Lost and Found Read online

  I close the lid to the laptop. Brigitte waits.

  I'm warmed by her concern.

  Maybe, if I'm careful, our conversation will end well today. Maybe we'll find the footing we've shared in the past.

  Is that what I want?

  I remove the jacket I'm wearing and cross the room to the dressing area. As I hang the jacket, I notice the small crescent-shaped bruises on my upper arm. I rub my hand across the yellowing marks and recall the many times through the years that I've wished she'd actually hit me—wished she'd leave her mark in a visible, tangible way.

  Yet, what do a few small bruises mean? In a moment of self-awareness, I recognize that the wounds she's inflicted are so much deeper than a surface bruise.

  Though, I tell myself again, she doesn't mean to hurt me. Anyway maybe things will be different this time. After all, if I hadn't lingered in the solarium the morning of the brunch, if I'd fulfilled my role as hostess and instead greeted guests with Brigitte and Gerard, if I hadn't been so selfish and taken off on my own, then Brigitte wouldn't have become angry.

  I think back to those moments in the solarium and recall the stirring breeze and the sense of love and peace that enveloped me. A moment of pure joy. Yes, my focus shifted when Brigitte came in, but do I really allow her to stand in the way of my relationship with God, as Skye implied? I think of Skye's nickname for Brigitte—Madame B. Maybe I've misrepresented Brigitte to Skye. Guilt surfaces. I shouldn't talk about her. It isn't fair. Brigitte was right to be upset the morning of the brunch. I shirked my duties—I can see that now.

  I feel the flush of fever spread across my brow as a wave of nausea passes. Perhaps Brigitte is right and I should contact Dr. Bernard. Maybe it is time for another opinion. How foolish I've been to resist her efforts to help me.

  Optimistic that I can right what I've wronged—yet again—I head downstairs.

  I find Brigitte waiting for me in the solarium, but instead of tea, there's a bottle of wine and two glasses on a tray on the glass table between the two settees, along with a plate of cheeses and fruit. "I thought we were having tea," I say as Brigitte reaches for the bottle and begins to pour.

  "I thought you might prefer a glass of wine. You know, if we were in France . . ."

  She winks at me, her implication clear. She picks up a glass and hands it to me. I take the glass by the stem and twirl it. The straw-colored wine swirls around the bowl of the glass. I lift it to my nose and breathe in the bouquet. "Honeysuckle. And"—I lift the glass to my nose again—"a hint of orange."

  I haven't told Brigitte of my decision to shirk denial and stop drinking. She won't understand, nor will she respect my choice.

  "It's one of Domain de la Bouvier's new still wines. A chardonnay."

  Perhaps I don't have to tell her. Maybe just a sip every now and then . . .

  I feel the tension in my shoulders ease as I lift the glass to my lips "Mmm . . . the Los Carneros region. My dad's grapes?"

  Brigitte smiles. "Ah . . . the vineyards are in your blood, chérie. You know, once you are well, maybe it's time we consider how to put that degree of yours to work."

  She sets the bottle back on the tray and reaches for her glass, which I notice is only half as full as the one she's poured for me.

  "And yes, they're your father's grapes, and the Bouvier label. It's one of the organic wines that Gerard and Jason were so eager to cocreate." She shakes her head. "Organic. Ridiculous, really. Not cost efficient."

  "No, but it's good for the environment. And for the points."

  "Yes, but we only gain a point or two. And that is nothing but a ploy in my opinion. But your father is doing some organic farming anyway, as you know." She waves her hand. "It is just a fad."

  I ignore Brigitte's disdain. I learned the benefits of organic farming as it relates to winemaking during my years of study at Cal Poly. Pesticides and herbicides hamper the vines' ability to absorb natural chemicals from the soil. Wines made with organic grapes display the distinctive flavor of the site where the grapes are grown. And both Jason and Gerard know that the point value is important to consumers—a grade of sorts—and is therefore reflected in sales.

  I take another sip of the chardonnay and relish the hints of butterscotch and baked apples. One sip begs another.

  "So, tell me. What did the doctor say?" Brigitte has set her glass back on the table. Her stature is relaxed but her gaze intent. Her eyes hold mine—as though she is working not to look at my jawline.

  I take another drink of the wine and lean back against the settee. I feel heat rise to my face, but don't know if it's the affect of the wine or if the fever is spiking again. I recall my father's oft-stated belief: "Wine is to be enjoyed, sipped, paired with food to enhance the flavors. But as soon as wine is used for its effect, it becomes a dangerous force."

  The thought chills me. I set my glass back on the table. I can't trust myself with even a sip. No, I must abstain altogether. I brace for Brigitte's response as I answer her question. "It wasn't good news."

  She is quiet. A shadow of something—anger, perhaps—crosses her face. Or is it just my imagination? Whatever I thought I saw is replaced with tenderness.

  "I am sorry. This explains your continued fatigue and illness. Oui?"

  I nod, expecting her to chide me for not taking her advice and contacting Dr. Bernard sooner. But, again, I am surprised.

  "Oh, you must be so disappointed."

  I long to trust her care, but I'm wary. "Well . . . yes, I'd hoped that I could get"—I swipe a finger across the scar on my face—"this taken care of once and for all." I reach for my glass again—something to at least hold and focus on as I speak. "A home-care nurse will come tomorrow and insert a port and I'll wear a pump that will inject antibiotics every few hours around the clock. It's inconvenient, but less so than another hospital stay. After that . . ." I shrug.

  Brigitte reaches for the plate of cheese and fruit and offers it to me. "You'd better eat something, darling. You need to keep up your strength."

  I set the glass back down and eat a section of pear with some brie. Feeling emboldened by Brigitte's good mood, I ask about Dr. Bernard. "Maybe—I mean—I wonder if . . . now is the time to get another opinion. I'll call"—I look at the floor—"Dr. Bernard, I guess? I'm sorry, I should have—"

  She waves her hand again as though brushing off my apology. "Nonsense. Jenna, I am the one who is sorry. I've pushed you regarding Dr. Bernard. He is the best, in my opinion. But you have the right to make your own choice and I need to respect that. I allow my love for you to take over and I become"—she tips her head—"indelicate."

  She leans toward me. "I'm accustomed, as you know, to business dealings. And in business, you get nowhere if you don't push. That, however, is not the best practice in personal relationships, non?"

  I scoot forward on the settee and attempt to grasp Brigitte's words and hold on to them. I don't recall ever hearing her apologize before. Maybe things are really changing. "I should have listened to you."

  "Bien sûr. If you'd listened in the first place, you wouldn't have had the surgery at all." Brigitte reaches across the table for my hand. She gives it a squeeze. "You were beautiful, chérie. There was never a need to change anything. You simply couldn't see that."

  My mind reels. "But . . . you said, many times, that . . . You suggested the surgery. It was . . . your idea."

  Brigitte leans back into the settee and laughs. "Chérie, I said no such thing. That is crazy talk! But no mind, we must move forward and get you well. If you'd like, I'll call Dr. Bernard myself in the morning."

  I nod through an all-too-familiar fog—and the haze has nothing to do with the wine this time.

  "Calme toi. Have another glass—"

  I hold up my hand. "No, thank you. I've had enough."

  She takes my glass from the
table and pours, topping it off, then sets it back in front of me.

  As I watch her pour, anger, a raging river running just beneath the surface, spews forth. "Brigitte!" I slam my hand, palm down, on the glass-top table. The glasses slosh and the china plate of cheeses and fruit rattles. "I said, no!"

  I'm not sure which of us is more startled. Surprise registers on Brigitte's face, but then it's masked by her own anger. My pulse quickens and I long to take back my outburst.

  It is too late.

  "How dare you—"

  "Well, here are my two favorite ladies." Gerard walks into the solarium, stopping at the built-in bar along the back wall to take a wine glass from the cabinet.

  Brigitte glares at me—an unspoken warning in her eyes.

  Gerard walks over from the bar and bends and kisses his mother on the cheek and then takes the place next to me on the settee. He reaches for the bottle on the table. "Ah . . . the new chardonnay. What do you think?" He looks to me for an answer.

  But before I can speak, Brigitte maneuvers. "Darling, Jenna was just heading upstairs. She isn't feeling well." She looks at me. "Please, Jenna, go."

  Gerard places a hand on my knee. "You do look flushed. Go ahead—go upstairs and rest. I'll come up later and check on you."

  I hesitate. I want to explain. I want to tell Gerard . . . what? That his mother poured more wine into my glass after I'd said, "No, thank you?" And I . . . exploded? Even to me, it's ridiculous. I have no words to explain what happened.

  But it is about more than a glass of wine.

  The river of resentment running through me, a river forged over many years, is raging. A river so rugged and rushing that to explore its depths would prove a perilous journey, I fear.

  I look at Brigitte and it is clear: I've been dismissed.

  I stand, mumble an apology, and head to my room. How am I to still the raging torrent—both the one within myself and the one I saw stirring in Brigitte's eyes?

  When I reach my room, I stop at the alcove and sit in the chair in front of the small antique desk. I lift the lid of my laptop and notice my hands shaking. I sit back, take a deep breath, and try to quell the fear rippling through me. What will Brigitte do?

  I click the mouse and open my e-mail and see a response from Skye:

  Jenna,

  If you're free tomorrow, I'll be at the outdoor labyrinth at Grace Cathedral at 11:00 a.m. There's someone I'd like you to meet. Lunch afterwards?

  Peace,

  Skye

  As the afternoon sun drops low on the horizon, the natural light in the room softens and a pink glow suffuses the alcove. I lean forward in the chair and bow my head, resting my elbows on my knees.

  Peace.

  How hard I work to maintain peace. Yet, it eludes me.

  My heart still beats a staccato rhythm but I take deep breaths, exhaling each in slow procession. A practice I learned from Skye. The intentional breathing brings me back to the present moment. And with each breath I take, I sense the presence of the Comforter, the Spirit of God. My soul stirs and I surrender the angst of the day. Tears slip down my cheeks and land on my hands clasped beneath my chin.

  Oh Lord . . .

  I wait for words to come, but none convey the depth of my need. Instead, I open my heart to my heavenly Father and allow His Spirit to search my soul.

  Words are unnecessary.

  The feeling of love that envelops me belies my understanding and the dam that's held my emotions in check since leaving Dr. Kim's office today breaks.

  The torrent is unleashed.

  When my tears are spent, I think of my mother again. I recall her oft-repeated words during her illness: This is my cross to bear. I was too young to understand their meaning at the time. But now, I assign meaning to the phrase. We, like Christ, are allowed crosses to bear—suffering to endure. But through that suffering we share in Christ's suffering and identify with Him in new and intimate ways.

  I pick up my Bible sitting on my desk and turn to the concordance and look under the heading Cross. I think the verse I want is somewhere in Matthew. I see the reference and turn to Matthew 10:38: ". . . and anyone who does not take his cross and follow me is not worthy of me."

  Oh Lord, how I long to be worthy . . .

  My relationship with Brigitte is my cross to bear. I feel the weight of that knowledge like a wooden beam across my shoulders. But I will carry it.

  Thank you, Lord, for the honor of sharing in your suffering. Strengthen me to bear this burden.

  I sigh as guilt niggles at me. Brigitte isn't always that bad. I'm the one, after all, who exploded. She did nothing but show her concern for me.

  I close my Bible, turn off my desk lamp, and then rest my head on my arms crossed on top of my desk. I want to go to bed, to the bliss of slumber, but the walk across the room to the bed seems mountainous. I stand. His mercies are new every morning, I remind myself and then make the trek to my bed, pull back the heavy spread, and climb in.

  Confusion, my constant bedfellow, accompanies me.

  Before the light of day has faded, I surrender myself to sleep.

  I WAKE WHEN GERARD ambles into our bedroom. Groggy and disoriented, I look at the clock on my nightstand. 11:02 p.m. I stretch and watch Gerard. His gait is slow and unsure. He's had more to drink than usual, I think. I sit up, reach for the bedside lamp, and turn it on so he can make his way through the room without stumbling.

  "Hey . . . I didn't want to wake you."

  I lie back against the pillows. "That's okay."

  He comes to my side of the bed and perches on the edge. His hand warms mine as he grasps it. "How are you feeling? I hear the infection . . ." He doesn't finish his sentence but instead looks to me to do so.

  His dark good looks seem worn tonight. Is it the alcohol or is there more?

  I nod my head. "The stubborn infection persists." I try to make light of it.

  He squeezes my hand. "I'm sorry, Jen." The lids of his eyes droop.

  I own the responsibility here, there's no need to burden Gerard with the consequences of my choice. I do however need to unburden myself about something else. "Did Brigitte say anything about . . . about anything else?"

  "Just the usual business banter."

  "You look tired."

  "Yeah, I am. Maybe a little drunk too." He shrugs and smiles. His grin is lopsided, charming. The thrill I felt at sixteen when he first smiled at me returns. "How drunk?" I lift my eyebrows and smile.

  He chuckles. "Why, what did you have in mind?"

  His question is playful, tender even. This is the man, or at least the ideal, I fell in love with so long ago.

  I reach out and place the palm of my hand on the side of his face and he closes his eyes. "Actually, I just need to tell you something and I've wanted to wait for . . . well, you know . . . the right time."

  He opens his eyes, inquisitive.

  "Oh"—I see the hope in his expression—"no, it's nothing. It's"—I chuckle—"It's just that if you're a little drunk, it might be easier to hear?"

  "Ah . . . Okay. Allow me to brace myself." He bends and takes off his black Italian leather loafers, stands, walks to the dressing area, and disappears into his closet. He comes out a few moments later with his tie off, and the top button of his shirt undone. He walks around to his side of the bed and sprawls out on top of the blankets. He rolls to his side, faces me, and props himself up with his pillow.

  "Okay, I'm ready."

  "Well, I . . . uh . . . I lost something."

  He raises his eyebrows. "And what, pray tell, was it this time?"

  "It's not funny. It's . . . I noticed . . . I mean, I don't know what happened."

  "Jen?"

  I lean over and open the drawer of my nightstand and pull out the black velvet box I'
d placed there for just this conversation. I open the box and hand it to him. He takes it, opens the box, and stares. He looks up at me, the obvious question in his eyes.

  "I don't know. I opened the safe the other night to put it on for dinner, and . . . it was just gone. It must have fallen out the last time I wore it and I didn't notice."

  "My grandfather gave that diamond to my grandmother."

  "I know. I'm sorry."

  "Does she know?"

  I shake my head.

  He hands the box back to me and rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling.

  I feel like a child waiting for my punishment.

  He sits up, throws his legs over the side of the bed, and heads to the bathroom. Before he disappears, he turns and says over his shoulder, "I'll take care of it."

  He comes back a few minutes later and climbs into bed smelling of soap and toothpaste. He says nothing more, but instead of rolling over with his back to me as I expected, he puts his arm around me. I turn off my bedside lamp and settle into the crook of his shoulder. Within moments, the steady rhythm of his breathing tells me he's asleep.

  I let out a long, shaky breath. Guilt nudges. I know I used the moment—waited until alcohol would soften the blow. But I didn't have courage for more. When issues involve Brigitte, I never know what side of the fence Gerard will choose.

  I think back to my father's warning before my marriage. My father, a man who holds his thoughts close, spoke out a few weeks after our engagement. "Jenna, Gerard's a good man, but he's weak. You won't be marrying just him—you'll also marry Brigitte."

  But I was twenty years old and idealistic. And Brigitte loved me, so what did it matter?

  I shiver and reach for the blanket and pull it close. Now, eleven years later, I understand my father's concern. There was no "leaving and cleaving," nor will there ever be. Gerard is bound to Brigitte by ties I will never understand. He is driven to succeed in her eyes and will stop at nothing to please her.