job didn’t bother him in the least. What did rankle was the fact that she scrubbed floors to pay back money he would never miss. After the time they’d spent together, the intimate moments they’d shared, if he didn’t know that she’d argue, he’d tell her to forget the debt. He’d much rather set her up in an apartment and, if she followed through with the idea, finance her way through university, like Ernesto had done for him.
Of course he’d be clear that any arrangement would not include a marriage proposal. From what she’d told him of her experience with Emilio Conti, she’d be glad of the clarification. She’d had one close call. She wouldn’t be looking forward to the sound of wedding bells.
That made two of them. He liked children but he did not want the responsibility of bringing his own into this world. Life was too uncertain. No one could convince him otherwise.
They reached the town by eleven. Five minutes later, the convertible made its way up the long dirt ruts that led to the Ville Laube Chapelle, a fine example of early French architecture which had been restored over time and transformed into a children’s home last century. Bailey sighed, taking in the hundred-foot steeple and angels carrying the instruments of Passion adorning the ornamental gables. Unpolished strong buttresses contrasted with the intricate foliage friezes and elevated stained-glass windows that captured then speared back the sun’s late morning light.
Mateo’s throat thickened enough he had to clear it. So many years on and still, whenever this scene greeted him, he was six again … feeling uncertain again.
As they parked and slid out from the car, a girl with short-cropped, blond hair, standing beneath the enormous oak Mateo remembered, gawped, dropped her skipping rope and raced inside. A moment later, children poured out through opened double doors that near reached the sky. Eager women, alternatively clapping hands to order the scattered children and patting down their dresses, followed. One lady, with chestnut hair that bounced on the shoulders of her yellow blouse, hurried to line the children up in the yard. Madame Nichole Garnier, Mateo’s contact and current director of the orphanage.
Many girls held bouquets, flowers plucked from the home’s gardens or nearby meadow. Every boy had their shoulders pinned back. When the assembly was reasonably quiet, beaming, Madame Garnier swept up to greet her guests.
“Monsieur Celeca, it is wonderful to see you again,” she said in French. Light green eyes sparkled as she came forward and kissed him, first on one cheek then the other. She turned to Bailey. “And you’ve brought a friend.”
“Madame Nichole Garnier.” Mateo spoke in English, knowing Madame would follow suit. “This is Bailey Ross.”
“Mademoiselle Ross.”
“Call me Bailey.”
Madame held one of Bailey’s hands between the palms of her own. “And you must call me Nichole. I’m very happy you are here.” Smiling, Madame held Bailey’s gaze a moment longer before releasing her hand and speaking again with Mateo. “The children have been eager for your arrival.” She pivoted around and beckoned a boy standing at the middle front of the group: six or seven years of age, dark hair and chocolate brown eyes fringed with thick lashes.
Mateo’s chest swelled as he smiled.
Remy.
After Remy strode forward then pulled up before them, Nichole placed her hand on the boy’s crown. “You remember Remy, Monsieur.”
Mateo hunkered down. He’d hoped that, since last time, someone might have seen the same special qualities and warmth he saw in this child. He’d hoped that Remy would have found two people who would love and adopt him. Still, in another sense, he’d looked forward to seeing him again. From the boy’s ear to ear grin, Remy hadn’t forgotten him either.
“Bonjour, Remy,” Mateo said.
The boy’s mop of hair flopped over his eyes as he smiled and nodded several times. Then, without invitation, Remy reached and took Mateo’s hand and Mateo’s heart melted more as he was dragged off. He hated whenever he left, but he really ought to come more often.
Bailey looked on, feeling the connection, subtle yet at the same time unerringly strong. These two—Mateo and Remy—had a history. An ongoing solid relationship. When Natalie had suggested Mateo might bring home a child, was she speaking of anyone in particular? Did the Ramirezes know about this boy?
His little hand folded in a much larger one, Remy drew Mateo nearer the other children, still lined up and standing straight as pins. Bailey fogged up watching the girls hand over their flowers and the boys beam as they shook their benefactor’s hand.
Exhaling happily, Nichole folded her arms.
“We so look forward to his visits.”
“How long has Mateo been coming back?”
“This will make eight years. Two years ago he helped with dormitory renovations. Last year he sponsored the installation of a computer network and fifty stations. This year I’d hoped to discuss excursions. Perhaps, even an extended stay in Paris for the older ones.”
Bailey was certain he’d like that idea.
Her gaze ran over the remarkable building that looked something like a smaller version of Notre Dame, without the gargoyles. How many stories those walls must hold.
“Has this place changed much since Mateo’s time?” Bailey asked.
“The structure has been renovated many times over the centuries. Some of the furniture and facilities will have been upgraded since Mateo’s time, much of it via his own pocket.”
Bailey studied the children again, well dressed, obviously well fed, not a one looking discontent. The word orphanage brought up such Dickensian images … never enough food, never enough care or love. But Bailey didn’t feel that here. She only felt hope and commitment.
When Mateo had greeted each child, Remy still stood beside him, a mini-me shadow.
“Remy seems quite attached to Mateo,” Bailey pointed out.
“I think Mateo is quite attached to him.” But then Nichole rubbed her arms as if she were suddenly cold. “Remy lost his mother when he was three,” she confided in a lowered voice. “His father dropped him here saying he would return when he could. Four years on …” She shrugged.
No sign of him.
Bailey’s chest tightened. At least she’d had her mother until she was fourteen. Had a father too, although he’d been emotionally absent these later years. But looking at that little boy.
Bailey angled her head. “Remy seems happy enough. Lively.”
Was it because he was too young to fully understand there was another way to live … with a family, a mother and father?
“He’s a joy.” Then Nichole hesitated. “Although he doesn’t speak often. There’s nothing wrong with his hearing. Seems he simply doesn’t care to talk most of the time.” Her expression softened. “But he and Mateo have a relationship that extends beyond words.”
A thought struck and Bailey’s smile wavered. “Do you think Remy’s father will ever come back for him?”
“I
