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ELIZABETH
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I GLANCED AT MY WATCH: ten minutes to eight. I took a deep breath and dialed Mr. Nouri’s number.
He answered after the first ring and didn’t sound pleased to hear my voice.
“Khalid Nouri.” There was a soft, painful moan underneath the brisk edginess of his voice. I’d probably caught him at the wrong moment.
“This is Elizabeth Chatwin, Mr. Nouri. I apologize for not returning your calls earlier. I didn’t sleep at home last night and I—”
I heard him muttering something under his breath. “Mr. Nouri? Did you say something? Are you okay?”
“I’m okay, Miss Chatwin. I knocked over my teacup. Please continue.”
“I’m so sorry. I left my phone on vibrate, at the bottom of my purse.”
“Obviously, it didn’t alert you. Never mind that now. Do you have time to talk now, or do you have some other plans for tonight? This might take some time.”
I stopped my nervous pacing across the living room and sat on the couch. What the hell? I hadn’t phoned him back right away and now he thought he could bully me?
I cleared my throat. “Nothing I can’t do after I finish talking to you, no matter how long it takes.”
I heard a soft chuckle. “I apologize, Miss Chatwin. I was rude. Please forgive me. I was eager to talk to you about your assessment of the hotel. Well done, by the way.”
Well, at least he’d apologized. He might be edgy because of his condition. Pain could make people like that.
I grabbed my copy of the report and we went through his questions. Sometimes he needed just a clarification, other times a thorough explanation. It looked like he’d carefully studied my evaluation, which confirmed my speculation: Mr. Nouri was serious about investing in the Cosmo and the Baker Block.
“What can you tell me about the current owner of the hotel? Besides what I can find in your report?”
I told him what I knew. “It’s a unique situation. The city owns the land, and Ms. Berger the building. In short, when she heard the city wanted to sell the rest of the block, she put the hotel up for sale as well. She’s seventy-seven now and lives in Australia. It seems she wants to buy a yacht and sail around the world. She says it’s always been her dream and she needs money to make it come true.”
“Well, it’s not a cheap dream. And I seem to be crazy enough to make that dream come true. Does she have any relatives in Rosenthal?”
“No, she’s never been married, doesn’t have children. She has relatives in Australia. Her only connection to Rosenthal is the hotel, which has been in her family for several generations. She’s been planning to sell it for a while, so she isn’t very popular here. Rosenthalers think nobody has the right to sell their hotel, not even its rightful owner.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, that’s what I figured out from Ahmed’s Rosenthal experience. What about the Baker Block? The City of Rosenthal owns it, right? No legal disputes there?”
“No. The city is the sole owner. They don’t have the money to knock it down, let alone to restore it.”
“I saw the photos. The buildings all seem to be in various stages of deterioration. The old Courthouse is in the worst shape. It’ll cost a fortune to restore it.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “I didn’t assess anything except the Cosmo, but I had a peek. They’re all well-built, solid structures. They look much better from inside than out.”
He paused for a moment. “Since you did a cost estimate of restoring the hotel, can you do the same for the other four buildings?”
“Sure,” I said readily.
“Just a rough estimate. Do it based on what you can see by the naked eye. It should be done discreetly. I know we can get permission from the city to do the inspection, but I don’t want Urban Imprint to hear about us snooping around. Not before we submit our offer.”
“Of course. I’ll be discreet.”
“I’ll also need a brief financial plan so that I can start talking to some people. Once the bidding closes, I want to be ready.”
Khalid Nouri talked about the Baker Block as if he already owned it. When I mentioned it, he simply said, “Yes, we can safely assume I’ll get it, Miss Chatwin.”
I liked the confident tone in his voice.
“By the way, do you know someone who does art appraisals?” he asked suddenly.
“I’m a certified appraiser for antique furniture. Why do you ask?”
“I have a few pieces I’d like to have evaluated. Don’t bother about it. Now, I have to ask you to consider our conversation confidential. And future ones. Do not mention it to Mrs. Fontaine before I talk to her. Alright?”
I didn’t like the bossy, almost rude tone in his voice.
I took a deep breath. I should stay calm and professional; I didn’t want to jeopardize our chance. We couldn’t get a better one. “I signed a contract with Mrs. Fontaine,” I said carefully. “She’s my boss at the moment and this non-disclosure issue could cause a conflict of interest.”
“Then I will hire you and I will be your boss and there won’t be any conflict of interest. You’ll answer only to me.”
I opened my mouth to tell him I had to talk to my partners first—it was CBB Restauration that Mrs. Fontaine had hired, not only one third of it—when he added, “If that’s okay with you, Miss Chatwin.”
I decided to tell him after all. “I’d like to work with you, but first you need to talk to my partners and Mrs. Fontaine.” There.
He sighed. “All right then. As soon as I sort this out with them, my lawyer, Azem Nimani, will send you the proposal for the new contract.”
“Thank you.”
“And if it’s okay with you, I’ll call you tomorrow around the same time. I’d like to hear your opinion on some other particular issues. We’ll discuss them hypothetically, so there won’t be any conflict of interest, don’t worry.”
“Sure. So tomorrow around eight?”
There was a touch of humor in his voice when he said, “If you can make yourself available for me.”
“You can count on my undivided attention.”
I heard his soft laugh. “Until tomorrow, then.”
Something had been nagging at me since we started talking. I had to ask him. “Mr. Nouri, one more question.”
“Yes?”
“How come you don’t have a British accent?”
“I was born in England, but I spent my childhood and youth here in the States.”
“Ah, makes sense. I was just curious. Good night, Mr. Nouri.”
“‘Curiosity is one of the forms of feminine bravery.’”
“Victor Hugo.”
“I’m impressed.”
“‘The greatest virtue of man is perhaps curiosity.’”
“Anatole France.”
“Ah. Good night, Mr. Nouri.”
“Good night, Miss Chatwin. Sweet dreams.”
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THE LINE DISCONNECTED, but for a moment, I kept staring at the phone in my hand, feeling slightly unhinged. What a multifaceted man, that Mr. Nouri. During a single conversation, he’d been edgy, ironic, polite, charming, impatient and demanding. He’d been authoritative and autocratic, good-humored and bossy. He’d asked intelligent questions and listened to my explanations.
And then our last exchange. It was even more puzzling.
Perhaps we’d wanted to impress each other, but his “sweet dreams” had a peculiar effect on me. When was the last time my stomach fluttered and my heart skipped a beat?
I sat down on the sofa, grabbed my laptop and read Khalid Nouri’s short biography one more time. Just in case I’d overlooked an important piece of info that could tell me more about him.
Nothing new caught my attention.
One by one, I checked the other players in this strange game. Astrid was mentioned several times—sometimes as Dr. Astrid Canagan, in some earlier articles as Dr. Astrid Mohegan, mostly in relation to orthopedic surgery procedures. What name had Sam mentioned? Rosalie ... Aha. Rosalie Duplant. I tried that. Nothing. So, it could indeed be that she’d lived incognito here.
A basic name search through professional journal databases brought up articles on Dr. Ahmed Demir, an anesthesiologist, Dr. Tristan Blake, geneticist, and to my surprise, one Dr. Livia Blake, whose name was followed by the longest string of academic titles I’d ever seen. The beautiful Mrs. Blake seemed to be an allergy researcher, not an interior decorator as Mrs. Fontaine had told me, nor a real estate agent, as Sam thought. Mrs. Fontaine had mentioned Rowena’s surname, Vandermeer. Not very common, so I checked it. I found Dr. Ella Vandermeer, a retired pediatrician, as well as an article mentioning Gottfried Vandermeer, a lawyer and a former advisor to the UN Human Rights Commission, and “one of the finest legal minds of our time.” Also retired.
Nothing on Jack Canagan, though. When I did a global search through newspaper archives, there were a few Canagans there: W.B. Canagan, who was on the list of Le Cordon Bleu, Paris Culinary Arts School graduates, William Canagan, a decorated World War II pilot, and Brian Canagan, “whose generous financial contribution saved the most important historic building in Somerville.” My heart skipped a beat, but my excitement was short-lived: Somerville was a small town in Texas and the newspaper was dated September 23, 1962.
There were no photos of any of them, except a distant group shot with Gottfried Vandermeer. It must have been old, since he looked to be in his forties. A tall, dark-haired and good-looking man.
I didn’t find the absence of visual records all that unusual. After all, those people were doctors and lawyers, not celebrities.
It was close to midnight when I turned off my computer. I hadn’t learned anything radically new. Astrid Canagan had lived here as Rosalie Duplant but hadn’t tried to hide her identity after that. Gottfried and Ella Vandermeer may or may not have been her relatives. There also might be a family connection between the three Canagans I’d dug up, but that didn’t prove anything except that one of them was a chef. Astrid’s husband, perhaps? Another one had been a war hero. Jack’s grandfather? Great uncle? Just a man with the same last name? The third one had been wealthy enough to donate some serious money to a heritage project in a small town in Texas.
On the surface, everything looked normal, but I had a feeling that something was off. It intrigued me rather than concerned me. I trusted Mrs. Fontaine’s and Sam Wakefield’s judgments, and they both had vouched for these people.
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I SHOWERED AND BRUSHED my teeth, put on my nightgown and nestled into my bed with one of my favorite novels: The Count of Monte Cristo, leather-bound and illustrated. After one hour, I forced myself out of Dumas’s world and turned off the light.
I closed my eyes, but it took me a while before I drifted to sleep.
Do you have time to talk now, or do you have some other plans for tonight ...?
I apologize, Miss Chatwin. I was rude ...
Your report, well done ...
I’ll be your boss ...
Sweet dreams ...
I am in a meadow, sitting astride an old log. In front of me spreads an ancient forest. It’s supposed to be dark because the trees are dense and tall, yet the forest is filled with the gentle sunlight of an early morning.
The log is covered with soft, warm moss, yet I can feel its wooden solidness underneath.
A man comes out of the forest holding a teacup in his hand. As he approaches me, I realize he is Victor Hugo.
“You made me knock over my teacup, Miss Chatwin,” he says in English with an American accent. “Now it’s empty.”
He stretches out his arm and tips the teacup to show me. It’s an old-fashioned porcelain teacup sans saucer, with a gold rim and a picture of an old European town square in its middle. ArtePolis is written underneath the picture in flourished calligraphy lettering.
Then I notice Victor Hugo doesn’t look like Victor Hugo at all. He’s clean-shaven and wears jeans. A dark-haired, strong and handsome man in his mid-thirties, he looks vaguely familiar.
“There is nothing about you on the internet,” I say. “And you look very different than your picture on the dust jackets.”
“But it’s still me, Miss Chatwin. You see, when I was writing The Count of Monte Cristo—”
I interrupt him, laughing. “That was Alexandre Dumas, not you. And he looked like a garden gnome.”
“A very common misconception. Not about the gnome, mind you. The Count of Monte Cristo is my novel, printed under his name.”
Then it dawns on me who my companion reminds me of—the illustrated portrait of the Count of Monte Cristo himself, from the cover page of my book.
“Will you walk with me through the forest?” he asks.
He offers me his hand. I take it and he helps me up with a little tug. As his fingers touch mine, something gentle and warm, like the light surrounding us, enters my body and fills me from inside, taking my breath away.
I tremble from that strange beautiful sensation and my heart beats faster.
I hold his hand tightly and let him walk me into the forest.
“Curiosity is one of the forms of female bravery,” he says as we stop in front of an old oak. He places his hands on my shoulders and turns me so that my back is now touching the trunk. I look up. The sunbeams filter through the branches, reaching the forest floor and enveloping us in a warm, magic light, connected to the light inside me.
He takes a step closer and now our bodies are almost touching. His fingers trace my jawline before they move down to my collarbone. His hand opens and gently cups my breast. He presses his body against mine. Through our clothes, I can feel his erection. I rub against it, feeling a sweet ache in my womb.
He whispers into my ear, “I’m curious if you have a tattoo anywhere on your beautiful, flawless skin.”
Before I can answer, he takes a step back, bows and kisses my hand. “Until we meet again, my beautiful.”
And with that, he pivots and walks deeper into the forest. Suddenly a huge dark-furred and blue-eyed wolf emerges and joins him. I stand motionless, stunned by the strength and beauty of both the man and the beast. My eyes follow them before they disappear among the trees ...