Siri Mitchell: Chateau of Echoes

“ Chateau de Kertanuan, je peux vous aider ?”

“English?” If the question was rude, the voice that asked it was rich, mellow, and deep.

“Yes.”

“Is Frédérique Farmer in?”

Frédérique. I’d never identified that name with me. Any other ‘ique’-ending name would have been better: Monique or even Angelique. My father had his own nickname for me, but he was dead, so I hadn’t heard it in years. Hadn’t been that person in years.

“Speaking.”

“Hey. This is Robert Cranwell. Did you receive my letter?”

“Yes. Just this morning.” As often as I refuse to make reservations, I have never learned to lie. Some faded memory of childhood Sunday school classes made the guilt unbearable.

“Great. So how about it?”

“Six months is a very long time. I can’t make that sort of commitment.” I stabbed at my pasta with a fork.

“Sure. I understand. What about four months? All I really need to do is get the feel of the place and do some research. You know: walk where Alix walked. That sort of thing. If after two months you hate me, I can always move to a different place in town.”

The smile that curled my lips couldn’t be stopped from coloring my reply. “Mr. Cranwell, there is no town. Alix’s chateau might have been the center of life in her time, but there’s nothing left now for at least twenty miles.”

“Oh.”

“Sorry to disappoint you. Good luck.” I was ready to hang up the phone.

“Wait. Please. I need to write this book. I can explain it when I get there, but this is important. How long can you put me up? Whatever you say, that’s how long I’ll stay. Even if it’s just a week.”

My eyebrows were making exclamation points. Cranwell had to be worth millions. He was a moneymaking machine. His novels had been made into movies by the dozens. I even had a few on my bookshelf. But the life of a fifteenth-century French girl wasn’t his genre.

“Please.”

It felt as if the entire weight of the book were resting on my shoulders. Guilt could always motivate me. “Let me look at my calendar.” I put my hand over the phone and sat for a minute, staring at my plate, debating with myself. I hated being chained to someone else’s schedule. If Cranwell wanted to come, then he’d have to adapt to mine. I could probably put up with him for a month. I looked at that second weekend in September and counted back four weeks. “If you can be here next Saturday, you can stay for a month.”

“Great! See you then.”

My disgust with my inability to say, “No,” was so great that I couldn’t finish the rest of my penne pasta with fines herbes . I got up and made an espresso instead.

After climbing into bed at 9:30, I picked up my International Herald-Tribune . I always read the paper at night. I like knowing the news I read has already been analyzed and reacted to by the time I see it, and that, in spite of everything, the world hasn’t come to an end. But I couldn’t concentrate that night, so I finally dropped the paper to the floor, punched my pillows into a more comfortable position, and tried to sleep.

And found I couldn’t.

So I gave myself permission to enjoy a nuit blanche . A white night. I decided that if I couldn’t sleep, I might as well enjoy it.

First, I plugged in my laptop computer. Then, I climbed into bed with it and searched the Internet on “Robert Cranwell.” I found listings for all the books he’d ever published: reviews, sales, collectors trading first editions. I was looking for an interview or some insight into his character, but it was like wading through gelée . There were 5.7 million sites that had the words Robert Cranwell hidden somewhere in their listing.

So I searched on the names of several Hollywood-gossip magazines and then searched those sites for Cranwell listings.

It took several hours to read through the snippets of “Cranwell sightings.” He’d casually dated many A-list actresses, had seriously dated several models, and was engaged briefly to a rock star. One article, dated three months earlier, trumpeted his supposed conversion to Christianity. After all the other articles I’d read about his life, that particular claim provoked an unladylike snort. The longer I read, the greater my unease became. It looked as if I’d have a giant ego on my hands for the next month.

My own dating life had consisted of just one person: Peter.

My father had made a career out of being a senator and my mother a career out of being his wife, but the high-profile, high-society friends they kept and the lifestyle they led just made a shy little girl grow more into herself. I had a small group of friends in high school-okay, one friend, and I managed never to have to talk to a boy, let alone go to a dance with one. This is not to say that I was a mouse. I had definite opinions. I was on the debate team and I never had trouble expressing myself in the classroom. It was the one-on-one I had a problem with.

The college I picked was as far away from home as possible. That’s where I met Peter. I was forced to speak with him because a professor paired us together for a group project. From the first time he made me laugh, it seemed as if he’d known me forever. When I was with him, he made me feel beautiful. I went from wearing baggy sweaters and jogging pants to clothes that actually followed the shape of my body. And I discovered along the way that I had a waist!

It never crossed my mind to question Peter’s confident assumption that he and I would spend our lives together. I never had to make that decision-he made it for me. We married the week after we graduated, moved to DC, and then, several years later, to Paris. With him to teach me, I finally became comfortable with myself. Even developed a sort of flair for fashion.

But my years in junior high and high school had marked me. Though I had not taken part in the social scene, I had watched. What I learned was this: The more popular and better-looking the male, the less trustworthy he was. This equation increased exponentially the moment a male realized he was good-looking.

So how had I ended up with Peter the Blond, the Fair, the Blue-eyed? He had disarmed me.

And then he’d died.

In that same calamitous year, my parents had also died. I did the smart thing and enlisted the aid of a counselor in Paris, spending a year working through my grief. I’m cured now. At least I think I am. The counseling was in French, so it’s hard to know for sure. I do know that at the end of the year, she waved good-bye and shoved me back into the world. I surfaced in Brittany, stripped of any rose-colored delusions about life or the role God plays in all of it.

Twisting Peter’s ring around my finger, I glanced back at the computer screen.

Robert Cranwell smiled confidently back at me, his dark eyes wrinkling at the corners, the precise sweep of his dark hair back from his forehead betraying a hundred-dollar haircut.

Giant ego might be an understatement.

After trying so hard to keep my life simple, it seemed as if I’d sabotaged myself by answering a single phone call. Gazing out past the glow of my computer screen, I appreciated the homegrown elements of the room: stone and wood. Life couldn’t get much simpler than that. Letting my mind drift back to the days when the chateau was first built, I imagined the servants who would have been relegated to this top floor. At some point during my reverie, after 3:00 a.m., I fell asleep.

I woke at 5:00 a.m. It’s rare that I ever sleep later.

By Thursday evening, I was in a testy mood. I hate it when I say yes to people when I should have said no.

Friday’s rain made my mood even worse. I had heard fistfuls spatter against my window as I slept. I woke to pouring streams of it. And Sévérine did nothing to help. She was in the clutches of one of her own dark moods.