Self-love hides in many places, and God alone can find them all out.
JEANNE GUYON
SHE REACHES INTO the pocket of her St. John cardigan and removes her vibrating cell phone. She looks at the name on the screen. "Yes, Hannah . . ."
"Madame, I got the information you requested. Access to Jenna's computer."
"You did?"
"Yes, I downloaded the information to a flash drive and I've just e-mailed it to you along with her passwords."
"Fine."
"There is something else, Madame . . ."
She walks to the large bay window in the living room and looks out over the vineyard as she listens.
"Jenna was gone most of Saturday. She left late in the morning in a cab. I don't know where she went. But when she returned, after dark, she was with a man."
"A man?"
"Yes, Madame."
"Who? What man?"
"I don't know."
"Fine, Hannah. Merci. Job well done." She smiles.
"Perfect. E-mail it all to me. Good work, Hannah. Merci."
She walks to the antique desk where her laptop sets and looks for the new files Hannah is e-mailing. "Ah . . . there you are." She turns away from the desk and goes to the small bar on the other side of the living area and takes a crystal flute from one of the shelves above, then she reaches for the bottle of Domaine de la Bouvier Reserve Pinot Noir Brut that Estelle has chilling in a bucket on the countertop. She pops the cork, and laughs at the sound of it. She fills the flute and then lifts the glass in the air. "To me."
She takes a sip of the champagne and then, glass in hand, heads back to the desk, where she sits for an evening of reading.