Lost and Found Page 3

  "I am. And I am all that I need." I push a niggling sense of doubt down—down into the void and attempt to seal it with the reminder of the sweet irony my view offers. It is the reverse of the view I grew up with. My life is here now, part of the skyline I stared at and dreamt of belonging to for so many years.

  "Yes, I am. And I am exactly where I planned to be."

  Yet the void nags.

  I turn from the view, grab for the remote still sitting on the coffee table, point it at the blinds, push the button, and watch as they close out the city below. I walk around the back of the sofa and reach for Sam and heft him into my arms. I pull him close to my chest and hold him there. When I reach to pet his neck, it is damp.

  Damp, I'm disheartened to realize, with my own tears.

  Let God be the Master over your heart. Be open to whatever He has to teach you, whether that word comes directly from Him, or through others.

  JEANNE GUYON

  CHAPTER THREE

  Jenna

  I STEP OFF the curb and wave. The cab cuts off another car, switches lanes, and pulls up alongside me. Cars honk and whiz past. I open the door and slide into the back seat. The inside of the cab smells like curry, and the back of the turbaned head in the driver's seat nods. "Where to, Mrs. Bouvier?"

  I glance at the driver's identification displayed on the dash and smile. I reach over the back of the seat and place my hand on the driver's shoulder. "Ahsan?" Dark eyes smile back at me from the rearview mirror. The driver turns and looks at me over his shoulder.

  "It is good to see you. Are you well?"

  "Yes . . . I'm fine. I've just come from another doctor's appointment."

  "Good news?"

  I shrug my shoulders.

  "Going home, then?"

  "No, not yet." I need time. I glance at my watch. I won't be missed, I hope, for another hour or so. "Head to the park, Ahsan, and drop me at the tea garden, wait for me, and then take me home. All right?"

  "Very good."

  "Oh, Ahsan, take Lincoln Way out to the beach and then drive back in through the park."

  "That is many more miles."

  "Yes. Do you mind?"

  I see the smile in his eyes as he glances back at me in the rearview mirror. "No, Mrs. Bouvier, as long as you do not mind."

  I put the doctor's appointment out of my mind and focus on Ahsan. "How is your family? Any news on when they might join you?" Ahsan's father, wife, and children are still in Kolkata, India.

  "I save and save. Someday soon, I hope, I will have enough for them to come."

  "I read the Urbanity article about the mayor and some of the transportation officials trying to alter Proposition K, which would abolish the medallion list. How will that affect you?"

  "It is very bad for the drivers. So many have waited ten, fifteen years, or more, to purchase available permits. Now their wait may have been in vain. And I, and others like me, will have no chance of ever owning a medallion. So much of our earnings go to leasing our medallions." He shakes his head. "It is very bad."

  Ahsan and I discuss the implications of the Transit Reform bill and other city politics as he darts in and out of traffic—all the while I fight to keep my mind from drifting back to Dr. Kim's office. But as soon as we enter Golden Gate Park, a swath of over a thousand acres that cuts through the urban bustle of San Francisco, I quiet, as does my mind. Ahsan seems to sense my shift in mood and quiets as well. I drink in the beauty of the park and ponder the impossible odds against which it exists—brought to life in an environment others touted as a wasteland of vast sand dunes exposed to sweeping winds. The skeptics assailed the innovators with cries of cynicism: "Nothing will thrive there!"

  They were wrong.

  Instead, the barren environment, coupled with the sheer will of the visionaries, yielded . . . life.

  Growing, thriving, life.

  I cling to this reality.

  Ahsan pulls up in front of the Japanese Tea Garden and I unbuckle my seatbelt and open the cab door. "Thank you, Ahsan. I'll be just thirty minutes or so."

  I exit the cab and stop at Ahsan's window. I tap. He rolls the window down and I reach inside the cab and place my hand on the arm he leans out the window. "Keep the meter running this time. I've asked you to wait, which means I expect to pay for your time." I pat his arm. "We need to get your family here."

  The last time I asked him to wait for me, he did so, but turned the meter off.

  He nods and smiles. "Enjoy the garden, Mrs. Bouvier."

  "Thank you. And Ahsan, it's Jenna." I tell him this each time I see him. But he is not accustomed to equality and although I long to level the ground between us, I recognize I can't transform his thinking, which developed in a country where class systems reigned for centuries.

  Of course, we have our own class systems here.

  I turn, take a few steps away from the curb, then stop in front of the entrance to the garden. I close my eyes and listen. The lilting melody from the strings of a dulcimer invite me to tranquility. I breathe in peace and exhale tension. I open my eyes, reach for my wallet, and pull a large bill out. I cross a patch of grass to where Skye sits under one of the giant Cyprus trees with her dulcimer on her lap, her nimble fingers strumming the strings. She tilts her head and smiles her welcome as she plays. Soon, the authorities will ask her to leave. But Skye always returns to the park. As do I. I bend and drop the bill in the tip jar at her feet and smile my thanks for the gift she offers as she plays.

  "We'll catch up later."

  Skye winks at me as I turn to go—her blonde curls bouncing in the breeze. A small crowd has gathered. Perhaps today Skye will earn enough to buy herself a decent meal. This is the sacrifice she makes to pursue what she sees as her purpose—a sacrifice most would scoff at. But for her, using the gift God's given her is more important than food or a place to live. Skye lives in the moment. She's shared her passion with me many times.

  She's made an admirable choice.

  And a courageous one.

  How would it feel to know your purpose and have the courage to pursue it?

  I head to the gate of the Tea Garden and pay the reduced entrance fee for San Francisco residents and then step into the embrace of the lush garden. I wander the path that leads around the large pond and see my favorite bench, the one with the waterfall just behind it. I pick up my pace and reach the vacant bench before others claim it. I sit under the canopy of a vibrant red Japanese maple.

  Here, among the throng of tourists, I am anonymous.

  No expectations. No judgments. No role to fill.

  Here, I'm free to just be.

  I relax against the back of the bench and close my eyes. A child giggles. A couple walking by speaks in soft tones. A gull cries overhead. And in the background, the waterfall gurgles and soothes, and thousands of leaves rustle in the breeze.

  Creation's symphony.

  I think about Skye. We connected the moment we met. I was on the planning committee for a garden luncheon to benefit the cancer society. Someone suggested we have live music, something simple to accompany lunch. I suggested Skye and assumed responsibility for contacting her. I didn't tell the other committee members that I didn't know her or have her contact information. Instead, I visited the Japanese Tea Garden every day for a week. It's where I'd heard her play for the first time and I prayed she'd show up again. When she did, I asked if she'd consider playing for the luncheon. She asked what the "gig" paid.

  Skye is straightforward. No nonsense. No pretense. Her honesty, her transparency, drew me. Something about her freedom awakened an awareness of my own captivity. I longed to explore the fear that bound me and Skye asked all the right questions. Intuition lights her way through every conversation.

  I didn't plan it. Instead, I spoke my first words of truth to Skye and, like
a long line of dominos, the rest tumbled forward, out of my control. It was a truth I hadn't even revealed to myself until that moment.

  A truth that set me on a new course.

  I open my eyes again and see a man, just a few steps away, watching me. When he sees that I've noticed him, he looks beyond me to the waterfall. But I know the expression I caught on his face. I see it all too often, that combination of curiosity and pity. It is a reminder of the appointment I've just come from and the news Dr. Kim imparted.

  It wasn't the news I'd hoped for.

  Not so long ago, men's glances were appreciative, their stares suggestive. My beauty was admired and even envied. It offered a power I didn't hesitate to use. Because it was, I thought, the only power I had.

  But now—

  "Hey, girl. Lost in thought?"

  I look up to see Skye, all five feet of her, standing in front of me. "Hi. I didn't see you."

  She bends and gives me a hug, her worn denim jacket soft against my cheek.

  "I hoped I'd see you today. Can you sit for a few minutes?"

  "Yeah, Keiko at the front gate let me into the garden. She's taking a break and told me she'd watch my instrument out front. So I have fifteen minutes." Her smile reveals small, white teeth behind small, pink lips. Everything about Skye is small. Except her heart. "Was your appointment today?"

  I nod and look back out at the pond. Talking about it seems pointless.

  "Enough said?"

  I nod again. "Hey, I have something for you." I reach for my purse and reach inside, feeling for the book I dropped in the bag before I left the house. But my searching fingers don't find it. I open the bag wider and rummage through it. "I know I put it in here."

  "What is it?"

  "That book we talked about last week." I take the purse and begin dumping the contents on the bench between us. "It was here, I know it." When my purse is empty and it's evident the book is gone, I sigh. "How could I lose it?"

  "Don't worry about it. It'll turn up."

  I shake my head. "I don't know." I look at her and see the smile she's trying to suppress. "Don't laugh."

  "Who, me?" Her smile widens and she puts her arm around my shoulders and squeezes. "So, how was the blowout brunch at the Bouvier's house over the weekend?"

  "Typical." I watch a swan glide past in the pond. "You know how sometimes God's presence is almost palpable?" I look at Skye and know she understands. "I felt that the morning of the brunch, in the solarium—like I could reach out and touch Him. But then . . ."

  "But then?"

  "But then, I lost it. That sense. It felt as though He was there one moment, and gone the next. I know He didn't go anywhere. It's just that I got distracted, I guess."

  "What distracted you?"

  "The usual."

  "Madame B?"

  I laugh. "I'm never quite sure what the B stands for when you say it that way." But when I look at Skye, I see she isn't laughing with me.

  "You know exactly what it stands for."

  "Yes, I guess I do."

  Skye seems thoughtful before she speaks again. "The object of our adoration can either sustain us or sink us." She bends down and picks up one of the red leaves fallen from the Japanese maple.

  "What do you mean? God isn't going to sink us."

  She rubs the leaf between her fingers. "No, but He's not always the object of our adoration. Right?"

  "You're suggesting I adore Brigitte?" I laugh. "Really?"

  She shrugs. "To adore someone is to revere them—to worship them. Isn't that what you're doing, in a sense, when you give someone so much power in your life?"

  I look around me. Ducks swim in the koi pond surrounded by trained bonsai and multiple varieties of Japanese maples. Deep blue irises sway in the breeze. I try to take in Skye's meaning—something in it is true and right. But I can't quite grasp it.

  I look back at her.

  "Who are you serving, Jenna?"

  I start to protest, but Skye leans over and puts her hand on my forearm. "Jenna, your awareness of God—your experience of Him—is a gift. A rare gift. Don't let anyone take His place in your life."

  "Excuse me, Mrs. Bouvier . . ."

  I look from Skye to Ahsan, who's coming down the path. He holds something in one hand.

  "The book! It was in the cab?"

  "Yes. It was there." Ahsan hands the book to me. "But Mrs. Bouvier, it is time."

  I take the book and then glance at my watch. "Oh, Ahsan, I have to go!" I hand the book to Skye, throw my purse over my shoulder, stand, and bend to give her a quick hug. Then I turn and head back to the main gate, Ahsan on my heels. But before we get very far, I hear Skye call my name. I stop and turn back.

  "Who are you serving?"

  I have to go.

  Now.

  ONCE BUCKLED BACK INSIDE the cab, I reach again for Ahsan's shoulder. "Thank you. How did you . . . how did you know?"

  Dark eyes stare back at me from the mirror. "I just know. It is important you return on time. Yes?"

  "Yes. Very important."

  As we exit the park and Ahsan maneuvers through traffic, I sink back against the seat of the cab. If Brigitte is waiting for me, there will be questions to answer—and my answers never seem to satisfy. My shoulders slump as I consider the possibilities. I twist the leather strap of my purse and swallow the lump of anxiety lodged in my throat.

  Skye's question nags at me. Who am I serving?

  Defeat calls my name.

  There is truth in what Skye implied.

  Fatigue, so familiar, settles in as I picture Brigitte. I work so hard to please her, yet she's never happy.

  Something Andee said at brunch the other morning plays at the edges of my mind. I work to recall it. She was talking across the table to Carolyn, who was lamenting about the difficulties of working with a disgruntled donor who is impossible to please. Ah, yes. Andee's offhanded quip seems significant now: "If you can't win, why try?"

  If I can't win, why try?

  Why?

  Because, I know no other way.

  Oh, Lord. What are You asking of me?

  Stand back, Jenna.

  This is the thought that follows me into the house after Ahsan drops me at the curb.

  There are some people who cause me great suffering. They are selfish and full of compromise, strange ideas, and human reasoning.

  JEANNE GUYON

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Brigitte

  "NOON TOMORROW, OUI? Perfect. We look forward to hearing your thoughts. Merci, Andee."

  She hangs up the phone, turns to the computer on her desk, and types the details into her calendar. An e-mail to Gerard informing him of the lunch with Andee—and of his expected presence at 12:30 p.m.—follows.

  Fini.

  She purses her lips. Ah, Gerard. Her son is vice president of Domain de la Bouvier and its enterprises. Of course, it's only a title. Gerard, like his father before him, is . . . what is the American term? She taps her Montblanc pen on the edge of the desk. Ah yes, Gerard is the figurehead. His charm is what makes him valuable, not his business acumen.

  Or lack, thereof.

  She remains acting president, the reins in her hands. As they should be. That will be one of the topics for discussion tomorrow, she's certain. C'est la vie. Gerard may suggest, again, that it's time to begin shifting power. No matter. It is not Gerard's time. Not until she says it is.

  Better for him to stay with what he does best—connect with the community here and abroad. After all, it was Gerard's connections that led them to Andee Bell. Andee's financial savvy is renowned and her recommendations for additional tax shelters and investments for Domain de la Bouvier have proven profitable.

  Brigitte smiles. Andee continues to imp
ress.

  There is just one concern: Andee's relationship with Jenna's brother, Jason. Of course, Andee has the relationship under control—one more reason to respect her—but Brigitte will watch to be certain. There is no room for partiality in business. How far will she be able to trust Andee?

  Time will tell.

  She leans back in her chair and considers tomorrow's lunch.

  Gerard will be included in the initial discussions of Andee's suggestions for the company, but the decisions? They will be made without him.

  How unfortunate that there is no one to step in once she's gone.

  She turns to the credenza behind her and opens a file drawer. She removes the Bouvier trust and peruses the clauses dealing with heirs and beneficiaries.

  Heirs . . .

  As always, the word gnaws at her. Not heirs, but heir. There is only Gerard. There should be more. Gerard should have a child, or several children, by now.

  She taps the pen against the desk, more insistent this time.

  Another of Jenna's failings.

  She glances at a picture on her desk—Gerard and his father just before his father's death—a massive heart attack just before his fifty-third birthday. The photo was taken in one of the family vineyards in Eperny and appeared on the cover of a wine journal that year. Gerard and his father shared such distinctive traits. One could never doubt that they were father and son.

  She reaches for the photo and holds it so the lamp on her desk illuminates the faces. She looks at her husband's features and sees Gerard today. At fifty-four, Gerard's resemblance to his father is startling. She runs a finger over the image. "What would you think of how I've grown your business, mon amour?"

  Growing the business, that had never been the problem. But where to go from here . . . ?

  She sets the picture back in place and shakes her head. She'd been so sure of Jenna. Such promising breeding stock . . .

  Jenna. She glances at her watch. She should be back by now. She reaches for the phone and presses the intercom that connects to the kitchen. "Hannah, has Jenna returned?"