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“It’s so nice to meet you, Mr. Beliem. Your home is beautiful. Thank you for inviting me,” she says, so generously it breaks my heart when my grandfather speaks next.
“You know his trust fund is restricted to the terms of his employment, don’t you?” he asks. “It’s not my intention to have grandchildren who suck from the teat of my fortune. If they want it, they need to earn it. Right Christopher?”
Weaver looks shocked, but she rolls with the punches and before I can rebuke him, she says, “That’s good thinking, sir. I guess Chris gets his smarts from you.” She sits down on a leather couch by his side, and despite my grandfather’s abruptness, she looks completely at ease again. How many different ways can this woman amaze me?
Sandrine wheels in a silver tray with drinks. “Who’s in the mood for some mulled wine?” she asks in her sing-song voice. She hands us our cups and Weaver takes a sip. She closes her eyes and nods. “Did you prepare this, Sandrine? It’s delicious. What did you use, a Malbec? And there’s sherry in here, isn’t there? That’s always the best.”
Sandrine looks pleased and smiles down at Weaver. “You have a sharp palette. I’m impressed.”
“Weaver went to school for hospitality and hotel management. She knows a lot about food and wine,” I say, grateful for this benign, even pleasant, conversation.
“You don’t want to marry a souse, Chris,” Grandad says gruffly. “Women who drink can be fun in the sack but they’re—” luckily for him his next words are swallowed up in a coughing fit. Sandrine hands him a handkerchief and he wipes his mouth. “Weaver,” Sandrine says, “can I give you a little tour so these two can discuss business. It’s not too cold outside to walk around the garden.” Weaver agrees that it sounds like a great idea, and as she and Sandrine take their drinks and head to the door, I mouth a silent thank you to her.
Now that we are alone, I want to get right to this urgent business and get out of here. “What can I do for you? What was so important that I had to leave New York and come to Paris immediately?”
“Her,” he says curtly, pointing toward the door. “We need to talk about the girl.”
“How on earth did you even know about Weaver and what could we possibly have to discuss?” Then it clicks: Ryan.
“Your brother’s concerned about you. He said there’s a floozy hanging around you—”
“Not a floozy,” I correct, but he doesn’t pause.
“He says she has no job, just suddenly showed up and now she’s by your side. Ryan says she’s after your money and that he thinks she may even be—” he drops his voice an octave and looks toward the door— “a whore.”
The way he spits out that word has me on my feet and pacing. “Watch your mouth, Grandad,” I warn him, raising my voice. “That’s no way to speak about my girlfriend. Ryan doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Don’t you find it strange that he called you?”
“He’s looking out for you,” he coughs out. “Like a good brother should.”
“Don’t be a fool,” I yell. “He’s manipulating you because he knows he can; because he knows that once you get an idea in your head, you’ll latch on to it, and you won’t let it go.”
He stands unsteadily and his face is red. I’ve seen him angry before, and on a scale of one to ten, this is a ten.
“I can’t be manipulated,” he says, spittle gathering at the corners of his mouth. “You kids thinks you’re so smart, so…so…” He slumps back into his seat, clutching his chest, and I’m by his side in an instant.
“Take a deep breath,” I say, placing my hand on his back. “Calm down, now. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“Call Sandrine,” he says in a strangled voice, and I run down the hall to find her.
The ambulance arrived quickly and had Grandad speeding away within ten minutes of his heart attack. The doctors say it was minor, and Sandrine said it was probably the third in a series of small ones this year. His health is declining rapidly, she tells me, and he refuses to take any measures to get healthier.
I’ve been pacing for the past hour, and poor Weaver is on the phone with Kate, explaining the situation and canceling our dinner reservation at her restaurant. I can’t think straight. One minute I’m angry at Grandad for being so cruel about Weaver. Then I’m angry at Ryan for using him like that to get at me. Mostly I’m angry at myself, for losing my temper. It had been a long time coming. He’s always felt very free to speak his mind, no matter if it hurt those around him or not. But I should have seen he was vulnerable. I should have been the better man.
