Accidental Heiress (4 page)

That was one of the problems that eventually led to the blow up. She wasn't book smart. After her mother's death, she'd been so starved for normalcy and love that all she wanted to do was lash out—and make out with Henri. To somehow feel loved again. To make her world whole.

Of course things had changed over the years. Obviously, they had a lot of catching up to do.

As the group began their procession to the casino, Margeaux was well aware that Sydney trailed behind them like an afterthought. Her friends had snared Sydney, asking her questions, detaining her so that Margeaux and Henri could have the brief walk to the bar.

When her cell phone rang, Margeaux was making a mental note to give each of them a hug for always knowing exactly what to do at the right moment.

She didn't recognize the number and almost let it go to voice mail, but something made her pick up.

“Ms. Broussard, this is Aretha Garibaldi, I'm one of your father's nurses at St. Michel General Hospital. I am so sorry to be the bearer of unpleasant news, but your father has taken a turn for the worse. Could you please come right away?”

T
he seventeenth-century Broussard manor house was set back from the road fifty yards, and shielded by a rustic, nine-foot stone wall that was overgrown with ivy and climbing roses that bloomed all year, thanks to St. Michel's mild climate.

As Henri steered his BMW up the winding gravel driveway, Margeaux kept her face turned toward the window.

“How can he be dead?” Her words were a whisper, barely audible over the crunch of
tires on gravel. “He told me he was going to be released from the hospital tomorrow.”

Henri reached out and took Margeaux's hand. She turned her palm so that her fingers laced through his and held on like he was her lifeline.

After the call, Henri had given Sydney money for a taxi and had driven Margeaux to the hospital.

Colbert was still alive when they'd arrived. He'd lasted long enough to gasp a labored “It's fine. Everything is fine. Henri will know what to do. Follow his instructions and all will be fine.”

The worst part was Henri had no idea what the man was talking about. They'd barely been on speaking terms, only beginning to mend their differences over the past couple of months.

Had he somehow known his time on earth was limited?

Colbert was renowned for holding grudges. Henri couldn't blame him for the one he held against him. But when it came down to it, that didn't mean Henri liked it.

In late summer the year he and Margeaux
were both sixteen, the press had snapped photos of Henri and Margeaux as they'd skinny dipped in the lake behind their houses. The headline
Europe's Worst Father Lets Daughter Run Wild Because He's Too Busy Playing Politics
may have lambasted Crown Council member Colbert Broussard, but it had caused scandal for both families.

The thing that hurt the most was that the scumbag reporter had actually hit the nail on the head. Never before had a tabloid headline packed so much truth.

But that's not how newly widowed Colbert saw it. Margeaux was the problem. She'd been failing at school, staying out until all hours of the morning, and now this very public embarrassment. It was the last straw. He decided he couldn't handle Margeaux and made plans to send her to boarding school in France. When Henri had refused to run away with her, she'd cut all ties—with her father and him—and had done her best to live up to the wild-child image that had caused her father to send her away.

Colbert had blamed Henri as much as he'd blamed Margeaux, and even years later he had gone to great lengths to make life difficult for
Henri. Colbert was the lone Crown Council Member who had opposed Henri's appointment as Minister of Arts and Education—it had taken an override from the king for Henri to get the job; and Colbert remained the voice against Henri's consideration as a serious candidate for future Crown Council appointment—a position that would take years to land.

When Henri had returned to his family home next door to Broussard after purchasing the property from his father's estate, Colbert had ignored him. The homes were large, with an orchard between them. So it was easy to avoid each other. Henri respected the old man's wishes.

That's why it had thrown Henri when Colbert contacted him about a state matter two months ago; he'd begun reaching out about business matters but said nothing about “instructions” for Margeaux; for that matter, he hadn't even mentioned Margeaux.

Perhaps all he meant was that Henri would help Margeaux with the memorial arrangements.

But that didn't amount to much.

The hospital had instructions that Colbert's
body was to be cremated. More instructions would follow.

In the meantime, Henri and Margeaux's friends helped her settle into her father's house.

 

Walking into her father's house was like going back in time. Everything was exactly as she remembered it, including her bedroom with the blue walls, white iron bed frame and the poster of Maxfield Parrish's
Sleeping Beauty.

In a sense, she felt like Sleeping Beauty awakening from a long slumber, or, given her father's death, perhaps it was more apt to say she was stuck in a nightmare.

His death was like being blindsided by an eighteen-wheeler. They'd been rolling along, making better progress than she'd ever imagined in the twenty minutes she had to spend with him.

All those years they'd wasted only to reunite for a fraction of an hour. But at least their last minutes were amiable.

His nurse had explained that her father was sicker than he'd let on; she said those who were
terminal had more control over when they went than most people realized.

Terminal?

She had no idea he was
that
sick. He'd promised her that everything would be “fine” and that he'd be leaving the hospital….

She never dreamed it would be
this
way.

He'd said for her to follow Henri's lead, but both she and Henri were at a loss about how to interpret that until two days later, when the two of them met with her father's attorney.

She and the girls had been getting ready for dinner. A.J., who was a chef, was in the kitchen preparing it, while Pepper and Caroline were starting a fire in the old mosaic-covered, outdoor fireplace and setting the old stone trestle table out in the rose garden.

It was unseasonably warm for November. Even though the weather in St. Michel remained temperate all year, this particular evening, they were experiencing clear skies and highs in the upper sixties. Perfect weather for dinner al fresco.

Margeaux was both unnerved by the news that the attorney might bring and soothed by seeing Henri at the door.

“Margeaux, this is your father's solicitor, Pascal Moreau,” said Henri.

Pascal was a slight, balding man. He had a serious demeanor, but he was quick to look her in the eye and offer a firm handshake.

“Come in,” she said.

“Something smells good,” said Henri.

“The girls and I are fixing a feast.”

“I'm sorry to disturb your dinner preparations,” said Pascal.

“Then stay for dinner,” A.J. called from the kitchen. “There's plenty.”

“Hi, A.J., that sounds great,” Henri answered. “It smells wonderful and I'm starved. But do you mind if we borrow Margeaux for a moment? We have some business to discuss.”

Margeaux glanced at the large envelope in his hands.

“This is from my father?” she asked.

Pascal nodded.

She ignored the chill that danced over her. Henri and Pascal were bringing answers—or at least giving her the means for closure.

Her friends had been wonderful to change their plans and move into the house with her. But they couldn't stay here forever. Margeaux
wanted to be on course doing right by her father before they left.

She led Henri and Pascal into the room that had been her father's first floor study. Even though Margeaux had never been close to her father, it was there that she felt his presence most. There was so much of him in that room: a wool sweater was draped across the back of his leather desk chair, the seat of which gave in certain places, molded by his shape and weight. A notepad lay open with his writing scrawled across it. A brass letter opener rested on top of a stack of bills and correspondence. His pipe, with teeth marks on the stem and a half-f pouch of tobacco, sat next to the small Tiffany desk lamp. It was a working desk, but it was tidy and all business, just like him.

That's why she wanted her father's will to be read in here.

Even though she'd reacquainted herself with every room in the house, she still wasn't completely comfortable in here. As a child she'd never been allowed to cross the threshold. When her father was inside with the doors shut, it meant he was not to be disturbed.

Maybe it was part defiance; maybe it was a
last ditch effort to connect with him, because here, out of any room in the house, was where her father's spirit seemed to linger.

His presence was still all so fresh, as if he'd be coming back to tend to business any moment.

“Are you okay?” Henri asked.

He touched her cheek with the back of his hand and the intimacy startled her.

“Yes.” She walked to the window and opened the shutters. The last strands of twilight shone in. She shivered again and swallowed her sadness, deliberately focusing her gaze on Henri.

His handsome face was her sanctuary. Staring at him in the half light, she wanted to go to him, bury her face in his neck and lose herself in the achingly familiar scent of him, draw strength from the warm shelter of his arms.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

Yes.

“We don't have to do this now,” Monsieur Pascal offered. “Traditionally, we wait until after the funeral or memorial service to handle such delicate matters as this.” He gestured to the envelope. “For reasons your father did not
share, he requested that this matter be taken care of before the funeral. But we're not legally bound to proceed that way. If you'd like to delay, we can make another appointment.”

She blinked, smiled apologetically at Pascal and swallowed the lump that had settled in her throat. “Now is as good a time as any.”

She gestured to the overstuffed armchair. Pascal settled himself and began pulling papers from the envelope. She and Henri took a seat on the sofa and waited for him to begin.

“This is your father's last will and testament,” he said. “I worked with him on it in the days after he first fell ill, but I believe he was of sound mind and it is something he seems to have put a lot of thought into.”

Pascal fanned through the pages, finally letting the stack fall to a rest in his lap. He looked perplexed.

“What he wants is kind of complicated. Do you want to read through it or do you want me to tell you?”

Right.
Even on a good day her dyslexia would make it difficult to read and comprehend the legalese. As nervous as she was right
now, if she attempted to read it herself they'd be here all night.

She shrugged off the feelings of stupidity that were trying to envelop her. “Now you're making me nervous,” she said to Pascal. “Please, just tell me what he has to say.”

The attorney nodded. “I'll read it to you.”

Henri took her hand. “Are you okay?”

The truth was she was numb, except for the warmth of her hand in his.
Lessons?
He was shouldering part of the blame? If she thought about it too hard she would break down. So, instead, she nodded. “Go ahead.”

Pascal glanced up, this time as if to gauge her reaction or maybe it was because it was getting dark in the room and he needed more light to read. Margeaux reached over and turned on the lamp on the end table.

Pascal squinted at the light and continued.

They were silent for a moment.

Margeaux wasn't sure what threw her most—this crash course in the Broussard family history that her father was trying to thrust upon her, or the fact that he'd signed his letter
with love and regards.

Love and regards.

Love and regards?

On one hand, they seemed to cancel each other out—you either sent love or regards. Love was a hug, the other was a handshake. But she couldn't recall a time when she remembered her father ever uttering the word
love.

She could be cynical or she could claim this love he was offering, despite it being sandwiched between
with
and
regards.

“What the heck is he talking about?” she finally asked.

Henri squeezed her hand, and Pascal flipped to the next page without looking at her.

“He wants you to visit the Saint Mary of the Universe Orphanage near Avignon and the Saint James convent about ten miles from there. He wants you to spend a week in each place. Details are to unfold as your journey progresses. Will you accept this challenge?”

“What?” Margeaux shifted, hating the confusion she felt. It made her feel dumb and when she felt this way, her gut reaction was to run. It didn't make sense, and she wondered if she'd missed something.

Pascal must have read her concerns because
he said, “I know it doesn't make sense now, but your father seemed to think that if you would take the time to visit these places his reasons would be self-explanatory.”