6
TRISTAN
The long, hot shower gave me a chance to think—a moment to figure out my next move. What I knew for certain was an American agent and shadow broker was selling U.S. cyber secrets. The question now was had I been compromised? Being out of the country only further complicated my relationship with my Russian contact. He’d stood me up in New Orleans with plans to meet in Paris five days later—without me. It meant one of three things: I’d been made, they wanted me out, or there was more than one mole. Either way, I was screwed.
Walking around the room naked, I towel-dried my hair and dug through my duffle bag for the comb I’d packed. As I ran the teeth through my wet head, I stared at my reflection, breathing in and out with deliberate purpose. “What a fucking mess,” I hissed.
Tossing the comb on the bed with my phone, slipping on the jeans I’d left in a puddle on the floor sans underwear, I realized I didn’t have any other clothes. If I was planning on staying in France—whether it was here or in Paris—I’d need to find some. I’d have to buy a tuxedo and find a mask for the party in two days.
I glanced at my watch—the watch I never took off—and noticed I had an hour until my audience with René himself. Henry was right. As much as my body longed for it, I couldn’t sleep. My best bet was to get dressed and keep moving. I would eat lunch, listen to René apologize on his deathbed, and catch the train to Paris by nightfall.
Digging out the blue t-shirt I’d packed, I pulled the stretchy cotton over my head, only then noticing the bottom half of my tattoo was visible—my biceps stretching the sleeve hem too tightly. It wasn’t something I ever thought about. No one knew what it meant. René would, and I didn’t want to give him any reason to believe I was attached to him or this family. “Whatever,” I sighed, stomping my feet into my motorcycle boots, not bothering to find fresh socks. Beside my phone was the photograph. I stared at it again, looking for clues as to how it went sour between my parents. They looked perfectly happy in the photograph, but I knew he cheated on her. It broke her heart in two. Not only had she never recovered, she spent her life bitter, angry and taking out her frustrations on me as I matured and apparently looked increasingly like the man who betrayed her. Now staring at the photo of him as a younger guy, it was easy to see the resemblance. His hair was short, but our faces were nearly a perfect match.
It was unnerving to say the least—staring into the face of the man who could be my twin, whom I knew so little about. It was why I’d come here in the first place, right? Maybe I should’ve declined the invitation, sending Henry Tribolet’s threat to General Michaels in Washington. He would’ve thrown down his own threat so dark, René would’ve surely backed off. On the other hand, who could say what they may have done to her—or René—for interfering in covert affairs of the States.
No. I was doing the right thing by being here. I wanted to get it over with, and yet, I dreaded the moment I’d be forced to look René Lebleu in the face. As much as I wanted to deny it, there was still a piece of me that suffered from abandoned child syndrome.
I placed the photo back on the nightstand and opened the door. I had one hour to roam the hallways and gardens of the place I’d called home for the first three years of my life. It felt peculiar. I didn’t know my way around the chateau, but still the dèjá vu was real. I had an odd attachment to the place, even though I didn’t remember it. Part of me believed it was just the lingering romantic idea that followed me throughout my life. It was easy being the asshole, free-wheeling loner with no family and no attachments. It was much harder to actually give a damn.
Backtracking the path Henry used to my room, I wandered the ancient stone hallways that seemed to be carved out of time itself. Tapestries hung from the walls and bronze statues graced the arched corners of each space. The gold and red rugs covered much of the marbled floor. Mirrors adorned the walls in between paintings of the vines, the patriarchs and the chateau itself. Stopping at a table full of photographs, I noticed a gaudy silver frame that wasn’t there earlier. In fact, there were more photographs on the table than before—the space teeming with frames, some even teetering on the edge of the antique, carved table. In black and white and color, there were photographs of me at various stages of my life; on the lacrosse field in high school, taking my diploma from the president of Yale upon my graduation, even vacationing in the Philippines with one of my regular stand-bys.
“What tha—?”
“He never missed anything.” The voice was deep and full of rasp. Its owner a man who’d obviously spent the better portion of his adult life with a cigarette in his mouth. This was, after all, France.
“Dr. Millet,” he rasped. “Garan Millet.”
He looked more like Dr. Doolittle. A crazy coif of gray hair and well-groomed beard, he was a mixture of mad scientist and polished Frenchman. Steadily, he held his hand out for me to shake.
“Tristan.”
“I know who you are, son,” he replied, shaking my hand with the grip of a man half his age. “I brought you into this world thirty-three years ago.”
“Is that so?”
He thinned his lips into a line and nodded, looking to his feet. “Oui,” he replied, before walking to the table of photos. Sliding his hands into the pockets of his trousers, he gestured with his head toward the photo still in my grip. “Did you ever suspect he was watching?”
“What are you saying?” I placed the photo back on the table and shook my head. “He was there?”
“I’m sure it’s hard to fathom now, but my best friend? Your father? He never missed an important moment in your life.”
I blinked hard, slow to open my eyes. It was hard to hear such bullshit. “It’s a nice thought, Dr. Millet, but it’s a lie.”
“I’m sure from your perspective that’s the case.”
“Actually, Doc, from every perspective.”
“Tristan, your father—”
“I appreciate you introducing yourself, Dr. Millet, but René Lebleu isn’t my father. He might be one half of my genetic makeup, but that’s the extent of it. He’s merely a man who financed my education and provided me with a trust fund—which is a sad excuse and a poor substitute for a real parent. I don’t have a father. I’ve never had a father.”
Garan Millet dropped his head. “I can surely see how you would feel this way, Tristan.”
“Your father abandoned you at three as well?”
“No. My father was a doctor here in Épernay. He was best friends with Pierre Lebleu—your grandfather, just as René and I are best friends.”
“So your father was best buds with Pierre Lebleu III. Is your son also best friends with his namesake? Idiot number four downstairs?”
“No. But in defense of your grandfather, Pierre trois was anything but an idiot. He was smart. Brilliant even. Much like your father. Very much like you.”
I let out a punctuated and sarcastic laugh, rocking on my heels before shoving my hands into the pockets of my jeans to walk away. “With all due respect, Dr. Millet, you don’t know anything about me. Please excuse me.”
“Au contraire, Tristan,” Garan replied, now following me down the hallway. “I know you. I too have watched you grow into a man from afar. You know, after Simone left, your father never loved again. He never remarried, his heart always with you—with your mother.”
A pang gripped my heart as I stopped on the stairwell, delaying my getaway. I’d heard the story a million times. René married Margaux Martin—mother of Pierre Lebleu IV. “That’s not true,” I said.
“Tristan, I don’t know what you think you understand about your father, but René Lebleu has loved one woman in his life. Your mother, Simone Banks Lebleu.”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Oui.”
“You’re telling me René never married Margaux Martin?”
“He did not.”
“I don’t believe you.”
The old man laughed a little and now he was starting to piss me off. “There’s nothing to believe, Tristan. It is a simple fact.”
“They didn’t get married.” It was a statement, not a question.
Garan shook his head once again with the type of smug confidence that made me want to punch him. Stopping at the top of the first landing, I pulled my hands from my pockets, shrugging in frustration. “So what? You’re telling me my mother lied to me all those years? No. No.” I repeated the word, not wanting to hear what Dr. Millet had to say. “Why would she lie to me?”
Garan shrugged his shoulders. “I believe she was so incredibly heartbroken, the only way she could reconcile your father’s indiscretion in her own mind was to break off from him—completely. To distance herself from this place completely. In the process I fear she may have had a mental break as well. And then there were your grandparents.”
“My grandparents? Mom’s parents were dead before I was born.” I shocked even myself when the word, Mom, came out of my mouth.
“No,” he replied.
I couldn’t listen to any more. I walked away. He followed. “Tristan. Wait.”
Hustling down the main staircase, I longed for a breath of air. I needed air. “Dr. Millet, I appreciate what you’re trying to do here, but I have no interest in hearing what you have to say.”
Garan stopped following me and stood at the top of the last flight of steps, looking down on me from his perch. Out of breath, he wheezed his words. “Tristan, I beg you. Listen to what your father has to say.”
Hanging my hands on my hips, I stared up at the old doctor. “I’m here aren’t I? Look, I’m not making any promises, but I’ll hear the old man out,” I replied before mumbling under my breath. “Even if I think he’s full of shit.”
“Tristan, ask yourself one question. Why didn’t your mother introduce you to her own parents?”
“Donald and Shirley Banks died in a car accident when my mother was twenty,” I replied with disgust.
I watched as Garan Millet slowly shook his head back and forth.
“What?” I asked. “That’s a lie too?”
“You’re a smart man, Tristan. Just like your father. Just as his father was before him. You’re a Lebleu. I have every confidence you’ll find your way.”
“With all due respect, Dr. Millet, find my way where?”
“Ici. Here.”
“Don’t bet on it.” I walked out the main entrance without looking back. Fuming, I tried with all my might to slam the heavy door behind me. It didn’t work. Storming around the outside of the chateau and into the extensive gardens, I punched my fist into a pot of flowers, the petals exploding into the wind. I wanted to punch a face—his face. “This is bullshit!” I shouted. “Bullshit!”
“C’est vraiment des conneries.” Her quiet voice echoed through the vast space of the estate grounds.
Turning, I saw her. Henry. Still in the red dress and heels, she’d pulled her dark hair into a long ponytail. I ran my hands through my own hair in frustration, taking a seat on a nearby marble bench overlooking part of the vines. “Thanks for the translation.”
“My pleasure,” she replied without coming closer.
I dropped my head into my hands, the urge to physically fight still gnawing at me.
“Everything alright, Monsieur Lebleu?”
I shot her a wicked snarl over my shoulder.
“My apologies. Tristan.”
I mocked her tone. “Doesn’t it look like everything’s just peachy?”
“I’m not familiar with this term—peachy.”
“Never mind. What do you want, Henry?”
“Nothing. It’s just when I suggested you not rest today, I didn’t mean for you to—”
“To what?”
She walked over quietly, joining me on the bench. “Well done on the begonias. Do you prune trees as well?”
I took a deep breath. “Sorry.”
“René has asked you to join him for dinner tonight.”
I turned to Henry. The green in her eyes reflected in the hint of sunshine coming through the trees. I paused to appreciate their beauty and she noticed. I looked away. “Why?” I asked.
“Why?”
“Why not lunch?” I turned back to face her. “I had plans to be on a train to Paris late tonight.”
Henry’s lips pouted, the red lipstick more faint on her mouth than earlier. “I don’t think that’s possible, Tristan. Besides, I understood you were leaving Épernay for America in the morning.”
I raised a lazy brow. “Yeah,” I said looking away from her face and into the vast garden that surrounded the grounds. My hair, now dry, blew into my face. Taking a rubber band from my wrist, I twisted my long mane into a man bun. “I thought I was leaving for America too, but now, I’m staying. In Paris.”
She looked to the mess on the back of my head and then to me, her long bangs twitching with each blink of her eyes. I wondered what was going on in that beautiful head of hers. What was the attraction to caring for an old man like René? Was she waiting for him to die? What had he promised her?
She stood abruptly, taking me off guard. “Dinner is at eight.”
“You’re assuming I’m interested in staying that long.”
Henry walked away then turned to look over her shoulder. “Are you hungry? Lunch is ready in the small dining hall.”
I stood from the cold bench, Henry leaving me alone in the flowers. “Did you hear what I said?”
She nodded. “I did.”
“And?”
“Come,” she said holding out her hand. “Eat something. You’re not as nice when you’re hungry.”
“We call that hangry.”
“I don’t know this word—hangry.”
“Hungry and angry. Hangry.”
Henry held out her hand again. “You seem hangry. Perhaps some champagne will cheer you up, Monsieur Le—”
“If you call me Lebleu one more time.”
“My apologies. Tristan.”
“And I don’t need to cheer up.”
A grin crept across her face. It was the biggest crack in her emotionless façade all day. “Au contraire. I saw the way you punched the begonias. No hydrangea is safe.”
I smirked, suddenly feeling foolish for my actions.
“You really shouldn’t be nervous. You hold all the cars—the balls are in your ah…how do you say?”
“I hold all the cards.” I corrected. “And the ball is in my court.”
“That’s what I said.”
She was making me like her, and I didn’t want to like her. I found myself smiling with her—almost laughing. “Lead the way, Henry.”
The main dining hall was set for two. The staff had really put on the dog—the table looking like a king was coming to lunch. Stepping behind Henry, I pulled out her chair and waited for her to sit.
“Merci.”
I nodded in reply and took the seat at the head of the long table, but not before taking off my leather motorcycle jacket. Ready to hang it on the back of the chair, a servant quickly rushed it and took it from me, then held it in his hands as if it were the Shroud of Turin. “It’s fine. You won’t hurt it,” I joked.
As I sat, I assumed I was sitting in the usual dining spot of René himself. It gave me a little lift to know I was taking over his place of importance.
“The chef has prepared a bouillabaisse Marseillaise,” the server explained in French.
“Oui. Merci, Henri,” Henry replied as a second servant began to pour champagne, wine and water into the crystal glasses.
“So you’re not the only Henry at the chateau.”
She shook her head and allowed a small grin to pass over her lips. “I am not. But I am your father’s favorite.”
“Of course you are. Listen, everyone’s his favorite over me, so…”
“What does that mean?”
“Am I going to have to sit through lunch while you wax poetic about René?” I asked ignoring her question. “Because I already got that story from his best buddy, Dr. Millet.”
“I won’t disparage the name of your father, if that’s what you mean.”
“No, of course not,” I replied, the sarcasm dripping from my mouth. “No one would ever stoop to telling me the truth around here. That would be too disparaging.”
“What is it you would like to ask me, Tristan?” Her voice was calm—icy—and I felt myself go on alert. I was not a sensitive man, and yet each time I felt like René was jerking me around, all the old feelings I’d packed away as a young adult seemed to barrel their way to the forefront of my usually detached emotions. I needed to treat this meeting tonight with René as I would any other assignment. Keep emotion as far away from thought process as possible. I needed to focus on the facts and only the facts. If René and Henry wanted to play a game, I was up for it. I was a master at game-playing.
“What would I like to ask?” I repeated her question and stroked my chin. “I like a woman who gets to the heart of the matter. You don’t mess around do you, Henry?”
She took a full breath in through her nose, her nostrils flaring. “I see no sense in, what is it you say? Beating the bush?”
Slowly, I nodded in agreement, before taking a long drink of my champagne. I swallowed, the taste of perfection lingering on my bottom lip. I licked it with my tongue and noticed that she noticed. “Yes. No sense in beating the bush.”
Lunch was served quickly, the smell of saffron in the broth packed with seabass, snapper, shrimp, scallops and mussels filled my nostrils. I soaked it in. There were two passions in my life—the company of a beautiful woman in my bed, and French cuisine. Luckily they were both readily available in New Orleans. Waiting for Henry to take the first bite, I followed, allowing myself to fully savor the flavors of the saffron.
“I assume it’s up to your standards?”
Her words broke the moment and my train of thought as I sifted through the floral and honey flavors of the bouillabaisse. “C’est magnifique.”
“Merci,” Henry said to the servant who quickly exited the dining room to leave us in the long hall of mirrors, crystal chandeliers and a massive Lebleu crest over the stone fireplace.
Henry took another bite, then wiping her mouth with the linen napkin, she spoke, her soft voice echoing off the walls of the empty room. “I’m waiting.”
“Who is Garan Millet? And what does he know about my life?”
“Dr. Millet is your father’s oldest and dearest friend. He’s been the reason René has stayed alive. Garan has seen to it that your father has had all the best treatments—the finest doctors.”
“I guess it doesn’t matter how much money you have. In the end, we all die the same.”
A surprised look overcame her. “What?” I asked.
“My papa said that.”
I tilted my head, acknowledging her father’s wise words before moving on. “And the photos? Where did they come from?”
Henry took another bite of her lunch, allowing the question to breathe in the room.
“Garan said René was in attendance when the photos were taken,” I continued. “How is that possible?”
“Tristan, your father made certain he never missed any important event in your life.”
“He missed them all,” I said, lowering my voice in muted frustration.
“I understand how you must feel.”
“Do you?”
“I can try. My father was René’s attaché de direction. I took over when my father passed away five years ago. I was trained by my father to take care of your father. We have a long history, the Tribolets and the Lebleus. It’s been our job to see to it that your family has what they need to be—”
“What? Happy?”
“Comfortable.”
“So you’ve been sneaking around with hidden cameras my entire life taking photos of me and sending them back to René.” It wasn’t a question. I was stating the facts as I saw them.
“When you were younger, my father accompanied René to the States for the important events in your life. There were times when my father would be gone for months.”
“To do what exactly?”
“René only wanted to be near you. He wore disguises. Hid in the back. He longed to be a part of your life, Tristan. You’ve always been his greatest accomplishment.”
I placed my fork on the side of the china. “I’m supposed to believe he was present, in the flesh for my graduations? My lacrosse games? Little League?”
Henry nodded, dabbing the napkin at the corners of her mouth. I let her words sink in. He’d stalked me—watched me like an ant under a magnifying glass.
“What about Pierre?”
“These are things René should speak with you about himself.”
“I’m asking you.”
She didn’t look at me.
“Look, unless you want me to walk out of here and catch the next train to Paris, you’ll continue.”
“Don’t threaten me, Tristan. You won’t be pleased with the outcome.”
I stared at her. It sounded like something I would say. I took a deep breath. “Explain what Garan meant about my grandparents.”
“Again, Tristan, I feel like this is something your father should speak with you about. It’s not my place.”
I took a long drink of the red wine in front of me before setting the glass down to stare at her. I turned the stem of the glass, rolling it between my fingers, the legs trickling down the side of the crystal with each small movement. “It was certainly your place to blackmail me into coming here. It was somehow your place to pick me up from the airport, tuck me in, have lunch with me. Now, when I want answers, it’s not your place.”
Henry said nothing, merely batting her eyes, twitching the corner of her bangs with each flutter of her lashes.
“Why did he bail on lunch today?”
“Bail?” she asked.
“Why must I wait until dinner to meet him? Is he trying to get me to stay?”
Henry shook her head. “No. Nothing like that.”
“Then what?”
She stared off into the distance. It seemed she wanted to tell me so much more. “He was feeling well this morning—excited. But by noon, he wasn’t himself. His nurse has put him back to bed in order to have the strength he needs to see you to tonight.”
“And what happens when the old man doesn’t feel up to meeting with me tonight? How long is he planning on dragging this out? Because I can guaran-damn-tee you, I’m out of here tomorrow. I have—” I caught myself before I said too much in the emotional roil of the moment.
“Business in Paris?”
“Just tell me what’s going on. I’m here. Where is he? No one wants to tell me what’s happening, but everyone wants to tell me how much he cares.”
“I couldn’t possibly understand what you’re—”
“What the hell is this? Some sort of game to you people?” I clenched my jaw, refusing to listen.
“Tristan.” Henry leaned in to touch my arm with both hands. At first, I cringed, but she held my forearm with such strength and purpose, I somehow calmed—immediately.
“What I was about to say is, I cannot imagine what you must be feeling.”
“What are you doing to me?” I stood, her hands dropping to the table as I moved away from her gesture. “You’ll have to excuse me.” Without delay, she stood, hurrying to my side when I tried walked away.
“Tristan, René will speak with you tonight. No matter what. Even if it’s at his bedside. By the end of the evening I will see to it that you are fully informed of everything you need to know—everything you want to know. After, you can do as you wish.”
I stared down at her. I didn’t know why she had such a calming effect on me, but it was disconcerting to say the least. I held a lot of rage inside. It fueled who I was, how I worked. I didn’t like someone taking away my power so easily.
One by one, she took my hands into hers. The warmth of her body overcame me and I began to feel undone once more. I needed sleep—the jetlag overwhelming me. At least after a night of partying at the Sanctuary.
“Just promise me one thing, Tristan.”
I looked into her eyes and for reasons I couldn’t understand, I saw trust. In the midst of feeling like I was being dicked around, Henry somehow made me believe she had no ill-intent.
“What?”
“Listen to your father with an open mind. Hear him. There are two sides to every story, Tristan. All René wants is for you to listen.”
My heartbeat was steady. All my rage subdued. I told myself it wasn’t because of Henry. Women didn’t do that kind of thing to me. Women didn’t do that kind of thing for me. In fact, I was better at the anger bang than anyone I knew. I could channel all my resentment and fury into one single, solitary act of physical lust and move on without feelings or regret. And even though Henry’s legs were beautiful and her face lovely, her intoxicating eyes still told me if I did take her in bed—which I wasn’t counting on—she would be no different than the other women in my life who’d provided a moment’s worth of pleasure and respite. Anger or no anger.
“What time is dinner?” I asked, bringing my voice down again, acknowledging I was indeed calm.
“Eight.”
“I’ll miss the train to Paris.”
Henry shrugged. “So you stay the night in Épernay. What’s the worst that could happen? You enjoy yourself? You find that you really are a part of Chateau Lebleu?”
I stared at her without responding.
“Fine. If you are determined to make it to Paris tonight,” she said with a sigh. “I will make arrangements for a car to take you.”
Her offer eased the confusion in my mind and the headache developing behind my eyes. Finally, someone was saying something I could agree with.
“I can see this is acceptable to you.”
She squeezed my hands and only then did I realize we were still connected. I dropped them, taking a step away. “Why would you think that?”
“The light in your eyes. Much like your father, when you are open and vulnerable, Tristan, I can read you—like a book.”
“As opposed to…?”
She turned her back on me to sit down at the table once more. Gesturing with her hand, she asked me to join her, but I was done—with lunch and the conversation. Vulnerable wasn’t a word I wanted used in the same sentence with my name. Whatever Henry thought she knew of me because of René, she was wrong.
“Other times you’re a wall. No emotion. No feeling. All business. Just like René.”
I tried not to roll my eyes, but I did. “If you’ll excuse me, Henry. I think I might take a walk. I need more fresh air.”
She waited until I’d reached the door to reply. “Perhaps you should explore le cœur de Lebleu.”
I paused. “The heart of Lebleu?”
Henry nodded, gesturing with her head to the floor. “The miles of bottles below our feet. The caverns are extensive and are the same as they were hundreds of years ago when your family made champagne just as they do today. Shall I send for Marcel, the Chef de Cave?”
I was tired, strung out, and confused by every bit of information being thrown at me. I needed to be alone. “The cellar master? No. Thank you.”
“Very well. Eight. I’ll come to your room.”
“You’re coming to my room?”
She nodded.
“Afraid I’ll get lost?”
“Perhaps I’m merely afraid you’re lost.”
I did a double-take and walked away. Henry already knew me better than she thought she did. “I’ll pass on the tour. I’m taking a nap.” I turned to look at her before walking away. “Against better judgement.