The French Connection. Tracy Kelleher

“All right, then.” She placed a determined hand on the table—first making sure that she wasn’t about to dip her fingers in mustard. “Abby, I appreciate your support. I really do. And I know you don’t mean to be holier-than-thou—you just come by it naturally, having spent too many of your formative years doing things such as pouring tea. But if I’m going to do this, I’m going to be the one to take charge of the teapot.” Shelley frowned. The image was a little weak. Never mind.

      She turned to Paul. “And Paul, stop feeling you have to protect me from myself. I realize, as the son of a Lutheran minister you equate love with pastoral care. But you never loved me when we were going out and you don’t love me now that we aren’t. You just feel compelled to enlighten me. As surprising as this may seem, I managed to do quite fine for almost thirty years before we met and I have managed to function very smoothly since we broke up. In fact, as far as I can tell, you’re the one who needs help. Without me, you wouldn’t have a clean shirt to put on your back. Really. Do you even know where the dry cleaner is?”

      She held up her hand when he started to say something. “Hear me out. I’ve had enough of being the responsible daughter and friend, seeking out a safe but unfulfilling job, falling in and out of almost-but-never-quite love. I’ve decided to turn over a new leaf. A new kick-ass side is about to emerge.” She paused, then smiled slyly. “And if the circumstances call for it, maybe even a wild, party-girl side.”

      Abigail’s eyes grew wider. “Am I hearing what I think I’m hearing?”

      “I’m sorry, what does that have to do with going to France?” Paul scrunched his brows in confusion.

      Shelley leaned back against the banquette and crossed her arms over her chest. “Paul, you’re a bright, sensitive fellow. Okay, you’re not particularly sensitive, but you are bright. You figure it out.”

      2

      THE MAN WHO EMBODIED THE meaning of insensitivity—and the staying power of French cuffs—sat behind his desk early the next morning. No surprise.

      “I prefer to maintain Europ-ee-an time,” Lionel had informed Shelley three years ago, when she had first started working for him and naively thought the job held the promise of glamour. “I find it cuts down on the jet lag on my trips to the Cah-ontinent,” he’d said.

      Shelley always thought that for someone originally from Perth Amboy, New Jersey, Lionel certainly had transformed himself into a citizen of the world. In any case, fortified by a grande cafe latte and a new sense of resolve, Shelley watched Lionel tweak the knot in his ascot. The thought of losing one of their principal customers appeared to bring out his obsessive-compulsive tendencies.

      “So-o, have you finalized your arrangements to France?” he asked. “It’s imperative that the company send a representative imme-e-diately. Just remember, the Remingtons will be out in the co-old if we do not secure the Montfort chateau.”

      She positioned the tip of an index finger on the table in the same way she had seen Carly Fiorina, the CEO of Hewlett-Packard, do in a newspaper photograph and leaned slowly forward. The position really killed her knuckle, but she didn’t want to mar the effect. “I appreciate your concern, Lionel, and despite the rush, I can safely say I have things under control. First off, I was here until two in the morning making sure the office paperwork is ahead of schedule, and that means the arrangements for the rest of the properties won’t fall through the cracks.

      “I’ve also contacted everyone—clients, homeowners, workmen—that for the next week or so I can only be reached by e-mail. I’ve left a similar message on the company phone line,” she went on. “In addition, I’ve downloaded all the relevant phone and fax numbers as well as e-mail addresses to my personal laptop, which I will take with me. I’ve also made arrangements to lease a cell phone with international dialing capabilities, but I plan to give that number only to a few people—you being one of them, of course—for emergency purposes.”

      Lionel nodded. “Yes, I’m glad you limited the number of people with the phone number. The ca-ah-alling fees on those phones are monstrous.”

      What a cheapskate. Actually, Shelley had been anticipating his reaction and she had purposely highlighted her fiscal prudence regarding the phone so that she could go in for the real kill.

      She stood up straighter, accentuating her 34Bs. She had chosen a tight, powder-blue cashmere cardigan with tiny pearl buttons. Ladylike but va-va-voom.

      The corner of Lionel’s mouth jerked in a spasm. Her mild walk on the wild side seemed to have an immediate impact. Shelley waited for him to swallow.

      “I also contacted the travel agent yesterday and I should have the arrangements finalized today.” She paused. “Unfortunately, given the short notice, it seems that tourist class to Paris with a transfer to Marseilles/Marignane Airport is sold out. Business class looks to be the only viable option.” True, there was a Moldavian charter flight, but it was flying out of Baltimore via Brussels and it lasted something like eleven hours. Totally unacceptable for a woman about to embark on a life-altering adventure.

      Lionel blanched at the information before finally nodding. “If that’s the case, then by all means do whatever is necessary.”

      But just when Shelley was ready to bask in her triumph, Lionel hit her with information that made her think eleven hours via Brussels might not be such a bad idea after all.

      “I’m counting on you, Shelley. Dream Villas has never needed you as much as now. Because, you see—” he halted as if struggling to get the right words out “—it’s more than the Remingtons we’ll have to worry about if we don’t close the deal. It’s the government….” His voice trailed off.

      Shelley blinked. “The government? What’s the government got to do with it?”

      Lionel suddenly looked every one of his many mysterious years. “The Internal Revenue Service has threatened to close down Dream Villas unless I make substantial restitution for what they consider to be unpaid back taxes.”

      “I don’t understand. I religiously submit the business’s revenue and expense forms to Bernie, our accountant.” A nice man, even if he did send the world’s worst Christmas cards—these atrocious paintings of Nativity scenes by, yes, his own brush, one step up from paintings on black velvet.

      “But apparently you incorrectly submitted the information about all the workmen we’ve hired over the years.”

      “Hold on there. I submitted those figures just as you instructed me to do—indicating that the workers were hired on a per-job basis and not as employees of the company.” Shelley took a deep breath, trying to keep panic at bay. She tasted stale air and remnants of Lionel’s Eau de Sauvage aftershave.

      “Apparently the IRS no longer considers that a valid arrangement. Not only am I supposed to pay the taxes owed but there is a sizable penalty, as well.” Lionel looked at the tips of his tassel loafers. “You realize, of course, that your name appears on the correspondence to the accountant as well as on the checks.” He looked dolefully into her eyes. “I’m so sorry, my dear.”

      “Considering the humongous size of the checks I’ve cut over the years—checks Bernie specifically had me make out to ‘Cash’ so that he could divide them among the appropriate agencies—you’d think he’d be able to keep up on changes in the law.” The tightness that gripped Shelley’s throat had nothing to do with the stratospheric pollen count. “Are you trying to tell me that I could be liable, as well?”

      “I purposely didn’t say anything before because I didn’t want to worry you.” He reluctantly shook his head. “I was sure I could handle the situation myself.”

      As if. The man didn’t even know how to use the fax machine, and she seriously doubted if sleeping with the IRS investigator—Lionel’s usual business ploy—would prove effective. “And somehow the Remingtons’ rental is tied in with all this mess?” she asked.

      “It’s