Having the Frenchman's Baby

“That doesn’t surprise me. But it means you’ve sent him away. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

“You’re my only priority.”

After a coughing spell he said, “Now you’re telling me a lie.”

Tears stung her eyelids. “Let’s not talk about him.” Never again. “How are you really feeling?”

“My solicitor asked me the same thing this morning. I told him I felt lousy.”

She moaned inwardly. “You’ve done business today?”

“I told him to come by early when neither of my sons would be around. I added a codicil to my will.”

“Grandfather—” A sob escaped before she rested her head on his arm.

“After I’m gone, I’ve instructed that this house be put up for sale. The proceeds will go equally to the three restaurants. What do you think?”

“It’s the perfect solution to an insoluble problem.”

He patted her head. Then she heard a deep sigh. “Now I have to work on a solution for your happiness,” his voice trailed. He sounded exhausted.

Alarmed, she raised her head. “I’m fine. All you have to do is get better. Now go to sleep.”

“I’m afraid to. It isn’t time yet.”

His admission killed her. By now the tears were streaming down her face.

A noise at the door brought her head around. In the aperture she saw the silhouette of her sister. A lighter brunette, more curvy than Rachel and almost as tall.

She advanced quietly into the room. The strong resemblance to their stunning mother shook Rachel.

Their eyes met for a soul-searching moment.

Rachel was too happy to talk. All she could do was hold out her hand.

Rebecca hurried forward and grasped it across their grandfather’s chest.

As their fingers clung Rachel had the sudden feeling a miracle was happening.

Their grandfather’s eyes opened. When he saw who it was, his countenance brightened in a way Rachel hadn’t seen since before Lucia had become ill and died.

“Rebecca.” There was a world of love in his voice. “God heard my prayers. My two beauties together at last.”

“Hold on a moment, Mr Chartier.”

Luc’s hand tightened on his cell phone. He’d called The Times in London every day for ten days, waiting for news of an obituary.

“Yes. I have it here. William Valentine, ninety, passed away at home on June thirtieth, from a fatal embolism.”

That was two days ago. Rachel would be inconsolable right now.

“Does it say where the funeral is going to be held?”

“Let me look. Yes. The family home at eleven a.m. on Friday the eighth of July.”

“May I have the address please.”

When she’d given it to him, he thanked her and hung up.