Die for Me

“I need to talk to him. Can’t I leave a message?”

 

 

“Don’t you have his phone number?”

 

“No.”

 

“And you’re a friend?” The voice sounded skeptical.

 

“Yes, I mean no. But I need to talk to him. Please.”

 

There was a moment of silence, and then I heard the click that meant the gate had been unlocked. It swung slowly inward. Across the courtyard, a man stood in the open doorway. My heart dropped an inch when I saw that it wasn’t Vincent.

 

I walked quickly across the cobblestones to face the man, trying to come up with something to say that wouldn’t make me sound like a crazy person. But when I reached him, all words escaped me. Although he seemed to be in his sixties, his faded green eyes looked centuries-old.

 

His longish gray hair was smoothed back with pomade, and his face was punctuated by a long, hooked, noble-looking nose. I immediately recognized in his face and dress the mark of French aristocracy.

 

If I hadn’t already met his type as clients of Papy’s antiques business, I would have recognized his features from the portraits of nobility hanging in every French castle and museum. Old family. Old money. This palace of a house must be his.

 

His voice cut me off midthought. “You’re here to see Vincent?”

 

“Yes . . . I mean yes, monsieur.”

 

He nodded approvingly as I corrected my manners to befit his age and station. “Well, I am sorry to inform you that, as I said before, he is not here.”

 

“Do you know when he’ll be back?”

 

“In a few days, I would think.”

 

I didn’t know what to say. He turned to leave, and feeling completely awkward, I blurted, “Well, could I at least leave him a message?”

 

“And what message would that be?” he asked dryly, adjusting the silk ascot tied at the neck of his impeccable white cotton shirt.

 

“Could . . . could I write it?” I stammered, fighting the urge to just walk away. “I’m sorry to impose on your time, sir, but would you mind if I wrote him a message?”

 

He lifted his eyebrows and studied my face for a moment. And then, opening the door behind him for me to pass through, he said, “Very well.”

 

I walked into the magnificent foyer and waited as he closed the door behind us. “Follow me,” he said, leading me through a side door into the same room where Vincent had brought me tea. He gestured to a desk and chair and said, “You will find writing paper and pens in the drawer.”

 

“I have some with me, thanks,” I said, patting my book bag.

 

“Do you wish me to send for some tea?”

 

I nodded, thinking that would win me a few minutes to think of what to write. “Yes, thank you.”

 

“Then Jeanne will bring you your tea and show you out. You can give the note for Vincent to her. Au revoir, mademoiselle.” He gave me a curt nod, and then closed the door behind him. I breathed a sigh of relief.

 

Pulling a pen and notebook out of my bag, I tore off a piece of paper and stared at it for a full minute before starting to write. Vincent, I began.

 

I’m starting to understand what you meant when you said that things aren’t always as they seem. I found your photo, and that of your friend, in the 1968 obituary pages. And then, right afterward, I saw Jules. Alive.

 

I can’t imagine what all this means, but I want to apologize for the mean things I said—after you treated me so kindly. I told you I never wanted to see you again. I take it back.

 

At least help me understand what’s going on, so I won’t end up in a loony bin somewhere, blabbering about dead people for the rest of my days.

 

Your move.

 

Kate

 

I folded the note and waited. Jeanne never came. I watched the minutes tick away on the grandfather clock, growing more nervous with each passing second. Finally I began to worry that perhaps I was supposed to go find Jeanne. Maybe she was waiting in the kitchen with my tea. I walked into the foyer. The house was silent.

 

I noticed, however, that a door across from me was ajar. Walking slowly over to it, I peeked inside. “Jeanne?” I called softly. There was no response. I pushed the door open and walked into a room that was almost identical to the one I had come from. It had the same small door in the corner as the one that Vincent had brought my tea through. The servants’ entrance, I thought.

 

Opening it, I saw a long, dark passageway. My heart in my throat, I walked toward a windowed door at the end, with light illuminating its panes. It swung open onto a large, cavernous kitchen. No one was there. I breathed a sigh of relief, and realized that I had been afraid of running into the master of the house once more.