her burgundy hair. The Gucci sunglasses were a smart touch, as were the bejewelled flip-flops. I’d picked my own sunglasses at the local Giant Tiger. My swimsuit had long ago lost its sproing.
“Come on in for a swim,” she said as I followed her.
I wasn’t sure how much I would be able to relax, knowing more than I should about Jean-Claude’s activities.
Hélène walked ahead through the long marble foyer and the newly renovated designer kitchen, which Josey claimed had cost Jean-Claude close to a hundred thousand dollars. We followed her through the screened porch to the glittering custom swimming pool, surrounded by acres of manicured property. It’s magazine quality, but except for the company, I would just as soon be taking a dip on the rocky shore of the Gatineau on my own property. However, Josey loved the pool, and it suited her new status as an EA.
Hélène headed for the sparkling new stainless steel patio bar. “Why don’t you get changed, and I’ll mix us some sangria. And the Shirley Temple version for you, Josée.”
Sometimes it’s pointless to argue. Sangria was a great idea.
By the time I managed to get into my suit, Josey had already been in the pool. So had Tolstoy. Hélène had worked some magic with drinks. Everyone was in a good mood, and Tolstoy had found himself a shady spot on the cool slate patio.
“Josée has offered to help me with the organizing for the community logistics connected with En feu! Hot Stuff!” Hélène said. “That is very kind of her.”
“Oh, indeed,” I said. I wondered if any of those logistics would put Josey within swooning distance of Rafaël. “Very public-spirited.”
Josey beamed.
“I can use all the help I can get,” Hélène said, shaking her artful burgundy mane.
“Mmm,” I said.
“So many things to do,” she said.
“I suppose,” I said.
“Volunteers make for a strong community,” she added.
“For sure.”
“Sangria?” she said, giving the carafe a playful swirl.
“Absolutely. I love sangria.”
“Me too,” Josey said.
I raised an eyebrow.
“Without the whatever,” Josey said.
I wasn’t sure what sangria without the whatever would consist of, but I was grateful that Hélène had made her the Shirley Temple version. Josey was still clean and sober, unlike the rest of her relatives. And me, of course.
“Ah oui, “ Hélène said, “I have many happy memories of sangria.”
“Right,” I said. “I suppose Jean-Claude likes it too.”
She shook her head. “No, he does not. Sometimes he is so...”
Josey said, “Pig-headed?”
Hélène frowned, “No, not exactly, I was going to say he is more...”
Luckily, I stopped myself from saying, “Sleazy?”
“Serious,” she said. “Un homme sérieux.”
“Oof,” Josey said.
“I suppose he is,” I said. A thousand adjectives would have popped into my mind first, but I had to keep in mind the feelings of the lovely person who was handing me a drink in a tall, frosty glass.
“Oui,” Hélène said, narrowing her eyes a bit.
Something told me that serious didn’t have all that much appeal right at the moment. I had no problem with that. I never understood what a lovely person like Hélène saw in St. Aubaine’s version of Donald Trump anyway. All right, better looking, better hair. But even so.
Josey said, “I wonder if Rafaël likes sangria?”
Hélène arched her back. “Certainement. He would.”
I took a sip, savoured the citrusy sweetness and waited for the little kick. I lay back on the stylish padded lounge chair.
Hélène took the chair beside me. “Fiona, you are gripping that glass so hard, I can see your knuckles. Even Harriet cannot be that bad.”
My mind was whirling from everything that had happened that day: the horrible image of the burning Cadillac Escalade, Marc-André lying in his hospital bed, my empty bank account, my invisible ex-husband, Jean-Claude’s attempt to get my property while I was down, and now the guilty knowledge that he might be having a fling with Anabel Huffington-Chabot behind Hélène’s back while the village watched and smirked.
I sighed. “Harriet and her wallet are the least of my problems.”
Lala’s Contribution
One can of whipped cream, or more as desired.
Technique: Apply whipped cream to selected areas. See what happens.
Four
When I got home, I checked my messages. Aside from the earlier ones from Hélène, nothing. Nada. No offers of work. No calls from Philip. Nothing at all about that damn wallet. I tried to find a phone number for the Domaine Wallingford, but nothing was listed. I googled it. Nothing. I tried Philip five or six more times. Then I left a message with my new agent, Lola. I hit my office and dusted off a few proposals and old articles. I sent out some emails to long-ago colleagues and editors, checking the waters. I knew that the start of the summer months wasn’t the best time to get a bit of government writing or editing work, especially when you’ve been out of the loop for a few years. But I had to try something. I opened the file with my novel and closed it again.
I distracted myself by rigging up two ancient fans to get a breeze going in the house. Outside was cooler of course, but much too buggy by the river to stay long. Josey had decided to spend the night at my place. In return for the use of the futon in my office, she was making a fresh supply of icy lemonade, using lemons borrowed from Hélène. I had sugar and ice on hand, mint that Josey had planted and a crystal carafe to contribute to the effort. I had left Josey in the small pine kitchen and just started out to take Tolstoy for a walk, when my friend Dr. Liz Prentiss drove up in her Audi Quattro.
“Make yourself at home,” I said.
“I will.”
Of course, I knew that only too well. But what are friends for?
By the time it took me to get Tolstoy out for his constitutional and back, Liz had managed to ferret out my last bottle of Courvoisier and had already helped herself to two fingers. I was sure I’d hidden it better than that.
I was still feeling the effects of the sangria, so I had some of the lemonade Josey had made. I could hear her humming
