“I loved it. The Italians made me feel welcome, and there’s a large Albanian community living there. The family gave me housing while I worked in the kitchen.”
“Vraiment?” She sat up straighter, an alert look on her face. “Then maybe you can assist me in the kitchen as well. Mr. Horn refuses to hire another chef.”
“But you cook so well.”
“Cook, oui, but I am no chef. Delacroix was let go four years ago, when Mr. Horn took possession of the estate.”
“Where did Mr. Horn live before?” The question tumbled out of my mouth inadvertently. My hand abruptly stilled from cutting into the mozzarella when I realized I had spoken out loud. I needed to do a better job controlling my curious nature.
“Texas.” She emphasized the word in her heavy French accent. “You know, where the cowboys come from.” I pressed a brief smile back down. “He came back to Geneva five years ago. He has an apartment in town.” As I stood at the sink to wash my empty dishes, she continued, “I should warn you, Vera. Mr. Horn is a bit temperamental. He’s not mean or spiteful but he’s endured too much in the last five years. He’s still suffering, and I don’t want you to think less of him if he behaves a bit…harshly. It’s nothing personal.”
I didn’t bother telling her that I had already taken it personally. “I understand. Thank you so much Mrs. Arnaud…for everything.”
She didn’t respond, although her face revealed a warm understanding. Who knows what would’ve become of me without her mercy.
“Mrs. Arnaud.”
“Oui?”
“Where does Mr. Arnaud live?”
“I don’t know, chérie. He left for a beer thirty years ago and never returned.”
“Oh…I’m…I’m sorry.”
“I’m not,” she replied, a strange twinkle in her eye.
“Good night, then.”
“Bon soir.”
Chapter Four
I craved tedium, anything that resembled monotony. For the first time in years my days fell into a comfortably predictable routine, absent of worry. In Milan, living and working with the Argentis had been an existence governed by high drama, every day an exercise in patience.
I dreaded going home after my university classes knowing I would be subjected to hours of Mr. Argenti’s incessant complaining about the lousy economy. Pending doom––his favorite topic. If you paid attention to anything he said you would think we were in the middle of the great famine of 1315. My ears ached from the complaints, and my knees were scraped from praying for clients to fill tables. Most of the time we managed. On the nights we didn’t though, the complaints escalated to cataclysmic proportions. The whole staff lived on pins and needles, drowning themselves in chamomile tea just to be able to sleep at night.
I awoke with a surplus of enthusiasm, happiness lingering on its smooth edges. My day only got better when I was assigned the dusting of the library. Even with the unholy temptation of thousands of rare books, I managed to be done by early afternoon. I went to the kitchen, to inform Mrs. Arnaud that I still had time to do another room, and found her fiddling with the blender. She repeatedly jammed different buttons with her chubby fingers, unable to get it to churn the ambiguous contents in the glass pitcher.
“Merde!” she shouted. My muffled giggle drew her attention. “Oh, Vera, can you please see if you can get this blender to work. I’m annoyed beyond annoyed, and Mr. Horn is waiting for his frappe.”
I took the pitcher off the base and discovered the connection to the outlet had come loose. Exasperated, Mrs. Arnaud threw her hands up in the air.
“Mon Dieu!”
Once blended, she poured the suspect liquid into a tall, chilled glass. “Hurry to the salle gymnastique and give this to him.”
Me?! Didn’t Mr. Bentifourt do that sort of thing? Isn’t that what butlers are for? My knees locked, unable to move. I wasn’t ready to face him again––although it had been dark that evening, I thought. With any luck, I figured he would either not recognize me or had forgotten altogether. Determined to not let my emotions get the better of me, I placed the drink on a tray and proceeded to the gym. Having seen it during Charlotte’s grand tour, it could only be described as a faithful imitation of a medieval torture chamber, filled with strange machines and eerie looking straps hanging from the ceiling.
The closer I got, the clearer a woman’s voice, speaking intimately, became. “Oui, like that…yes…yes…one more time.” The thought of possibly interrupting his afternoon tryst made me sick to my stomach. My footsteps turned reticent, slowing to a crawl. When I finally reached the gym, I found the door wide open and forced myself to step into the doorway.
A woman dressed in skintight shorts and a tank top stood with her back to me. Her raven hair was scraped back in a high ponytail, her skin was bronzed, and her muscles flexed and hardened every time she moved. Her attention was focused entirely on the large, male figure before her.