Marcy became aware, out of the corner of her eye that someone was sitting at her bar. People didn't often come to this bar. Drinks were only free if a patron was actively gambling.
"Oh, I beg your pardon," she said to the unexpected customer. "I didn’t see you there."
"You were most busy," the man said, charitably excusing her neglect.
Marcy tilted her head and smiled at him, enjoying his French accent. While not precisely handsome, the gentleman had a pleasant face. There was an aura of humor about him, in his manner and appearance. His eyes were dark and remarkably bright with intelligence, his eyebrows thick and expressive. The fellow's clothes seemed understated yet expensive, classy and elegant. What gambler spruced up to visit a place like this?
After working in the casino for six months, Marcy could recognize the difference between a poser and the real thing.
This man was the real thing.
He wore a perfectly tailored top-of-the-line charcoal suit and vest, a subdued tie, with a well-pressed, crisp white shirt. The faint drifting smell of nutmeg, cedar and Brazilian Rosewood scents came to her nostrils. Marcy was familiar with that cologne – it was a high-class product for the ultra rich.
Was he a professional sportsman, she wondered? Because he was in excellent shape: flat stomach, broad shoulders, dark hair, cut short around his neck and ears. Dark brown eyes and clean shaven. There were numerous pock marks on his chin and cheeks, yet they didn't detract from his healthy attractive appearance.
He was younger than she was, or at least he looked younger - if that carefree, mischievous grin was anything to go on. The man exuded charm. Marcy found herself smiling at him, finding it odd that she liked him instantly. Was he from France, or perhaps Quebec? The desire to practice her high school French was an impulse she decided not to suppress.
"Bonjour, Monsieur, comment allez-vous?" she said.
The stranger's face lit with pleasure. "Très bien, parlez-vous français?"
She smiled and gave him a half shrug. "I'm sorry, I don't speak French really. I went to France as a high school graduation present. It was one of the most wonderful experiences of my life. I just couldn’t resist saying something to you in your own tongue."
"Merci beaucoup." He shot her a pleased grin and nodded. "It is always well to hear the language of one's childhood. I am Mr. Chevalier," he said and held his hand out to her.
"Oh, you can call me Marcy," she said. With well ingrained manners she offered her hand. It was never a good idea to touch customers, and Marcy didn’t much like touching anyway - yet she responded automatically to his open palm.
"Je suis enchanté," Mr. Chevalier said and his teeth flashed white against his tan skin. He caught her fingers in his and lifted them. With flirtatious male grace, he pressed his lips to the back of her hand, his eyes focused on hers.
Marcy felt her face heat, and her smile falter under his observant gaze. Was he hitting on her? Or was this some French display of respect? How was she supposed to respond? Pull her hand away? Leave it? Wait?
The man's eyes glittered with shrewd humor. Clearly aware of her dilemma, and vastly amused by it, he released her.
Marcy pulled her hand away. "What can I get you?" she asked, slipping into her bartending patter as a safe fallback.
"What is your specialty?"
Marcy's smile returned. She was on firm ground once more. "I recommend a margarita. That's one of my personal favorites."
"Eh bien, then I will have a margarita, I thank you."
Marcy took out a glass and wet the rim with a halved lime and then dipped it into salt, to give it a salt rim. Filling a cocktail shaker two-thirds full of ice, she added a generous shot of Tequila. A slightly less amount of Cointreau went in after that. Then lime juice equal to the amount of Tequila. After vigorously shaking it, she strained it into the glass. She handed it to Mr. Chevalier, serving it with an extra wedge of lime.
He took a sip and his lips tugged up in an appealing grin. "I like this very much," he said.
"That will be seven dollars even."
Mr. Chevalier pulled out a hundred and Marcy paused for a moment, startled by seeing another hundred dollar bill so soon after the last one. That preceding c-note still rested comfortably in her pocket. She took the money, and got out ninety-three dollars in change.
As she began to hand his change back to him, he refused to take it. "That will not be necessary. It is a gift."
Marcy's mind reeled. Virtually two hundred dollars in tips and she was only working the bar tonight! The staff rotated as fairly as possible. Waitress work was where the best tips were, but someone always had to tend the bar.
Wow. It must be my lucky day.
Marcy's frivolous thought was astonishingly accurate. Because her lucky day was about to become even luckier.
4. A Proposal
"Merci beaucoup," she said, tucking the money in the pocket of her dress. "Did you have a big win? Is there a reason that you're being so generous?"
He shook his head. "No," he said. "I do not gamble. But there is a reason. I wish to talk to you. Pardon if this may perhaps be considered an insult. I do not intend such, yet I desire to pay for your time."
"But I'm working."
"You may continue to work, of course." He shrugged his shoulders in that uniquely Gallic way. Marcy recalled many such shrugs when on her visit to France. Generally it signified, "That is the way it is. We must both live with it." An American translation might be something like "shit happens," perhaps.
She studied him closely. "Mr. Chevalier, I don’t mean to offend you. Are you hoping to um…date me or something? Because I don’t date."
The smile he gave her grew wider. He theatrically flung his hands up in the air, ending by placing his right hand over his heart. "You wound me, Mademoiselle!" and his warm laugh was so carefree that Marcy found herself grinning.
His gaze traveled over her body, assessing her feminine charms in the open way the French had. "I would most assuredly not be averse to a sensual connection, you understand," he said with a glint of frank male interest in his eyes. "You are most attractive and oh so charming, je vous assure. And yet I swear that I only wish to speak with you while you occupy yourself with your duties as the bartender."
Still smiling, Marcy narrowed her eyes, trying to interpret his intentions. Mr. Chevalier was definitely a gentleman; a gentleman who wanted to talk. What harm could he be after all?
"Okay then, if that's what you want," she said, nodding her agreement.
Marcy continued working, turning from him apologetically while she arranged the next round of drinks – twenty Jägermeister and Red Bull cocktails. The Frenchman's gaze was hot upon her as she poured the shots into each glass. It was difficult not to be thrown off balance by his concentrated attention.
Why did he want to talk to her? Perhaps he wanted to live the cliché and tell a bartender all his problems? She hid an internal snort at that because the guy didn’t look like he had a care in the world.
The smell of 70 proof alcohol filled her nostrils while the casino buzzed with the hypnotic noise of slot wheels whirring and flashing lights all shouting: "Win! Win! Win!" These festive sights and blaring euphoric sounds were exhilarating and captivating to gambling addicts. It gave them the impression that everyone was getting rich. The truth was, except for a very lucky few, a far greater percentage was losing.
When the various waitresses left to dispense the new round of drinks, she returned to Mr. Chevalier. "What would you like to talk to me about, Sir?"
"You."
Marcy curbed her immediate impulse to take a step backwards. Crap. I knew it! He's going to ask me out.
"
Do not be troubled, Mademoiselle," he said calmly. "My intentions are honorable, and if I seem a bit eccentric?" He held his hands palms up, a capricious gesture. "What does it matter?"
"Okay, my eccentric, French friend," Marcy said raising a determined eyebrow. "But I don’t intend to talk about myself."
"This is of no importance for I will speak about you. Did you know that with some I can tell the fortune? I am observant, oui, particularly with women. This is a little gift from the bon Dieu, comprenez vous?" he said with a wry smile.
"Oh?"
"Mais, oui," he said complacently. "Shall I tell you what I see when I look at you?"
Shit, Marcy thought with the hardened cynicism that came from experience. This sounds like the start of a really bad pick up line. I can just hear it now, "Hey baby! I'm psychic and can see the future. I'm lying on top of you and you're screaming my name."
What was he after? The appealing Frenchman didn't give off a single sleazy vibe so maybe he had some other objective than picking her up. But what could it be?
Marcy had to admit that she liked him. There was something endearing about the way he carried himself and the way he spoke to her with absolute respect… not to mention that mischievous smile. Except her taste in men was questionable, judging by her ex. But he had paid her ninety-three dollars for a conversation. The least she could do was humor him.
Should she let him tell her what he saw when he looked at her? Marcy shrugged. "Sure, why not?" she said.
"You are physically very tired. This is perhaps two shifts, one after another that you are working?"
She nodded and grinned. "I look that bad, do I?"
With an impassive face he gave another eloquent shrug. Marcy laughed. What man would admit that a woman didn't quite look her best? But he was right, she was tired. She was pretty well always tired. Some nights it was all she could do just to have a shower and crawl into bed.
"Well, anyway you're right about that," Marcy said. "I'm working a double."
"You are a mother?"
She nodded her affirmative once more, and he gave a triumphant chuckle.
"I can always tell this," he explained, gesturing toward her with one elegant hand. "There is emotional maturity, and subtle bodily changes such as the more generous hips. Motherhood is a time of life when a woman is at her best - such is the joy and gift of children. You have perhaps only one child?"
Marcy frowned, astonished by this lucky deduction. "A daughter," she admitted.
That reference to the size of her hips should have offended her. The truth was that since having Katie she was a bit "generous" all over. Like many women, Marcy dieted off and on regularly, just to be able to continue to fit into her clothes.
She wondered about her reaction to the Frenchman, aware that she had become mesmerized by the charismatic fellow. He had a presence. His voice was soothing, yet compelling. His tone was confident. Marcy trusted him. Something about him made her feel safe, which was nuts of course, because he had to be crazy to talk to her the way he did. Yet how did he know all those things about her? Was she that transparent?"
"Divorced?" he asked.
"Yes," she said, and the gentleman laughed joyously at having guessed correctly once more.
"You're quite the Sherlock, Mr. Chevalier. But without a wedding ring and a child there was a high probability of divorce. Still, you're very good at this game aren't you?"
He gave her a boyish grin, "Me? Oui, I am very clever," he said without an ounce of humility. Marcy burst out laughing, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. This mischievous fellow was lighthearted fun. She hadn’t enjoyed talking to anyone this much for some time.
Mr. Chevalier took another sip of his margarita and then said, "You have financial burdens, and yet it is more than this that weighs heavily on the mind." He paused for a moment, and then added in a quiet voice, "Is it the child?"
Marcy nodded slowly.
The Frenchman's brows drew down, displaying the first sign of unease. He opened his mouth to speak, and then, apparently thinking better of it, left the subject.
"You are loyal, honest and courageous," he said instead, with appealing self-assurance. "I do not need to read the palm to know this. You will find peace and happiness, ma belle, I swear it. For you deserve to be happy."
Marcy's heart lifted. There was no logical reason for that response. This confident Frenchman was the weirdest customer she had yet encountered - and she had encountered quite a few. She had no idea what to reply to his bizarre pronouncement.
"Thank you," she finally said. "Ma belle. It means 'my beautiful.'" She slanted him a suspicious half smile, narrowing her eyes at him. "Are you sure that you're not hoping to get lucky, Mr. Chevalier?"
A broad grin swept over his face. "Most certain. I called you ma belle for you are beautiful, in body oui, but more importantly in spirit."
Flustered and uncertain how to reply to that compliment, Marcy began wiping the counter, even though it was perfectly clean. When she got up the nerve to look at him once more, his penetrating gaze met hers.
Marcy tried to look away, but found that she couldn't.
The Frenchman's dark eyes captured and held her. She was trapped by him, as powerfully as if her will had been locked away by bands of steel.
5. Fate
"I saw your face when the large cowboy dropped the $100 note, ma belle," he confided quietly, his expression intense. "I saw the struggle between good and evil, oui. I was most privileged to view it. It was like bearing witness to the fall of man, and yet there was no fall, non. You are an honest woman, n'est-ce pas? Despite your apparent need, you chose not to transgress."
"Oh, I see," Marcy murmured, a flush of heat burning her face.
It was embarrassing to know that this intriguing Frenchman had watched such a personal moment, yet it explained his strange interest in her.
Shaking her head, Marcy waved her hands deprecatingly. "Only a couple of years ago I wouldn't have even been tempted," she said. "Isn't it strange how life can change you? But I admit that I was grateful to have held firm. It was only a hundred dollars, but it represented so much more. I would have felt terrible if I had taken it."
"Oui, oui, just so," he said with conviction, leaning closer to her. "I comprehend how you feel very well, for I too, once lived day-to-day."
Obviously wealthy, Mr. Chevalier's comment seemed highly improbable. Marcy simply stared at him.
"I will speak frankly, ma belle," he went on. "You do not enjoy the casino, I see this. It is not the job for you. In my profession I deal in other people's confidences. Thus your personal history must first be closely examined. I am inspired. It is a whim, an impulse, yet I like you. If you pass the security screening, I vow that I shall give you a position in my household that would be most suitable."
Mr. Chevalier went on to explain that he was a counselor, and had a large residence nearby. Two of his household staff were away, one to a wedding of his sister in France, the other on vacation. Marcy could replace them. He often had parties where she would serve food and drinks. It was a big home with people coming and going all the time. There was much to do. She could work school hours, and he would pay her generously.
For an instant her heart jumped with an adrenaline punch of pure possibility. It sounded like a dream. Leave the casino, work school hours and make good money? But who was this man? Could she forsake the financial security of a large dependable organization like the Bellagio and take a risk with a complete stranger?
An urbane gentleman and an elegant woman came up to Mr. Chevalier then. The new arrival apologized for being late and the man offered his hand. Mr. Chevalier took it. The couple looked to be perhaps in their mid forties. Their expensive clothes and New England accents shouted wealth and privilege - born and raised with money. Lots and lots of it.
Apparently Mr. Chevalier had been waiting for these people to meet him here, at her little bar. Now that they were here he was leaving.
Marcy was sorr
y to see him go. There was just something about that guy. She was drawn to him. Not sexually – she doubted that she would ever be drawn to anyone sexually again, not after her train wreck of a marriage.
Marcy believed in vibes because she often felt vibes coming off others in waves. Some people were edgy, some disturbing, or creepy, some radiated anger. But the Frenchman only emitted playful energy, combined with mellow comfort and respectful consideration. He seemed trustworthy; she wanted to believe him.
"You are here this evening?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Until midnight?"
She nodded.
"Bon," he said with that charming boyish grin of his. "I believe that we understand each other tolerably well. Someone will come to you tonight with an employment contract that you may examine."
He pulled out a card and handed it to her. It was on embossed white paper and said simply, André Chevalier in cursive letters with a phone number on it. "Inform yourself and make your choice, ma belle. Call me at 9am tomorrow if you wish to discuss the position."
Marcy smiled, nodded and said, "Thank you," as Mr. Chevalier left. Those were all the expected things to say and do. But she had never been a risk taker.
As she put the card in her pocket, Marcy knew that despite the possibilities, she would never call him.
~~~
André Chevalier asked his prospective customers to please follow him as he threaded his way through the labyrinth of the casino. A friend of the manager of the Bellagio, André arranged an interview room in the hotel for their first meeting.
Weaving in and out, André frowned with momentary disorientation as he tried to locate the exit. The problem was that there was no logical arrangement to the casino floor plan, and the ceilings were low so that it was difficult to find a landmark. An ocean of tall slot machines created intentional barriers.
Once a gambler walked inside, especially after a few drinks, it was almost impossible for them to find their way out again.
André had initially been displeased when his new clients didn't arrive on time. To be late without a good reason was impolite. Not only that, but they asked to meet him here in the casino. Other than live shows and entertainment, André didn’t enjoy a casino environment. He virtually never entered the maze of slots and gaming tables.