§ § § -- December 20, 2004
Sunday had passed in an unusually calm manner, because Patrick and Antoinette had barely bothered to leave their bungalow. Even Roarke hadn't been able to persuade them to talk to him. Only Mireille had bothered to venture out, and during breakfast with Roarke and Leslie, she'd begged for more anecdotes about Tattoo. They'd told her a few stories about the years when Tattoo's cousin Hugo had come up with one bogus moneymaking scheme after another, promising Tattoo overnight riches every time and inevitably failing, and she had laughed so hard she was the last to finish her breakfast. Leslie had then taken her to the island's amusement park, which had delighted the girl no end.
This morning Christian and Leslie took advantage of the early quiet, feeding the triplets in the living room. "So what are you going to do with Tattoo's children today?" Christian asked a bit idly, his main attention on Tobias' energetic depletion of the bottle. All three triplets had begun on solid foods, and as a result Leslie was down to two breast-feedings a day—the morning feeding and the one that usually followed supper for herself and Christian. The babies all ate rice cereal and strained veggies now; Tobias, a little ahead of his sisters, was able to handle small slices of banana, whereas the girls' food still needed to be pureed. Leslie, following Dr. Corbett's advice, had made things far easier on herself and Christian by letting the babies decide what they wanted. The doctor had told her, "They'll get all they need sooner or later—their bodies decide what's needed most from one day to the next, and it all evens out. Don't force anything on them, or all five of you—the triplets, you, and Christian—will be miserable, and feeding time will be a horror. If you let them take what they like each day, you'll notice that they do in fact get a good variety—and in my experience, kids who are allowed to do that turn out to be much less picky eaters." So they had tried it, discovered to their delight that it worked fine, and had three healthy, happy babies to enjoy.
Leslie glanced up now and smiled at him. "I'm not sure…depends on whether we can get Patrick and Antoinette out of their burrow. Father said they didn't come out all day yesterday. I don't think it has as much to do with Solange and that guy as it does with Tattoo. I have a feeling they're going through a fresh round of grief over his loss, and I think it's exacerbated because of Solange's involvement with this character."
"That makes sense," Christian said. "You didn't take them to his grave yet, did you? And what of Mireille? She seems less affected than her siblings."
"She was a lot younger when Tattoo died—only three," Leslie said. "She may not even be able to remember him, or if she does, her memories will be blurry and fading. She's asking for a lot of information about Tattoo, so Father and I have been telling her stories about him, and she gets quite a kick out of the funny ones."
Christian nodded. "I understand that. In my experience it's analogous to my wondering about my grandfather, King Lukas. I have those few fuzzy memories of him yet, but there are times when someone mentions him and I start to wonder. It happened somewhat more in my teens and twenties, I think. Since Carl Johan and Anna-Laura can remember him much better, I've occasionally asked them about him."
Leslie nodded and said, "I thought about taking them to Tattoo's grave, but with the mood Patrick and Antoinette seem to be in, I don't know whether that's appropriate—if it would make them feel worse, or help them feel a connection with him."
"True," Christian murmured. "Perhaps I'll call your father for you and see if he has anything in mind where they're concerned."
Karina and Susanna both finished before Tobias did, and Leslie detached each girl as soon as she indicated she was full, to keep them from biting her in search of teething relief. Christian sat apparently lost in thought, his toes wiggling absently in his socks and his face bearing a faraway, slightly pensive look, while Tobias continued hungrily depleting his bottle. Ingrid came out to burp Karina while Leslie finished with Susanna, casting a curious glance at her husband from time to time and wondering what he was thinking about.
When Ingrid had retreated to her usual housekeeping chores and Leslie was patting Susanna's back to burp her, with Karina sitting at her side on the sofa gumming her own arm, she finally ventured to interrupt her husband's reverie. "Christian, my love, is there something wrong?"
Christian blinked and started, then shrugged a little. "Just thinking about the Santi Arcuros project, that's all. I have to wonder if it's really necessary for me to go all the way over there before Errico says the building is ready..."
"My love, we went through that," Leslie said gently. "You're the one who told me it's impossible to say no to this king."
Christian eyed the ceiling and muttered, "Me and my big mouth." She giggled, and he turned to her with reluctant amusement. "What I was actually wondering is whether I'd be able to get away with making excuses to the family as to why I'd changed my mind about coming in January and staying with them till I get word from Errico. Carl Johan and Anna-Laura might allow me to get away with it, but I'm sure the younger ones won't."
"Probably not," Leslie said knowingly. "After all, they want to be able to squeeze lots of advice out of you that they don't dare ask their parents for."
Christian burst out laughing, setting off the triplets. "You're probably right! I guess there's really very little I can do about it. I've started telling myself that if someone decides to try to cajole me into setting up a fifth branch, I'll leave the headaches of day-to-day operation to the managers, stop going into even this office, and retire as chairman of the board. The trouble is, I enjoy the actual tinkering too much. I like having a hand in the repairs and the programming. Not only that, but I'm too much of a perfectionist; I want to be sure anyone I hire measures up to my standards. They have to be not just good at what they do, but exceptional."
Leslie said quizzically, "You never seem to have had much trouble finding people who do measure up. No reason you won't find them in Santi Arcuros as much as you did here or in London or Sundborg."
"Oh, I know. Perhaps what I'm trying to say is that I expect too much of my people. Do you think so?" At this Christian turned to Leslie with earnest, serious appeal in his hazel eyes. "Am I asking too much of those I hire? Do I set my standards too high? Am I too picky in my choices and the way I make them?"
Leslie considered that for a moment. "Well," she said slowly, "I think it depends on a few key factors. Have you ever had a really serious complaint from any customer? I don't mean things like quibbling over what you charge and so forth, but stuff like a bad repair job or a poorly written program that wiped stuff off someone's hard drive."
"No," Christian said after a moment's thought. "Whatever complaints may have come along, they must have been minor enough that they were resolved at the manager's level, at most. Nothing big has ever been reported to me, and I've insisted that be done if needed."
"Okay," she said. "Then do your employees ever complain about the way you run the business? Do they think anything's unfair to them?"
Christian frowned and pondered the question at some length, while Tobias finally let go of the bottle and started to gnaw on the nipple. "To the best of my knowledge no one has ever said anything—at least not to me," he quantified a little wryly. "I can't be certain any of my former employees hasn't told tales out of school, whether real or fabricated, but those who have stayed with me seem happy."
"Well, then," Leslie mused, "I wouldn't say you're too picky or have too high a standard. I just think you're protective of your business. You want to stand out in the field, be thought of as the best at what you do, and have employees who can live up to that. If that means you prefer to do the hiring yourself, there's nothing wrong with that at all."
"I thought the same thing," Christian admitted with a relieved smile, "but I wondered if that was only my ego talking. I needed some confirmation, and you just gave it to me. Thank you, my Rose. Perhaps I was only feeling guilty that it would take me away from you and the triplets for so long."
"Well, we can always talk about that retirement you mentioned the next time someone wants you to expand the company again," Leslie teased, and they both laughed. "I still don't like it, but I guess it's the vagaries of the business. When you do get to Arcolos, you could maybe suggest strongly to Errico that he send Michiko back to Fantasy Island for the duration of your stay there, as a sort of hostage."
Christian snorted with glee. "That'd get quite the laugh from him," he said. "The man stopped at nothing to make sure things went forward. I'm to be shuttled from here to Lilla Jordsö, and then again to Arcolos, on Errico's royal jet—and back again, too, I might add. He said he'll have the plane ready and waiting in Honolulu when I step off the Fantasy Island charter. When I told him you wondered why the wine was going to the castle rather than here, he assured me he'd send ten more cases here to the island for our personal wine cellar, which doesn't exist…not that I told him that. He agreed to every condition I laid out. It makes me wonder how far I can push him—just how badly does he want Enstads Datoservice in Santi Arcuros, I'd like to know?"
Leslie grinned and advised, "Well, don't push the friendship over a cliff, my love. I guess we'll just have to grin and bear it. Since you mentioned it earlier, why don't you check in with Father, while I change these imps. They have a nice sense of timing."
About half an hour later Christian and Leslie took the triplets with them to the main house, where they met up with all three of the Latignon children. Patrick and Antoinette looked better today, Leslie thought; and while they and their younger sister played peekaboo games with the triplets, she paused at Roarke's desk, with Christian watching curiously at her side. "Do they seem all right to you, Father?" she asked.
Roarke glanced over her shoulder at the Latignons. "Mireille is in her usual high spirits," he said, "but the older two are harder to read. Young Patrick seems quite grim, and Antoinette appears to be deeply worried about something. Perhaps it's wiser for you to ask them what they'd like to do. Do you intend to bring the triplets along?"
"We considered it," Christian said, "but I think they're better off here. We would have left them with Ingrid, but I expect we'll be gone most of the day. Perhaps we can leave them here for a time at least, where Mariki can spoil them a little and you can have some time with them as well, and we'll see what Tattoo's children would like to do."
Roarke agreed to that, and then gently put the question to the Latignons, who looked at one another a little anxiously. "You said we could visit people who had memories of the days when Papa worked here," Antoinette said finally.
"We can do that," Leslie said with a nod and an assessing look. "That is…if you and Patrick really feel up to that. Neither of you looks particularly happy, and before you try to protest, you should know that Father noticed your mien. If Tattoo's stories of Father were accurate at all, you'll know what that means."
Patrick grunted in disgust, making Tobias stare at him with a comically dubious expression that drove Christian over to retrieve his son from the young man's arms. Patrick gave him a quick apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, Your Highness. But if cousine is right…" He looked at Roarke almost reluctantly. "You're right, Mr. Roarke, it's not exactly going well for us. I went on the computer in our bungalow and checked our trust-fund accounts in our bank in Paris—my sisters' and my own. Ever since Maman took up with Georges, I've done this. Up till yesterday, they were intact. Now I see that the amounts in all three of our accounts have been reduced by easily a hundred euros apiece."
Christian and Leslie looked at each other, and Roarke frowned. "And you suspect Monsieur LeNoir of taking that money," he said.
Patrick nodded grimly. "Not once in all the years since Papa died has Maman touched our money—she never needed to do that. I don't know why LeNoir would have done it, but no one else could possibly be responsible."
Roarke nodded faintly, his dark eyes distant. "There is little I can do at the moment," he said at last, "until your mother and Monsieur LeNoir arrive here. I do intend to speak with Solange…"
"But Father, that leaves their accounts wide open to LeNoir," Leslie protested. "Isn't there some way they can contact Solange and ask her why she gave him access to their money?" Before he could reply she swung around to Patrick. "Has LeNoir come across to you as rich or poor?"
Looking startled, Patrick said hesitantly, "We were never told…"
Leslie snorted. "Of course not. Keep the lady's kids in the dark while stealing from them. Oh, just wait till Solange gets here…"
"Calm down, Leslie," Roarke advised, while Christian eyed her with amused surprise. "As I said, there is little we can do. Solange and Monsieur LeNoir will be here Thursday, and until then our hands are tied; it's that simple, I am sorry to say."
"They couldn't put a block on their own accounts?" Leslie persisted, still outraged on the Latignons' behalf.
"My darling," Christian broke in, "you need to remember that Patrick told you on Saturday that they don't receive sole control of their accounts until they reach age twenty-one. If that leaves Solange in charge, it's entirely her prerogative—unfortunate though it is—to give access to whomever she chooses. And apparently she gave it to LeNoir."
"But why?" Leslie demanded. "That's the question I want to see answered."
"Sacre bleu, cousine, you're a tiger," Patrick remarked admiringly. "Maybe you should be the one interrogating Maman when she and LeNoir get here."
Christian grinned at him. "For that matter, I'd set her loose on LeNoir himself, in the mood she's in now." They both laughed while Leslie made a somewhat sheepish face and Roarke chuckled.
"Suppose we put it out of our minds for the moment while you amuse the triplets," Roarke suggested, "and when it appears they are ready for naps, you can embark on your outing for the day. We will get our answers soon enough."
§ § § -- December 22, 2004
It was late afternoon and the triplets had gone down for a nap, so Leslie brought the Latignons to the quiet little cemetery where Tattoo had been buried. Patrick and Antoinette resisted at first, but Leslie said gently, "I haven't been back in a while, and I really think you three should come with me. Besides, we picked a special place for him. Come on."
She pulled the car off the Ring Road some distance past the hospital and led the three along a path of erratically placed stepping stones that wound seemingly aimlessly through a thickly wooded area. By the time they reached the small, carefully tended square of bright green grass, outlined by a low wall of loosely stacked stones, they'd walked into what felt like a fairy glen, so secluded from the outside world that nothing could be heard but the occasional bird calling. Even the wind in the trees sounded subdued.
"It's so small," Antoinette said, astonished.
"And there are only three graves here," Patrick added, almost equally surprised. "It's that special a place?"
"Sure is," Leslie said with a little smile. "The grave in the far corner belongs to my first husband, and this one here at the right in this corner is a lady Father was married to for a few days, who died of a brain tumor. She was the love of his life, I think. And this one is your father's." She led them along to the grave set about midway up the emerald carpet of grass at the left; there was an azalea bush planted on each side of the headstone. The bushes were in bloom but past their prime, and little clear-pink flowers had been showered across the stone and its accompanying grave as blossoms fell.
Leslie settled into the grass nearby and watched while Patrick, Antoinette and Mireille crouched beside the headstone, reading and re-reading the inscription. No one spoke for some time, and Leslie eventually arose and wandered over to Helena Marsh's grave by herself, thinking that next time she came here she might plant a rosebush. At the moment a small pot containing a pale-lavender orchid rested just beside the headstone, and she smiled, suspecting Roarke had left it there. Helena had been gone for twenty-five years, but Leslie knew he would always miss her. Very occasionally, they heard from Helena's son, Jamie, and his wife Pavithra, who still ran Jamie's parents' hospital school in Calcutta.
The grass rustled near her and she turned to see Mireille approaching with an odd look on her face. She had Solange's girlish features, made somewhat more so by the roundness of her face that Tattoo had bequeathed; she also had her father's knowing dark eyes and thick, lustrous black hair. "What can I do for you?" Leslie asked.
Mireille opened her mouth, then hesitated, and just as Leslie was about to gently prompt her, the girl's eyes strayed to Helena's grave marker. "Who was that?"
"Father's wife," Leslie said. "I was fourteen when they were married and she died—I hadn't been here a full year yet, for that matter. She and Father were very much in love."
"Was she nice?" Mireille asked.
"Absolutely," Leslie remembered. "She was very sweet, and I don't think you could've found a more generous and giving lady. She had a son a few years younger than I am—he lives in India with his wife."
Mireille nodded faintly, her gaze straying, and began to rock back and forth on her heels and toes. That funny look crossed her face again, and she began, "Cousine—"
"Leslie?" called Patrick at that precise moment from Tattoo's gravesite. "Would you be willing to take us into the town so that we can get a bush to plant at Papa's grave?"
Leslie glanced at him, looked at Mireille whose expression was now thwarted, and laid a hand on the girl's shoulder. "Sure, Patrick, I'd be glad to do that," she said. And like that, the moment was gone, leaving Leslie wondering what Mireille had been trying to say to her all week long.