Lost and Found Read online

  "What was the interest rate you'd agreed on?"

  "Nine percent, which was good for the times. Prime was between 11.75 and 13 percent in '84."

  "Ouch."

  "Ouch is right. You know, Andee, we're a small company. I've kept it that way. We make a good product, and because we don't produce much, our label's in demand. We get a pretty penny per bottle. But, I don't have that kind of cash sitting around."

  I do the math in my head and figure out what he owes. "So he didn't tear up the note?"

  "Guess not. Knowing Duke, he just forgot."

  "Do you have a copy of the note?"

  "Likely have it somewhere."

  I nod.

  "Any suggestions?"

  I'm not a miracle worker, if that's what he's asking. "What are your plans for Azul? Down the road?"

  "Keep it in the family. Jason's taking more and more responsibility. I'd love to see Jenna step in too. She's smart as a whip and has a keen understanding of the process." He shrugs. "We'll see." He leans back in his seat and sighs. "You know, I'm not getting any younger." He chuckles. "I've loved this business, but if I can get this money thing ironed out, then it's time for me to step back and let Jason run with it."

  "What will you do?"

  He smiles and there's a spark in his eyes. "Oh, I'll find something. I'm not about to be put out to pasture. It's time to relax, have some fun. Maybe travel some."

  "Well, let's see what we can come up with. Are you comfortable having me give him a call?" I point to the business card of the attorney that I laid on the table.

  "Sure. But, I don't want any favors. I intend to pay you for your time."

  I shake my head. "Let me just make a call. Give this some thought. I don't want your money, Bill. Jason's special to me. If I can help in any way, I'm happy to do so—for both your sakes."

  He slides the business card toward me.

  "And this is between us. If you want to tell Jason at some point—that's your business."

  He holds out his hand across the table. I take it and he shakes my hand and then gives it a squeeze.

  "Andee, I'm sure appreciative."

  "My pleasure."

  AS I DRIVE BACK to the chateau, I wonder, as I often do, at the business deals that are made with the equivalent of a handshake. Handwriting a note for $500,000? Not asking to witness the note being torn up? Idiocy. Yet Bill, like Jason, is likable. Trusting. But these two aren't businessmen. Can I forgive them for that?

  I think of Jason and how the information Bill imparted impacts him. I'm surprised by the sympathy I feel for both Bill and Jason. Normally, I have no sympathy for idiots. I chuckle. "You're getting soft, Andee."

  I pull onto Highway 29 and head back toward St. Helena and the Bouvier chateau. As I drive, what strikes me is that Bill and Jason are good men. Solid. Trusting and trustworthy.

  They are men who fall outside my realm of experience.

  The road ahead of me blurs as I wipe away unexpected tears.

  "Oh man, I am getting soft." I sniff. No, wait, maybe it's hormones. I vote for hormones. I wipe my eyes again and a thought plants itself in my mind: Jason's a keeper. Hang on to him.

  "A keeper? What is he, a trout?"

  Anyway, since when did I want a keeper?

  I try to put the thought out of my mind and refocus on Bill's issue. But as I turn into the winding drive that leads to the chateau, all I can think about is Jason. I pull up to the house, turn off the ignition, throw my keys into my purse, get out, and slam the car door. Hard.

  True, sometimes this natural place of rest is so different from what you have been used to that you will still feel twinges of fear or anxiety. But when you experience what it is like to be a creation of God, you will see what simplicity and innocence, and enlargement is waiting for you.

  JEANNE GUYON

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Jenna

  ON SUNDAY AFTERNOON, Gerard and I stand in the driveway of the chateau and wave good-bye to both Andee and Jason as they head back to the city, each in their separate car. We'll return in the morning. As we stand there, the afternoon sun hanging in the sky, Gerard drapes his arm around my shoulders. When we can no longer see their cars on the winding drive, Gerard slides a glance at me. "Have a few minutes?"

  I look up at him and see that the etched lines furrowing his brow have softened a bit. He looks relaxed, refreshed, and his eyes are clear. The valley is good for him. The time away from Brigitte, I think, is even more so. I haven't seen him have a drink, not even wine with dinner last night, since we arrived.

  I slip my arm around his waist and give him a squeeze. "For you, I have all the time in the world."

  "I want to show you something."

  He takes my hand and leads me behind the house where the old ranch truck is parked. He opens the passenger door for me. "Hop in."

  "Where are we going?"

  "You'll see."

  He climbs in the driver's side, starts the truck, and soon we're bumping across one of the dirt roads that runs alongside part of the vineyard. We ride in companionable silence and I'm reminded of the year before we married—the year before we lived with Brigitte. It was the one time in our relationship that we were left alone—to form a bond, to fall in love—or at least develop an abiding tenderness for one another.

  In many ways, ours was an arranged marriage—though I don't think either of us was aware of it at the time. Brigitte, clever as always, made us think it was our idea. She'd chosen me for Gerard—as his wife, and the mother of her grandchildren. She succeeded on one count, but only one.

  Some things even Brigitte cannot control.

  That is the one solace I've found in infertility.

  After years of trying to become pregnant and then failed attempts at in vitro fertilization, I let go of my hope, and even my need to produce to please Brigitte. Letting go of my hope for children was heart wrenching. A soul-wound that perhaps only other infertile couples understand. Letting go of my need to produce for Brigitte's sake was terrifying. But we couldn't comply.

  Gerard asked me, after initial tests showed our inability to conceive was due to his low sperm count, to keep that information to myself. "We're in this together, Jen. Can we take the fall together?" In other words, he couldn't bear revealing the truth to his mother, who would consider it another failure on his part.

  I complied.

  It is one of many untruths I've agreed to over the years to maintain peace between Gerard and his mother. One of many untruths that I now regret—resent even.

  Then I had the plastic surgery and the ensuing complications put an end, in Brigitte's mind, to any further attempts to conceive for the time being. She assumes, of course, that our failure to produce a Bouvier heir is my failure and mine alone.

  I look over at Gerard and feel the familiar ache for him. I would have loved for him to have a child. Someone of his own to love and guide. Parenting might have given him a sense of purpose, something Brigitte robbed him of long ago.

  I look back to the road and see how far we've gone. Just as I'm ready to ask again where we're going, he turns onto one of the roads that crosses the vineyard. There are several outbuildings that house equipment scattered throughout the vineyard and Gerard stops at the first one on the road. He pulls in alongside the old building. This one is small and stands alone. Like many of the buildings, it was built of stone by Chinese laborers more than a century ago.

  Gerard puts the truck in park, turns off the ignition, and then looks at me. There is a glint in his eyes and he smiles.

  "What?" I look from him to the building next to us. "What do you want to show me all the way out here? What are you up to?"

  "You'll see."

  He comes around the front of the truck, opens my door, and helps me out of the truck.
Then he leads me to the side door of the old building and searches his key ring for the key. He inserts the key into what I notice looks like a new handle and lock set. Before he opens the door, her turns to me. "Close your eyes."

  "What?"

  "You heard me. Close your eyes."

  "Oh, Gerard . . ." I do as he tells me but I feel silly. I hear the door creak open and then Gerard guides me inside. He stops a few steps inside.

  "Wait there just a minute. Don't peek."

  I hear him take a few steps and then hear what sounds like switches being switched. As I stand there, I realize the inside of the building is warm and smells of wax and polish. It isn't cold and musty as I expected.

  "Okay, open your eyes."

  I open my eyes, and—

  "Oh. Oh, Gerard. Oh, how . . . how did you . . . ?" I'm staggered by the simple beauty surrounding me. I turn in slow circles and take it in. Soft golden light illuminates the interior. I look up and see two iron fixtures hanging from the beamed ceiling, each bearing six waxen candles. The fixtures are electric, but give the impression of candles lit above.

  The light spills over gleaming rough-hewn plank floors, stained in a dark patina and polished to a rich hue. At the front of the room is what looks like an altar. There are two free-standing iron candelabras on a small raised platform, flanking a large rustic iron cross hanging on the rock wall behind the altar. There is a small chest that looks like it's old-world Mexican made of pine and iron hardware. Draped over the chest is a woven Mexican blanket and a single pillar candle sets atop the chest. There is also a chalice and decanter next to the candle. In front of the chest is a red velvet kneeling bench.

  "Stay there." Gerard turns and walks back outside. I hear something banging against one of the outside walls and then the room is dancing with prisms of colored light. There are two stained glass windows, one on either side of the cross behind the candelabras. The pieces of colored glass depict vines laden with bunches of grapes.

  "I am the vine; you are the branches . . ."

  The two windows match and must be covered by shutters on the outside.

  "Oh, Gerard . . ."

  He comes back in and stands next to me. "It's a prayer chapel. For you."

  "I . . . I see. But . . . why? How?"

  He doesn't answer. Instead, he walks to the altar, opens the top drawer of the chest, and pulls out a lighter. He lights each of the twelve candles in each candelabra. Soon, the flickering flames dance along with the prisms of colored light.

  Gerard turns back and reaches his hand out to me. I go and join him at the altar where he kneels in front of me.

  "What are you—?"

  He puts one finger to his lips. "Shh."

  He reaches for my left hand and holds it in his hands. He bends and kisses the back of my hand and then he reaches into the front pocket of his pants. He slides a ring onto the ring finger of my left hand. Over my wedding band, he's placed a large diamond solitaire.

  "Oh, you found it! Where?"

  "No. I didn't find it. I re-created it. It's a different diamond, a different setting." He bends and kisses the back of my hand again. "Jenna Maria Durand Bouvier, will you marry me . . . again? Here? Now?"

  I'm speechless.

  He stands and embraces me and pulls me close. He whispers into my ear, "You deserve so much more than I've given you. So much more. You are good and pure and giving. And you've dealt with"—he clears his throat—"so much."

  He leans back from me and looks at my face. He lifts his hand to my face and traces one finger along my scarred jawline. "My beautiful Jen. I am sorry for all I lack. The courage to stand up for you. The strength to protect you—"

  I place my index finger on his lips and quiet him. He wears the look of defeat. He gave up long ago. But when we are away, alone, I see glimpses of who he could be—who he was intended to be. He is charming, generous, and caring. He is intelligent and wise. When we are away, he reengages with me and with life.

  When we return home, back to Brigitte, he detaches again. It is, I think, the way he survives. He doesn't have the strength to stand up to Brigitte. And there is a gaping gorge between who Gerard is and who Brigitte demands he be.

  Standing here, in this small chapel Gerard has created for me, I wonder if God is asking me to lead the way for my husband. Am I to stand back from Brigitte, to stop entering the chaos she creates in our lives? Am I to be the first to stand up to her?

  "You haven't answered my question." Gerard's tone is tentative, uncertain.

  I look into his eyes. "Yes." Would I do it all over again? It's not a question I ask myself. That would be pointless. But there is also no point in hurting my husband now. So I stand on my toes and reach to kiss him. I don't know that I'm in love with Gerard, or that I ever was. But I do care for him. He is my only experience with a man—with love. I've imagined romantic love as the passion found in the Song of Songs and the sacrifice mentioned in Ephesians. I thought I'd share a partnership with my husband. That he'd defend and protect me and that I'd help and comfort him. But that is not the relationship we share. However, in these moments alone, away from the claws of control, I glimpse what it could be like.

  If only these moments weren't so . . . fleeting.

  Marrying Gerard made sense to me when I was young. I was familiar with his world, both that of winemaker and of affluence—Brigitte had schooled me in the world of affluence—she groomed me for the role. And although Gerard was much older, he felt familiar. I'd tagged along with my father for so many years, spent time with him, his ranch hands, and his friends, that Gerard felt like a fit.

  Gerard steps back from me and takes my hands in his. "I promise to love, honor, and pro . . ." He falters and drops his gaze to the floor. Then he begins again. "In sickness and in health . . ." He touches his forefinger to my chin. "I love you, Jenna."

  My eyes well. "I know you do." To the best of your ability.

  He pulls me close and holds me in his embrace. We stand that way for several minutes.

  Then he whispers into my ear. "I have reservations for us—dinner, alone."

  "Mmm . . . perfect."

  And in this singular moment, life seems perfect. I am content. At peace. But then, a ripple of fear causes me to shiver in Gerard's embrace.

  Jenna, a season of pruning is ahead. Remain in Me.

  AS WE LIE IN bed together later, I turn from Gerard's embrace, roll onto my stomach, and lean up on my elbows to look at him bathed in the glow of his bedside lamp. I continue the conversation that began as he held me. "You have so much to offer, Gerard. You are knowledgeable, wise, and intuitive. You have a strong sense of winemaking, and of business. I know you don't believe that, but it's true. My dad and Jason see it too. We see in you what you don't see in yourself."

  I long to encourage him, to help him see himself as God sees him, so full of promise.

  "What good does it do to see it, Jenna? I can't use those skills. Until she decides to loosen her grip on the reins, I have no opportunity to do more than I'm already doing." He shakes his head. "You know how things are."

  It is the closest Gerard has ever come to acknowledging the truth of his mother's control. We are, I know, venturing into territory he has marked with a No Trespassing sign.

  "You were created for more, Gerard. Maybe it isn't with Domaine de la Bouvier. Maybe it's time to venture out on your own. Take the knowledge and skills and the gifts God's given you and follow Him." I feel my passion rising. Hopeful, prayerful, that he'll listen. I long to offer him strength and courage. "His strength, through you, Gerard. You could do it."

  A look of longing passes between us. But then he shakes his head. "It isn't like that for me. I don't have your . . . faith, your conviction. It is what it is, Jen. Let it go."

  "But . . ."

  "Let it go." His tone is f
irmer this time.

  I roll back onto my back and pull the covers up to my chin.

  The warmth and intimacy we've enjoyed is replaced with the cold reality that tomorrow we return to life as usual.

  Life with Brigitte.

  "I wish . . ." But I leave the sentence hanging and Gerard doesn't encourage me to finish the statement. There is much we both wish for but those wishes will go unrealized, I'm learning, unless one of us risks making major changes.

  And I will have to be the one to take the risk.

  Gerard reaches and turns off the lamp on his nightstand. He rolls over, turning his back to me. I reach out and place my open palm on his back and rub the valley between his shoulder blades.

  I fight sleep, wanting to prolong the night. Morning will arrive too soon. But then I remember the prayer chapel. Gerard's gift to me. I will go there before the sun rises. I'll light the candles and kneel before God and beg for His mercies before returning to the city.

  If you insist on controlling your own life, your Lord will not force you to give up your control.

  JEANNE GUYON

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Andee

  AFTER THE WEEKEND in Napa, I return to a pile of work. I should know better than to take a couple of days off. I dive in on Sunday evening and don't let up until Wednesday night, when Jason calls and I decide to answer.

  "Hey, I've been worried about you. You haven't returned my calls or texts."

  "Yeah, sorry." Someone has to work to cover your father's backside, and yours, by the way. "Catching up on work."

  "You okay?" His tone, his concern, irritates me.

  "Of course. I'm a big girl, Jason. I'm used to taking care of myself."