75. Confusion

Initially, the exhilarating prospect of accompanying La Coupe d'amour to Paris buoyed Bonnie up so high, nothing — not the humdrum job of cleaning de Troy's Après le bal nor the tedious task of compiling and double-checking her presentation data — could dampen her spirits. Even Bear's continuing aloofness failed to bring her down. She recognized he wasn't pleased with her for taking four days off, but she fully expected he'd get over his annoyance, and they'd soon go back to being on their previous good terms.

The first week drew to its close, however, without Bear's becoming noticeably less distant. Bonnie, seeing that he was busy overseeing and, sometimes, taking a hand in, some of the more technically-demanding projects, didn't take his making little time for her to heart. It seemed entirely natural that he'd spend less of his daily round through the workroom checking her progress on assignments that were comparatively routine. She'd've been glad, admittedly, if he'd treated her in a less brisk and business-like manner, but she made allowances for his having a lot on his plate, and didn't let it concern her unduly.

Come quitting time Friday, Bonnie was still in the mood to celebrate, and happily fell in with the regular plan of heading out for drinks at The Corner. She'd gathered her bag and blazer and was being borne along toward the exit when she found her steps slowing and her thoughts turning irresistibly to Bear. She'd gotten into the habit of stopping on her way out to invite him along, but he'd been so unapproachable all week, she felt suddenly shy. She paused in the hallway, uncertain, and cast a last glance toward his office. The door, she was heartened to see, stood partly open, and that, in the end, was enough to decide her. She let the others go on ahead, and, crossing to the door, rapped once, sharply. "We're just setting off for happy hour," she said, poking her head into the office when he'd acknowledged her knock. "Care to join?"

Bear was a few seconds tearing his eyes away from his monitor. "Can't," he said, flicking her a glance before looking back at the screen. "Once I'm done here, I have some last-minute birthday shopping to do."

It wasn't much of an opening, but Bonnie took it. She pushed further into the room, and stepped over the threshold. "For Luc Jolicoeur?"

"That's right." He leaned back in his chair, and, for what seemed like the first time in days, considered her with interest. "Caro invite you to the party? She mentioned she might."

"She did, yes." Bonnie wrinkled her nose regretfully. "Sadly, I'll have to miss it. I have a charity function to attend."

"A charity function," he repeated evenly. "I see. I suppose you're on the organizing committee?"

She hesitated, thrown off by the odd question. "Not this year, no. Samantha Greeley — Vanna's mother — is currently in charge, but she's had to take over at the last minute, and, understandably, she's a little anxious. I promised I'd be on hand to back her up."

"And you wouldn't want to disappoint Mrs. Greeley." The words were innocuous, even reassuring, in themselves but they were spoken in so wry a tone, Bonnie heard them as faintly mocking. She regarded Bear uncertainly, confused, but his expression told her nothing, and then, it was too late. He was sitting up again and offering her a polite smile. "Well! Good luck with your event tomorrow! I hope you raise a bundle for your no doubt very worthy cause. Now…" He gestured meaningfully toward the screen. "If I'm ever going to get out of here…"

"Oh! Yes, of course. Sorry!" She retreated, flustered, toward the threshold, the heat of a flush rising in her cheeks. "See you Monday."

It wasn't until she'd withdrawn into the hallway that he called after her, "Bonnie?"

She stopped, but all he had to say was, "Close the door, would you? All the way."

Shortly after, at the bar, Gabby saluted Bonnie's approach with a cheery lift of her glass, and looked expectantly beyond her. "Couldn't get Baer to come, hunh?" she murmured when Bonnie'd squeezed in beside her. "Well, that's a shame. I had ten dollars riding on his showing up." She frowned to see Bonnie's subdued expression, and leaned away, the better to study her face. "He didn't bite your head off, did he?"

"No, no. He just had other plans."

Gabby looked inclined to be doubtful, but tactfully refrained for asking further questions. Bonnie was grateful. She couldn't have gone into what had happened. Not when she hadn't worked it out, herself.

The crux of the problem was the hint of mockery she'd caught — or thought she'd caught — in Bear's voice. She thought she'd caught it a second time, too, when he'd referred to her "no doubt very worthy cause." Had he really been sarcastic, or had she imagined that caustic tone? The conversation, she remembered, had gotten off to a promising start, but it had taken a strange turn when she'd admitted to having declined Caro's invitation. He'd questioned her involvement with the charity, and then, if she'd read him right, he'd been annoyed with her for choosing to stand by Sam Greeley. But why? Did he, out of friendship for the Jolicoeurs, fault her for disappointing Caro, and, if so, how was that reasonable? She'd been obliged to disappoint someone, and, as it happened, Sam had the prior claim on her time. Bear couldn't blame her for honoring a promise. And yet, if her ears hadn't deceived her, that was precisely what he'd done. She couldn't understand it, however hard she tried.

In the end, these reflections were of so fruitless and painful a nature that Bonnie put them out of her mind, or tried to. Inevitably, during the next day's lunch and fashion show, they bubbled back to the surface, spoiling much of the pleasure she might otherwise have taken in the refined ambiance, exquisite decorations, and large turn-out of elegant women, many gorgeously dressed in the latest couture designs. Champagne, served by a platoon of handsome young waiters, flowed freely during the silent auction portion of the event, and the food, when they finally sat down to their meal, was a feast for the eyes as well as the palate, but Bonnie hardly enjoyed the succession of wines and delicate dishes for intrusive thoughts of the down home, picnic fare Caro was likely setting out for her guests at about the same time.

To make matters worse, she was even denied the consolation of feeling needed. Upon her arrival, both Sam and Vanna had made a great fuss about being relieved to see her, but it soon became apparent they had everything firmly under control. They were both in constant motion, conferring with the venue staff, circulating among the attendees, supervising the luncheon service. As far as Bonnie could see, neither mother nor daughter paused at any time for refreshments, and only sank gracefully into seats once the fashion show kicked off.

It was just as the last group of models was filing off the runway to a standing ovation that Vanna popped up beside Bonnie again. She leaned in to be heard over the applause, and asked, "So… how do you think it went?"

Bonnie could barely contain her admiration. "That was — well, I'm embarrassed to say this, but — that show was light years better than last year's production! The music, the fashions, the pace… It was all stupendous! Bravo!"

Vanna smiled modestly, her shoulders slumping with relief. "Thanks. My mom's the one who deserves the credit, though. She was so determined not to let Freya down, she was an absolute slavedriver. She kept on top of everyone and everything."

"Well, you really did her proud! It couldn't possibly have gone better."

Vanna's lips tipped up in a tired smile, and suddenly, as if her legs could no longer hold her, she dropped down onto a vacated chair. "I'm just so glad it's over, you know? It's taken up every free minute of my time this last week, and I'm whipped." Her eyes alighted on what remained of Bonnie's chocolate-almond torte and widened. "And famished, too." She beckoned to a server who happened conveniently to be passing nearby. "Carlo, would you bring me a dessert, please? And a cup of tea?"

Carlo flashed her his dimples and winked for good measure. "You got it, Van. Anything for you, miss?"

"More coffee?" As Carlo strode away, Bonnie cut Vanna a laughing look. "Where'd you find Carlo and company, Vanna? Flirts-R-Us?"

She chuckled. "Something like that. So! Catch me up on all the latest. What's going on with you?"

Bonnie no sooner mentioned her upcoming trip to Paris than Vanna let out a gratifying squeal, and, springing out of her seat, enveloped Bonnie in a hug. "That's such wonderful news! I'm so happy for you. And green with envy! I love Paris, and I haven't been in so long! When are you leaving? How long will you stay? Where will you stay? Tell me everything!"

When, eventually, they'd exhausted this delightful topic, Bonnie took the chance of asking Vanna what she saw herself doing next. "I assume the campaign's been suspended."

"You'd think so," Vanna agreed, "but no. I mean, it was for the week right after the Senator's death — even the opposing candidates stopped campaigning out of respect — but we've been back at work since Monday."

"Doing what? I don't understand."

"Well, things are pretty chaotic just now, but, basically, we're supposed to reassure voters that whoever the executive committee chooses to replace the Senator on the ballot will have his same conservative views and values, and will follow closely in his footsteps. We're even allowed to imply it'll be someone in the Senator's circle, a friend or family member."

Bonnie drew a sharp breath. "Do you think they're considering Trev?"

"I'd say he's the obvious choice, but I've also heard one of his uncles — the one who spoke at the funeral — is high on the list. And there are others. Rumor is, the committee's sounding out a number of people."

Trev confirmed as much when he phoned the next evening on his return to town. "For the moment, they're just trying to get a feel for who'd be willing to accept the nomination."

"And would you? Be willing?"

He was a few seconds in answering. "If it comes down to it, yes, but I could easily get behind any of the other people whose names've been put forward. And that," he said, forestalling any further questions, "is all I'm at liberty to say right now."

Bonnie obligingly changed the subject, and the conversation wended its way to his returning to work. "Are you ready to go back?"

"I have to be. I've been out of the office, now, four weeks straight, so my desk's probably stacked sky-high with work. At a guess, I'm looking at a string of twelve-hour days, which means I won't be able to see you, if at all, until later in the week. If I do manage, somehow, to get out from under, could you do lunch, say, on Friday?"

"Sure, but how about we do dinner, instead? That'd be less hectic."

"I know, but…" He grimaced an apology. "I'm taking off for the lake house at the stroke of five, or as near as I can get away with. So, Friday, noonish? I'll text you Thursday and you can tell me where."

Over the next few days, Bonnie could've wished that she, too, was up to her eyeballs in work. It would have suited her very well not to have a moment to spare for glancing away from her easel or up from her project notes for, then, she might not have been aware of Bear's being in the workroom, always, it seemed, at a distance and taking no more notice of her than was strictly necessary. After having tried and failed repeatedly to fathom what had happened on Friday, she'd come back in to work prepared to believe she'd simply misheard, but his continuing to all but avoid her rekindled her doubts, and plunged her, yet again, into painful confusion. She rigorously examined her conduct again — all of it, dating back to the gala — trying to identify what she could possibly have done to land her on his black list, but, apart from haring off to the hospital without telling him, a discourtesy for which she'd already apologized, she found nothing to reproach herself. It was a useless, maddening exercise.

Not knowing what the problem was, she had no idea what to do for the best, and so was reduced to doing nothing. She might have forced the issue by confronting Bear, but the workroom was no place to air a private matter, and, after the fiasco of her first overture, she couldn't quite bring herself to seek him in his office. She kept her head down, quite literally, instead and clung to the hope that, given space and time, he'd work whatever was troubling him out of his system on his own, and admit her into his good graces again. In the interim, she concentrated on carrying out her assignments diligently and with infinite care so that, as regarded her performance at least, Bear could find not the slightest grounds to complain of her. He was, as it happened, very fair in his assessments, complimenting her on both her progress and the quality of her work, and this was some, if small, consolation. His praise didn't nearly compensate for his cool, impersonal manner, but it did make it somewhat easier to bear.

By the end of the week, Bonnie's spirits had sunk by increments to dangerous lows, due in large part to a radical doubt that had insinuated itself into her mind. What if, it occurred to her to wonder, she hadn't only misread Bear the one time, but other times as well, and in a far more critical way? She couldn't be sure she hadn't imagined the irony in his voice. Couldn't she, by the same token, have been wrong about the warmth she'd seen in his eyes the night of the gala? Might not what she'd experienced as a moment of true communion have been, for Bear, nothing more than a shared triumph in their successful restoration of La Coupe d'amour? Working so closely together on the Lebrun had created a connection, a partnership between them which, for her, had extended beyond the simply professional, but, perhaps, not so for Bear. Perhaps she'd looked in his eyes, and seen, not what was there, but what she'd wanted to see. Her memories clashed sharply with this revised view of things, but she no longer trusted her perceptions, and the doubt remained.

It was, then, nothing short of a blessing that Bonnie returned from a rushed and unsatisfying lunch date with Trev to find a gift from the universe waiting on her desk. She didn't immediately recognize it as such; it looked, at first glance, to be an ordinary interoffice envelope, somewhat the worse for wear. She picked it up idly, only mildly curious to see what might be inside, and, flipping it over, noted with surprise that not only was the flap taped shut but that NSFW! had been written in unmistakable warning across the back. She looked quickly around to confirm she was still alone in the workroom, and then peeled away the tape and reached in for the contents. There were two sheets of paper: one, a note that appeared to have been hurriedly scrawled and the other, a copy, evidently, of the photo of herself and Bear that had featured in the Jeff's on-line gallery of the gala. It was of the last pose the photographer had coaxed them into, the one of them smiling obligingly into the camera as they filled their glasses with champagne. Or, so she thought until, on closer inspection, she saw it wasn't that picture at all, but one that must've been snapped a second or two before. In the photo she held, Bear wasn't, as instructed, facing forward; he'd been caught in profile, smiling not for the camera but directly, lovingly, at her.

The photo trembled in her hand, the image blurring as her eyes brimmed with tears. She could've looked at it forever, so greatly did it ease her heart, but she could hear the commotion of her colleagues' return, and slipped it quickly back in the envelope. She took up the note, then, and, rapidly skimming the message, read, "Bonnie, I would've preferred to put this photo right into your hands, but I keep missing you, so I'm just going to leave it for you and hope no one sneaks a peak. I think we can agree it's not for public consumption, which is why I haven't shown it to anyone, even though I think it's the best shot I took that night. It captured what Baer really feels for you, and that made it special. I wanted you to have it, because something tells me you'll cherish it. I hope it makes your day. Andrea."

Bonnie's fingers itched to take the photo out again, but by then her colleagues were resuming their stations, and she didn't dare. She discretely folded the note away, and, looking over at Gabby, acknowledged her with a smile.

Gabby returned it with interest. "You're looking more chipper," she approved. "Have a good time over lunch?"

"I did," Bonnie prevaricated. "It's amazing what a little kindness from friends can do for your outlook."

Only hours later, as if one gift from the universe didn't suffice for one day, Bonnie received a second, this one in the form of an email from Richard de Clermont. He'd found indisputable evidence that Mme Trouville had been christened Bérénice, maiden name, Michaud. She was well and truly Madeleine Lavallière's aunt.