I sign at the "x", the messenger bids me "bonjour" and is off down the driveway in his truck.
"Wow, that was fast," I comment to Frey, rejoining them in the dining room. "David must have worked all night to get this stuff together so fast."
But when I tear open the envelope, I see I am wrong about who it is from. Four official-looking French documents are inside. Along with a note, written in a precise hand:
Miss Strong, here are the documents you requested. Present them to the Mairie at the consulate. Chael suggested I take the liberty of including documents for your fiancé as well. I hope you don't think it presumptuous.
Chael also asked that I pass on to you the information that the meeting has been set as you requested. He suggests you meet him at Le Course café and he will take you to the castle. 6:30, Thursday.
Please do not hesitate to call on us if we can be of more assistance.
The note is signed with theatrical flourish: Pierre LeDoux.
I look up at Frey and hand him the documents. "I definitely need an assistant like this."
His brow furrows as he notes the set of certificates with his name on them. "How does he know my blood type?" he asks, scanning the pages. "And my exact height and weight. This is creepy."
I nod. "Yes, it is. But then Chael is creepy, so I guess we should be thankful he seems to be on our side now."
"What does the note say?" Frey asks, slipping the papers back into the envelope.
I read the first paragraph aloud, hesitating before going on to the second. For a split second, I consider not telling him that the meeting has been set. Wondering again if I should go alone.
But I don't want to lie to him. And I don't want to have to sneak away. I continue reading.
John-John catches the word "castle" and pipes up, "You're going to a castle? A real castle? Can I go, too?"
We both look at John-John, then at each other. "There are lots of castles around here," I answer, taking my place next to him at the table. "And if it doesn't work out this time, I promise we'll plan to go again, okay?"
He agrees with a bob of his head and digs a spoon into his cereal.
"So what's on the agenda for today?" I ask John-John, squeezing his shoulders.
"James said he'd take me on the tractor to show me how they water the vines," he replies with a grin. "Then when Trish gets home from school, we're going next door to see the horses."
"Sounds like a pretty good day," I say. "Much better than the one your daddy and I have planned. More running around to finish the paperwork for the wedding."
"We have to go shopping sometime, too," Frey adds. "A suit for me. A suit for the best man, here." He leans in and tickles John-John's ribs.
"And the bride needs a dress." Trish is suddenly in the doorway, grinning. "So tonight, we go shopping."
CHAPTER 14
SINCE I NEVER EXPECTED TO GET MARRIED, I'D NEVER given much thought to all that goes into a wedding. Luckily, it seems my mother has. She prepares lists and makes calls and for the next couple of days, we-Frey, Trish, Dad and I-run around so she can check each item off with a satisfied stroke of the pen.
I watch her closely-watch for any sign that she's weakening or tiring herself out. All I see is a woman at peace, happy even, immersed in the details of a day that obviously means as much to her as it does to Frey and me.
Still, it's up to Trish, Frey and I to handle the in-town stuff-shopping for dresses and suits, visiting the caterer to plan menus, choosing a wedding cake. A cake I can't eat. So we leave the final choice to John-John and Trish. After polishing off the half dozen samples supplied by the bakery, John-John decides he likes weddings. And the kids settle on a decadent chocolate mousse cake with a frothy whipped cream icing.
Thursday afternoon Frey and I make the trek back to the consulate, papers in hand. France requires a civil ceremony before any kind of religious service. Since a religious service is something I neither want nor plan to have, the consular employee who helps us suggests we look into a "humanist" wedding. An organization called Gracefully Personalized Ceremonies crafts individual services for couples who want a ceremony adapted to them and not the other way around.
Frey and I look at each other. If ever there was a couple who didn't identify with the traditional, it's us. So we take the pamphlet and contact information. We are assured such a ceremony fulfills the civil requirement that makes the marriage legal. And the service can be performed in any location. Sounds perfect for what we want.
We get back to Lorgues at six p.m. We purposefully planned the day so we would have an excuse to stay in town for the evening. In thirty minutes, Chael will pick us up for my meeting with the infamous King Steffan. So far, I've managed to push thoughts of it to the back of my mind, but I can't evade them any longer.
Frey and I sip glasses of wine while we wait in the café. We are both quiet.
At 6:15, Chael appears. One minute the extra chair is vacant, the next, he's sitting in it, joining us like the object of a magician's sleight of hand. He smiles and brushes an imaginary piece of lint off an impeccably tailored jacket.
"How does he do that?" I mumble to Frey. To Chael, I ask, Where is your car? I thought you were taking me to Steffan?
Did you find the documents satisfactory? he replies, not addressing my question. I was extremely pleased that you thought to come to me with your request.
Yes. Thank you. The two words are slow to form, but he did help us out of a sticky situation. I keep thoughts of the part he may have played in the neat wrap-up to Williams' case back in San Diego tucked carefully away. Time to explore that mystery later. I gesture instead to Frey. We are both appreciative. Now, about Steffan?
Before Chael can reply, a Rolls-Royce pulls to the curb. It's a classic, a Phantom, the top down, and a gasp of appreciation goes up from the people sitting around us. The car is a deep royal blue and from what I can see of the inside, the upholstery is red leather. The paint is so highly buffed, I can see Frey's reflection in the door panels. Only Frey's. It looks like he's alone at the table.
I wonder if anyone else notices.
I'm so wrapped up in my own musings, it takes an instant to realize the driver is looking at me.
Ms. Strong?
A vampire. I nod acknowledgment.
Would you get in please?
Frey starts to push back from the table, but Chael puts a hand on his arm. Only Anna. We will wait here.
I see irritation tighten the lines around Frey's mouth as he shrugs out of Chael's grasp. This time it's my hand on his arm. "It's all right. You wait with Chael. I won't be long."
Frey shoots Chael a venomous look. "This isn't what we agreed on." Then his eyes latch onto mine. "Anna, I don't think it's a good idea to see this Steffan by yourself. What if you get into trouble?"
"I've got you on speed dial." I lean in and brush his lips with mine. "And Chael is staying here. If anything happens . . ."
The panther, dark and dangerous, flashes in Frey's eyes. He nods and relaxes back in his chair. He understands. "We'll be right here."
By the time I get to the curb, the driver has slipped from behind the wheel and is holding the front passenger door, rather than the rear passenger door, open. It's not surprising. It makes perfect sense to have an unknown vampire sit where he can keep an eye on her. Casting no reflection means not being able to watch in a rearview mirror.
I climb in and he shuts the door, giving a two-finger salute to Frey and Chael. Frey frowns back. Chael merely smiles.
Once the driver has pulled the car into traffic, I turn in the seat to give him the once-over. He must have been in his thirties when he was turned. His face bears the look of one who spends a great deal of time outdoors-lines radiate from the corners of his eyes, his skin is smooth but deeply tanned. His dark hair is brushed back from his temples and touches the collar of his shirt and when his eyes find mine, they are green with gold flecks. He is broad shouldered, not dressed in the uniform of a chauffeur, the lines of his jacket cut in a classic style, his slacks tapered to the tops of polished loafers. His hands on the wheel look steady and strong, his fingers slender, his nails lightly buffed.
King Steffan obviously likes his employees to cut a stylish figure.
All the time I am studying him, he keeps his thoughts closed. Completely. He has been vampire for a long time to master such ability. Nothing comes through. Neither is he probing my thoughts. If I am of any interest to him, he gives nothing away.
King Steffan trains them well, too.
"Do you speak English?" I ask at last.
"Yes," he replies.
"Can you tell me where we are going?"
"We are almost there."
I look around. We have left the town limits and are traveling out into the countryside. But I see nothing that looks like a castle. In fact, I see nothing at all. This road, if I remember correctly, leads to a farming community and little else.
Strangely, I feel no concern. Where uneasiness should have vampire clawing her way to the surface, instead I find myself enjoying the ride: the purr of the stately old engine, the wind in my hair, the freedom of not having to guard every thought from intruding minds. The driver pays me no heed.