Chapter Ten

Amy stood in Emile’s kitchen and considered the boxes stacked on the counters. They had been delivered this morning before she and Emile had left for the bank, but there had been no time to deal with them. “Just some stuff I ordered,” Emile had said.

After crashing the Big Skate, Emile had insisted on advancing her some money so she could buy “some little things that you must miss.” She’d learned her lessons well during her teenage summers working at The Peach Stand, and it had gone against her grain to accept money that she hadn’t earned—but desperation and those little things she missed won out over her lessons and her grain. What did that mean anyway—going against the grain? As soon as she had Internet access again, she would look it up. She checked the pocket of her skirt for the tenth time in as many minutes to make sure the five one hundred dollar bills were still there. Right before leaving to go “stretch,” Emile had casually produced a fat, leather money clip, peeled off five bills, and handed them to her.

The money in her hand felt like comfort, though she had no idea how long it would take her to work off the advance. They had not discussed the terms of their agreement—an agreement she had accepted only out of desperation, because she had been sure Emile didn’t have enough needs to require a personal assistant. She’d gone straight from relying on one man to relying on another and one she hardly knew. The very thought of being dependent on another man gave her a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She would never feel safe again until she could rely totally on herself, and right now, that time seemed like so far in the future that it might as well be a pipe dream.

But one thing at time. She transferred the money to her wallet, but then thought better of it. She left one of the bills there beside her $84.38, hid another in her phone case, and took the remaining three hundred dollars to her room and placed them in a drawer underneath panties that were not her own.

Better not to have all that cash in one place—though it was probably no more than a third of what Emile carried in his wallet, and he didn’t have any problem with it. Why didn’t he have it in the bank? But if she had been carrying her money in her purse, she’d still have it. She beat back that thought, as she wanted to beat Cameron in the face.

Anyway, was it physically possible for someone carry that much money around? What was the largest bill made? That was something else she’d look up when she had a working phone again, which meant buying a new one.

She’d used Emile’s phone to call tech support and learned that her present phone was useless—a brick, the representative had called it. The man had been sympathetic, but had only been able to talk to her hypothetically, because she couldn’t remember her password and her bullet journal that contained all her passwords and other pertinent information for her electronics was gone. The rep’s best guess was that Cameron had reported the phone stolen, then changed the password and the ID number to a bogus one. He was sorry, but there was nothing he could do.

But there was something she could do. It lifted her spirits that she could correct this one thing in her life without any help, unless you counted the money Emile had advanced her. She reached in her pocket again for the keys to the Land Rover that Emile had given her.

Replacing her laptop and tablet were out of the question, but she could get an Android smart phone and have money left. Having money left was important, even if there would be more forthcoming—though that wasn’t a given. How was she to know if Emile would get tired of paying her for all those things he insisted he needed help with? And suppose he didn’t get tired? It couldn’t go on forever. She needed a long-term plan in case Cameron didn’t come back for her.

In case Cameron didn’t come back for her—where had that come from? Denial, shock, or just plain crazy? Even if he did return, she wouldn’t be fool enough to take him back—unless he had a good explanation for what he’d done. She cast about a bit for what that explanation could be, but came up empty. She tried to invent something that involved Russian spies, extraterrestrials, and television evangelists with mad brainwashing skills.

Unlikely. No, impossible. But hadn’t Cameron selling her car, taking her money, and abandoning her in a quilt shop seemed impossible a few days ago?

When she entered the kitchen again to get her purse, she remembered the boxes that had been delivered this morning. Maybe she should deal with those before going out to buy a phone—earn some of the money before she spent it. What was in them anyway?

She needed a box cutter. Surely there was a junk drawer in the kitchen. But upon opening several, she found that they were all junk drawers—only not exactly. Every one contained a jumble of flatware, rubber bands, scissors, tape, mail, take out menus, and assorted kitchen utensils. There was no rhyme or reason to anything, let alone flatware trays and dividers to bring order to chaos.

She shuddered at the sight of the mess, but was elated the thought of straightening it out. There was definitely a trip to The Container Store in her future, and the feeling that gave her was not too far removed from sexual satisfaction.

But she needed to get into those boxes, and there was still no box cutter.

To hell with it. She found a Henckels knife under some tea towels. Using it to open boxes couldn’t be any worse for it than rattling around in that drawer with jar tops, cell phone chargers, screwdrivers, novelty bottle openers, and a purple and silver flashlight with Nashville Sound inscribed on the side.

The boxes were from Zulily, BOXED, Jet, and Amazon Prime Pantry.

It didn’t take long to figure out that all the boxes contained food—canned chicken, packets of precooked quinoa and rice, Clif Bars, microwavable pasta meals, shelf stable chocolate milk, granola bars, canned soup, Gatorade, and crackers—so many crackers of all varieties. And Jell-O, mostly orange, but plenty of strawberry and lime, too. This stuff might be good for an apocalypse, but not much else.

When he’d said he had his groceries delivered, this had not been what she’d envisioned.

Her first inclination was to throw it all away, but it wasn’t hers to dispose of. Putting it away would be the thing to do, but first she needed to get the lay of the land.

Why had she expected the pantry and cabinets would be in better shape than the drawers? There was food everywhere, along with Pottery Barn dishes, mugs, pots, and pans, and it was all mixed together—canned chicken, crackers, Ziploc bags, and plates in one cabinet. Mugs, Gatorade, and Jell-O in another. The only things ingestible in the pantry were cases of Clear Valley wine and boxes of Au Chocolat candy—but there was a George Foreman grill still in the box, a blender, a milkshake maker, a toaster oven, a slow cooker, and a punch bowl big enough to bathe a baby. Really? No real food in the pantry, but a punch bowl? There wouldn’t have been room for food anyway, for the piles of hockey pads and sticks. At least the hockey equipment was new and didn’t smell.

She wondered if Emile was anything like his home—orderly and beautiful (if you liked Pottery Barn) on the outside but a mess on the inside. She didn’t wonder long, because she had clutter to conquer. The drawers could wait, but the pantry and cabinets couldn’t. First, she moved the boxes of food onto the floor against the wall. She would unload everything from the cabinets onto the countertops, put like items together, and put them away in an orderly fashion. Then she’d think about unloading the boxes—whether into the garbage or pantry remained to be seen.

Amy had just climbed onto the stepladder that she’d found in the pantry and unloaded cereal bowls, water bottles, and boxes of granola bars on the counter, when she heard the front door open. It seemed a little soon for Emile to be returning, but maybe not. She didn’t know what “stretch” was, never mind how long it took.

But when Amy came off the ladder, prepared to explain to Emile what she was doing and why he needed to buy some things from The Container Store, she came face-to-face with a tall blonde with a flow of waterfall curls that fell almost to her waist. She wore a rose and moss-colored flowing silk tunic over amber leggings that gave her the ethereal look of a fairy—though she couldn’t be. Magical creatures wouldn’t be surprised, and she looked as surprised to see Amy as Amy was to see her.

This would be Emile’s girlfriend, of course. Why had he not told her he had a girlfriend? Why had she not asked? For the same reasons she hadn’t asked what was going on with her own finances. She didn’t wonder enough. Or maybe deep enough. Maybe this woman wasn’t Emile’s girlfriend at all, but his wife. There was no reason to think he didn’t have a wife, no reason he shouldn’t. There was nothing between them. Still, the thought made her feel queasy and her face go hot. Now, she’d been caught sticking her nose in another woman’s turf. She’d learned that even women who didn’t cook—and no one could cook in this kitchen as it was—were highly territorial about their kitchens.

The woman set a small, square white box on the counter and looked Amy up and down. “So. Who are you?” She moved with the grace of a dancer—or a fairy who had wings to lift her up and help her along.

“Amy Callahan.” She did not feel that she was in any position to return the question. “I’m a professional organizer. Emile hired me to”—she gestured to the mess around them—“organize.”

The woman folded her arms across her chest. “Oh? That’s a new one.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” She could get out of here with the $284.38 in her purse, but she’d have to leave the $300 in the underwear drawer in the sister’s bedroom—if there was a sister. That room could be filled with the wife’s extra stuff. No doubt a rich hockey player’s wife would have extra stuff and plenty of it.

It would be best to take what was in her purse and get out of here. If she left with Emile’s $200, that would be stealing, since opening some boxes and unloading one cabinet was not $200 worth of work. But she’d do it. She could pay it back later.

The woman laughed. “You’re no professional organizer. You spent the night here.”

“What makes you think that?”

The woman looked even more amused—and why was that if she was his wife? Or girlfriend?

“You’re wearing my skirt,” she said. “And my sweater.”

Relief that Amy didn’t understand flooded through her. After all, she’d been caught in the woman’s clothes, but no wife or girlfriend was going to laugh about that. “You’re Emile’s sister.”

“Yes. Gabriella Charbonnet. We had different fathers, so different last names.” She walked by Amy and seemed to know just which cabinets to open to find a tea kettle, mugs, tea, and sugar. The mugs were shaped like pumpkins.

“He has pumpkin mugs.” She hadn’t noticed them when she’d poked through the cabinets earlier.

Gabriella nodded. “Emile likes Halloween. He got them at Pottery Barn. Would you like tea?”

So this wasn’t going to be a hostile exchange. Either that, or Gabriella was going to play with her like a cat with his mouse before she went in for the kill.

“I would like tea,” Amy said. “Actually, more than anything.”

Gabriella met her eyes and raised one eyebrow like Emile could do. “More than my brother?”

“I don’t want your brother. I really am working for Emile. This is not how it looks.”

Gabriella set the teapot on the Wolf range and turned on the flame. “It looks no particular way. You blushed earlier. I like someone for my brother who will blush.”

Despite her long blond hair and blue eyes, there were some resemblances between the two—the big eyes, tall frame, and high cheekbones. But in no way was Gabriella’s mouth as beautiful as Emile’s.

“Really,” Amy said. “There is nothing between Emile and me. I slept in your bed last night. I hope that was all right.”

Gabriella put teabags in the Pottery Barn mugs. “Was it all right with Emile?”

It was clearly pointless to try to convince Gabriella that there was nothing between the two of them, so Amy changed the subject. “Your French accent is not as strong as Emile’s.”

“Je parle Français, mais pas couramment.” Gabriella poured boiling water into the mugs. “French is my first language, though I don’t feel that it is anymore. We’ve been in this country fourteen years. Truthfully, my friend Hélène-Louise, who is from New Orleans, is better at conversational French than I am. I don’t think in French anymore, but my brother works hard at being French.”

“So, it isn’t natural?”

“No. ‘Non,’ as he would almost certainly say. It’s natural. It’s just that he’s very aware of his French heritage. I have met Southerners who are the same. They work hard at being Southern. Do you take lemon?” She set the mugs and sugar bowl on the quartz-top bar.

“If you have it.”

“I left some last time I was here.” Gabriella crossed to the built-in stainless steel refrigerator and peered into the boxes of food as she passed. “Will you get us each a plate? I brought pastries. They’re in the box. Emile isn’t here, so you get his.”

Amy found some takeout paper napkins and placed the pastries on the plates. “These are lovely. You made them?”

Gabriella placed the lemon slices on the counter and took her seat. “Yes. Mille-feuilles. Layers of pâte feuilletée and pastry cream. It was an experiment. Rather than finishing it with sugar icing and chocolate stripes, I topped it with marzipan and candied almond slices. I suspect my mentor knew the marzipan would be too heavy for the delicate pastry and the almond would overwhelm the favor of the cream, but she lets me try new things—even if they are certain to fail.”

Amy took a bite. “This is delicious. I’m not sure how you call it a failure.”

“Maybe not so much a failure as a work in progress. I have some ideas.” Gabriella delicately touched her napkin to her mouth. “But enough pastry talk. Tell me about yourself, Amy Callahan.”

Amy took a sip of her tea. “I really am a professional organizer, and Emile really did hire me. He’s calling me a personal assistant.”

Gabriella burst out laughing. “What are you going to do? Make his Jell-O? Put laces in his skates?”

“If that’s what he wants. Isn’t that what a personal assistant does? Whatever is asked of her?”

“You tell me. That’s your new title. What became of professional organizing?”

“Long story. Let’s just say it isn’t working out for me anymore and I’m homeless.”

Gabriella’s mug stopped in midair and the smile left her eyes. “You don’t look homeless.”

“Oh, come on! I’m wearing a too-tight sweater and a too-long skirt with the ankle boots I wore with leggings yesterday because your shoes don’t fit me.”

Gabriella glanced at Amy’s feet. “Gucci ankle boots.” Then she let her eyes drift to the bar where Amy had left her purse. “And a Louis Vuitton bag.”

They’d been gifts from Cameron last year, back when he’d been trying to impress her. She’d gotten the feeling he’d been trying to bring her up to “designer speed” so she’d present well to his clients and their wives.

“Well, there was a time . . . ” Amy let her voice trail off on purpose. “But that was before I sold Apple Pie Order.

Gabriella frowned in a way that indicated she was trying to remember something. “Apple Pie Order, Apple Pie Order. Where have I heard that?” She seemed to be talking to herself. There was no way this woman could have heard of her business. But then the clouds cleared and comprehension dawned. “Did you organize Aubrey Jamison’s tour bus?”

Amy reluctantly nodded. That had been right before she’d sold. She’d stayed with Cameron for the first time when she’d come to Nashville to do the job. It had been fun, and the country music star had been so nice.

“You know her?” Amy asked. “Aubrey Jamison?”

Gabriella shook her head. “No. I delivered a birthday cake for one of her band members. They were about to go on the road, and I delivered it to the bus. Her assistant took delivery and let me see the bus. It was really neat. She told me a company called Apple Pie Order installed all the little holders and racks and things.”

Amy nodded.

“And you sold?”

Again, Amy only nodded. Asking a question that had already been answered was meant to prompt the sharing of information, but if Gabriella wanted to know anything else, she was going to have to come right out and ask.

But instead, Gabriella waved her hand, palm out, as she took a sip of her tea. “It’s all right. You don’t need to tell me things you don’t wish to. In time, I will either know about you or it won’t matter, because you’ll be gone.”

“I’ll be gone. I’m only here until I figure some things out. But meanwhile, I assure you I will not take advantage of Emile.” She glanced at the mess on the counter. “I also plan to tidy up a few things.”

“I wasn’t worried about that. Emile is a rescuer, and I would worry if he was only that, but he is also a survivor. It’s easy to see you are in need of rescuing right now. No matter. Everyone needs rescuing from time to time. It gives people like Emile a reason for being. And more power to you if you can turn this into a real kitchen. I would cook here if it were workable.”

It was interesting how Gabriella changed from an awkward subject to a neutral one without taking a breath. It was a relief—a pleasure, even—to discuss a neutral subject. Amy found herself liking Gabriella.

“Really? You’d cook? What would you do with precooked rice, canned chicken, and shelf stable chocolate milk?”

Gabriella closed her eyes and shook her head. “Don’t forget the Jell-O. He loves Jell-O. It’s awful isn’t it? Our billet mom wanted to teach him to cook some simple things, but Jell-O was as far as they got. I, on the other hand, learned to bake from her.”

Billet mom? “Your who?” Was that a French Canadian thing?

“Well, technically, Emile’s billet mom. But they brought me to live with them a few months after Emile. I referred to Paul and Johanna as my billet parents, too, though they were actually my foster parents.” And with that, Gabriella took a bite of her pastry, as if she hadn’t said something that bordered on bizarre. No, not bordered on—full on bizarre.

“I understood nothing you said past Jell-O and that you learned to bake.”

Gabriella frowned a little. “How much do you know about hockey?”

“There’s a puck and a goal—which your brother defends. Oh, and hockey players keep their extra equipment in the pantry. I just found that out.”

“Yes. That.” Gabriella rolled her eyes. “So.” She folded her hands and rested her elbows on the counter. “The best youth hockey players go on to play juniors. It’s a huge leap. The very best of the best go on to play in top tier junior leagues. That was Emile. Since these boys are sixteen to twenty years old, they live with host families. The system is called billeting, so the boys are billet sons and the parents are billet moms and dads. Emile went to North Dakota to live with the Lindells the August he was sixteen.” She looked at her plate and said the next words in a rush. “A few months later when our mother died, the Lindells brought Emile home for the funeral and took me back to North Dakota with them to live.” She looked up and met Amy’s eyes again. “So I learned to bake, and Emile made saves and learned to make Jell-O.” She raised her mug, leaned over, and whispered with a smile, “And he makes it still. Mostly orange.”

This woman was a brilliant communicator. With her body language and that last sentence, she had conveyed perfectly that she was not open to questions or comments about her mother’s death or the whereabouts of their fathers.

Still a response was in order. “The Lindells sound like wonderful people. Are you still in touch with them?

Gabriella looked surprised that the question even needed to be asked. “Of course. I talk or text with them almost every day. Emile, the same.”

“Emile the same, what?”

He had come in so quietly that he seemed to appear out of nowhere. Maybe these siblings were magical creatures. He reached out briefly and touched Gabriella on the shoulder with the barest brush of his fingertips. The contact seemed insignificant, but the look that passed between them was not. There was love there—and like. They were friends.

“Emile, the same as always,” Gabriella said. “I have met your personal assistant.”

“Good. Amy will stay here for a bit. It will be very helpful with the season starting.”

“And I gave her your marzipan mille-feuilles.”

“Just as well.” He leaned on counter. “First game in five days. I have to start eating better.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a box, and placed it on the counter. “Your new phone, Amy. I went to the Apple store after stretch. Packi advised me that if I was to have a personal assistant, I should provide you with a phone. After all, I must be able to reach you.”

“Oh, no.” No, Emile. And not in front of your sister who, despite what she says, probably thinks I’m a gold digger. She pushed the box away from her. “You should take it back. I will take care of it tomorrow.” And who was this Packi anyway? Another man who thought he could be in charge of her?

“Non. Everything is already set up for you. Here’s your new number.” He gave her a slip of paper.

“I was going to take care of it.” In her own way, in her own control, and with a phone nowhere nearly as expensive as this one. “And I am the one who is supposed to be running errands.”

“It was on my way. And how can I contact you if you have no phone? What difference does it make who procured it? You need a phone. You have a phone. It is right that I should pay.”

Maybe he had at point, maybe not. Either way, he was paying—and either way, she was beaten—again.

He knew she knew it, too because he smiled triumphantly, as if he was so pleased with himself. “Who’s hungry? I am. I will take a shower, and we will all go to dinner. Think, ladies, where you would like to go?”

And he disappeared down the hall.

“Does he always just announce what’s going to happen?” Amy asked.

“Hmm.” Gabriella closed her eyes and considered the question. “Yes. But you said it yourself. A personal assistant does what’s asked of her.”