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ELIZABETH
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HANDS BRACED ON THE edge of the sink, I lifted my achy head and peeked at my reflection in the mirror. An ashen face and two burning eyes looked back at me.
The left side of my head throbbed, and I had a metallic taste in my mouth. Light hurt, sounds hurt, smells made me feel like puking.
Migraines sometimes affected only my stomach and some other times my head as well, like today. It’d been the reason why I had avoided alcohol all my adult life. I was never sure what amount was safe for me.
This time it couldn’t be the wine. It had never given me a headache before. It had to be hormonal. I did a quick mental calculation. Yep, it was the right time. My period, which occurred in regular but prolonged, six-week intervals, was heavy, painful and always announced days in advance by sometimes mild, often severe PMS. Headaches included. Bah!
I had my migraine prescription drugs in my medicine cabinet, but unfortunately, I wasn’t in my house. Mrs. Fontaine had made me stay at her place overnight. By the time we’d finished tidying up the living room after the last guests had left, it was way past midnight. “Tomorrow morning you and I can do a little research on our Mr. Nouri and his company,” she said when I was ready to leave. “Besides, the police can stop you for a routine checkstop, and then what? You already have a police record; you don’t need a DUI charge on top of it.”
I wasn’t sure if my two small glasses of wine in the previous six hours would put me above the alcohol limit, but I accepted her offer. Two brushes with the Rosenthal police force in one day would be too much indeed.
I heard Mrs. Fontaine in the kitchen and could soon smell fried eggs and sausages. My stomach made a violent protest. I sank to my knees and emptied what little content was there into the toilet bowl.
Even though the pain in my head exploded, I knew I’d feel better once my stomach settled.
I heard a loud knock. “Elizabeth, are you okay, darling?”
“I have a migraine, Mrs. Fontaine,” I said, still kneeling before the toilet. “I’ll be okay.”
“Unlock the door, dear. Let me in. I’ll help you to the living room.”
“I’ll be fine, don’t worry.” I stood. “Give me a few minutes and I’ll join you in the kitchen.”
“I have a whole bunch of unopened toothbrushes in the cabinet on the right. Help yourself. And the fresh towels are in the drawer under the sink,” I heard my host say from the other side of the door.
“Thank you, Mrs. Fontaine.”
“I suppose you wouldn’t be interested in breakfast, then. How about tea?”
“Tea would be lovely.”
I brushed my teeth and took a long shower. The pain in my head somewhat lessened. I just had to be careful not to eat anything until it was completely gone.
I glanced in the mirror again. My face was pale, with no traces of its natural rosy glow, but at least the ghastly, migrainous shade was gone. My eyes looked tired, yet much more alive than half an hour ago.
“Not exactly your Beauty, Dad, but I’m getting there,” I said to my reflection, smiling at an old childhood memory of my father, one winter night and my beloved fairy tale.
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I WAS ABOUT FIVE. MY MOTHER had gone to Italy for a week, as a guest speaker at a Medievalists congress in Milan, and my father and I were home alone. “You know, Betty,” he’d said as I closed the thick fairy tale book I was reading, “before you were born, your mother and I tried to imagine how you would look. ‘She’ll have ebony hair, ruby red lips and blue eyes,’ your mother said.”
“Like Snow White? Her parents waited for a long time for her.”
My father stroked my hair. “Yes. So, we waited for you—”
“How long?”
My father smiled. “Nine months. And a few years before that. You can’t rush such special orders.”
They’d waited twenty-six years, I’d calculated not long after that night.
“What happened when Mom gave birth to me? Were you happy?” I asked.
“Like never before. Our wish came true, except for a few details. Whoever read our order for a daughter got it mixed up a bit. Instead of blue, you got grey eyes, with golden sprinkles, like tiny stars, and your curly hair. But you know what? Your eyes were so beautiful we would’ve asked for them in the first place if only we’d remembered it in time.”
“You ordered Snow White, but you got Belle from Beauty and the Beast,” I said. “I’m sure she had grey eyes and curls. And I’m glad because I like her more than Snow White or Cinderella, or even Sleeping Beauty.”
“Is that so? How come?”
“Because she saved the Beast and turned him into a prince,” I said. Snow White and the others didn’t do anything. They let their princes save them. Beauty is a better ... um ... role model because she is an active participant and not a passive ... obser... observe...”
“Observer. These are pretty clever and mature observations, which means deep thoughts. I am impressed. You must have talked to Abbie.”
“Yes, that’s what she says.” Abigail Grayson was an anthropology professor and my adored godmother. “I heard her talking to Mom about her new book on fairy tales’... er ... principal female characters, that’s what she calls them because not all of them are princesses. And she asked me which fairy tale I liked the most. I said Beauty and the Beast and she said it was a good choice, and she explained why.”
“Why?”
“Because sometimes women can protect and save men.”
“Sometimes? They do that all the time,” my father said, smiling.
“One day I might save my prince.”
“You may as well.” He bent and kissed my forehead, taking the book from my hands and tucking the blanket around me. “No more reading or talking, Beauty. One more sleep and Mummy will be home.”
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I LOVED THIS STORY. As a child, I’d been happy with my physical appearance because I truly believed I resembled my favorite fairy tale principal character. But at one point in my life, I’d started disliking my thick, spiral curls. My mother’s hair had been raven black, like mine, my father’s light brown, but neither of them had curly hair. It was a throwback, I’d learned later, from my eighteenth-century ancestor of legendary beauty, an Austrian countess, whose portrait was still hanging in our living room in Boston. Only her hair had been ash blonde, not dark.
“Your tea’s ready!”
A knock on the door and Mrs. Fontaine’s voice brought me back. I brushed away a tear. It hurt when I thought about Mom and Dad. I’d lost them both two years ago, within six months of each other. First my father, then my mother. I missed them every minute of every single day.
Another soft knock. “Are you all right, Elizabeth?”
I took a deep breath and exhaled. “I’m coming, Mrs. Fontaine.”
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AFTER AN HOUR, WHEN the pain in my head was tolerable, Mrs. Fontaine and I sat in front of the computer to find out more about Mr. Nouri, our potential investor.
As I was reading through his biography and dozens of business articles about him and his company, I wondered why in the world Mrs. Fontaine had stopped me from doing that the previous day. Her concerns about drinking and driving notwithstanding, I’d had a feeling she didn’t want me to go home, dismissing my suggestions to walk the few blocks to my house or to take a cab.
Khalid Nouri was born in London, to a Welsh mother and a Turkish father. Thirty-eight, younger than I expected. He had two PhDs: in architecture and art history, both from the University of Cambridge. Divorced, one son. Nothing about the wife. Wealthy. Philanthropic. Currently living in Colorado, but we knew that already.
“His London-based company, ArtePolis,” I read, “is known for its sensible integration of both original-style and revival buildings into heritage urban cores, creating a harmonious architectural coexistence of old and new. It’s categorized as a medium-sized urban development firm ... Solvent ... Profitable ...”
I opened a reliable public site on private businesses. “Let’s see.” After a quick search, I got what I was looking for.
“This is the company’s annual income.” I touched the screen with the back of a pen. “Looks good.” I clicked on the main page. “It says here that Mr. Nouri plans to open an American branch.”
“Yes, Rowena mentioned it.”
“Oh, my! He’s just perfect. You know, if he is only an inch taller than I and decent-looking, I may fall in love with him. Not because he’s rich,” I added quickly. “Rather, professionally.”
Mrs. Fontaine patted my hand. “Oh, I know what you mean. He’d be a great mentor for someone like you. As for his height, it’s not a big challenge to be taller than you and me.”
Indeed. We were both about five-foot-three. “No pictures of him to verify it, though.”
“He’s a very private person. We know that. Go back to the first article, will you?”
“I’d never guess he’s of Turkish background. Nouri isn’t exactly a Turkish surname.”
Mrs. Fontaine gave me a side glance. “Fontaine isn’t an American surname; it’s French by origin. But it doesn’t make me French, does it?”
“I see your point.” I returned to the main article, and she started reading from the screen, nodding.
“Isn’t that just what we are looking for?” she asked. “And look at what they did!” She opened, one by one, the images of several small Central and Southern European cities, where ArtePolis had undertaken projects. “In terms of architectural styles and periods, these are very different cities, but look how nicely they incorporated the new buildings into the surrounding ones. Oh, I’m so happy!”
Her enthusiasm easily rubbed off on me. The more I read about Mr. Nouri and his company the more I wanted him to buy the Baker Block and its most famous building, the Cosmopolitan Hotel, and renovate them.
“When did your friend Rowena say she’d phone us?” I asked.
“In a day or two. I sent Rowena all our documentation, the pictures of the hotel and the block, your report and the cost estimated. Everything we had, so that Mr. Nouri could check it. A man who does this,” and here she pointed at the photos on the screen, “won’t resist grabbing up jewels like the Cosmo and the block.”
“Maybe we should’ve concentrated on the hotel,” I said gently, feeling that we both needed a reality check. “What if a whole block is too much for him? His previous projects weren’t of such magnitude.”
Mrs. Fontaine waved dismissively. “Nah, I’m not concerned about that. First of all, this is a small block. Second, the prices haven’t been lower in the last thirty years. Third, Millennium Properties would back him up, if necessary. Astrid will see to it. And Ahmed as well. Rosenthal was his home for many years.”
Mrs. Fontaine had covered all the bases. I smiled at my accidental friend, employer and fellow supporter, whom I could thank for the wonderful project I was working on, two lovely months in this little town, a criminal record, and lots of fun.
“So now we wait for word from Copper Ridge,” I said. “Or is it Red Cliffs?”
“Copper Ridge. What are you doing?” she said seeing me typing. “We learned all we need to know.”
“I’m googling Copper Ridge,” I said and quickly skimmed through the article. “A small ski and spa resort in the Colorado Mountain region,” I read, “a popular destination for middle-class families, child-friendly. Population 4989. Close to the slightly larger town of Red Cliffs, also a ski resort—I’ve never heard of either of them,” I said.
“Are you a skier?” Mrs. Fontaine asked, a touch of irritation in her voice.
“Not a great one.”
“That’s why you haven’t heard of them.”
I didn’t bother to point out the dozens of ski resorts I had heard of despite my lack of enthusiasm for winter sports. I turned back to the screen instead. “Due to specific micro-climate conditions,” I carried on, “both resorts are known for milder winters than the surrounding area as well as avalanche-free zones.” I clicked on the Red Cliffs link. “Population 5707 ... Ski resort ... One of the best private orthopedic clinics ... Astrid works there, doesn’t she?” I asked.
“Yes. She is an exceptional doctor.”
“I’m still wondering about the nightingale floor in her house,” I said, hoping to catch Mrs. Fontaine off guard this time.
She smirked. “I told you already. She was all into Japanese-style decorating. And I think it was Mrs. Blake who did the interior design of the house.”
“Now who is Mrs. Blake?”
“Dr. Blake’s wife. Livia. Nice people, the Blakes. Dr. Blake was the hospital CEO. They moved soon after Astrid left. How’s your headache, darling?”
Ah, there we were.
From the beginning of our acquaintance, I had a vague feeling Mrs. Fontaine hadn’t been telling me everything she knew. For example, the more she told me about the former Rosenthalers, Astrid and Ahmed, the less I felt I really knew.
Then, there were her faraway looks and her funny answers to my simple questions. The change in her voice every time she mentioned her friends from Red Cliffs and Copper Ridge. She missed Astrid and Ahmed and talked about them with great affection, but didn’t like when I asked her about them. It was as if she was trying to protect them somehow. A ridiculous thought because all those people seemed to be doing well in their little towns with lovely names. So well that they were contemplating buying a part of Rosenthal’s history.
As for Khalid Nouri, I would ask Rick and Alain to do a little background check for me. I didn’t doubt his financial solvency or his professional achievements. It was his personality that had me intrigued, although I couldn’t explain why.
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WHEN I MADE IT TO MY place later that afternoon, I took a long shower and blow-dried my long hair to make it sleek and straight. I doubted my “date” tonight, the little Jacob Wakefield, would notice my hairstyle. But the high humidity level in Rosenthal turned my curls into a wild bush every morning, and something had to be done about that.
Still wrapped in my bathrobe, I sat on the couch and turned on my laptop. One more time I went through Khalid Nouri’s biography and the information on his company. I found several newspaper articles mentioning various restoration projects, all in Europe. I emailed Rick to ask our colleagues and contacts in Europe about Khalid Nouri.
Later I made a pot of chicken noodle soup and transferred half of it into a glass container to take to my little friend, sick with a cold. Chicken soup with a touch of love was still the best-known remedy.
I ate, worked on my proposal for the Cosmo renovation and watched the local news.
Before I left for the Wakefields’ house, I found a message from Alain. He forwarded me the email he’d gotten from Christian Enescu, our fellow architect and an acquaintance from Zurich. It was first-hand information—Christian had worked as a contractor for ArtePolis on several occasions and had a high opinion of Khalid Nouri and his company.
Our potential investor had passed our security check. The next step would be to learn more about all those people Mrs. Fontaine liked a lot but didn’t want to talk about more than necessary. Astrid, a doctor who’d needed a nightingale floor; Jack Canagan, who’d snatched her away to Red Cliffs; Ahmed, Astrid’s colleague, who had later married her mother.
Tired and off guard after the night shift, and grateful for my babysitting, Sam Wakefield would be the ideal person to fill me in.