There are some people who cause me great suffering. They are selfish and full of compromise, strange ideas, and human reasoning.
JEANNE GUYON
"NOON TOMORROW, OUI? Perfect. We look forward to hearing your thoughts. Merci, Andee."
She hangs up the phone, turns to the computer on her desk, and types the details into her calendar. An e-mail to Gerard informing him of the lunch with Andee—and of his expected presence at 12:30 p.m.—follows.
Fini.
She purses her lips. Ah, Gerard. Her son is vice president of Domain de la Bouvier and its enterprises. Of course, it's only a title. Gerard, like his father before him, is . . . what is the American term? She taps her Montblanc pen on the edge of the desk. Ah yes, Gerard is the figurehead. His charm is what makes him valuable, not his business acumen.
Or lack, thereof.
She remains acting president, the reins in her hands. As they should be. That will be one of the topics for discussion tomorrow, she's certain. C'est la vie. Gerard may suggest, again, that it's time to begin shifting power. No matter. It is not Gerard's time. Not until she says it is.
Better for him to stay with what he does best—connect with the community here and abroad. After all, it was Gerard's connections that led them to Andee Bell. Andee's financial savvy is renowned and her recommendations for additional tax shelters and investments for Domain de la Bouvier have proven profitable.
Brigitte smiles. Andee continues to impress.
There is just one concern: Andee's relationship with Jenna's brother, Jason. Of course, Andee has the relationship under control—one more reason to respect her—but Brigitte will watch to be certain. There is no room for partiality in business. How far will she be able to trust Andee?
Time will tell.
She leans back in her chair and considers tomorrow's lunch.
Gerard will be included in the initial discussions of Andee's suggestions for the company, but the decisions? They will be made without him.
How unfortunate that there is no one to step in once she's gone.
She turns to the credenza behind her and opens a file drawer. She removes the Bouvier trust and peruses the clauses dealing with heirs and beneficiaries.
Heirs . . .
As always, the word gnaws at her. Not heirs, but heir. There is only Gerard. There should be more. Gerard should have a child, or several children, by now.
She taps the pen against the desk, more insistent this time.
Another of Jenna's failings.
She glances at a picture on her desk—Gerard and his father just before his father's death—a massive heart attack just before his fifty-third birthday. The photo was taken in one of the family vineyards in Eperny and appeared on the cover of a wine journal that year. Gerard and his father shared such distinctive traits. One could never doubt that they were father and son.
She reaches for the photo and holds it so the lamp on her desk illuminates the faces. She looks at her husband's features and sees Gerard today. At fifty-four, Gerard's resemblance to his father is startling. She runs a finger over the image. "What would you think of how I've grown your business, mon amour?"
Growing the business, that had never been the problem. But where to go from here . . . ?
She sets the picture back in place and shakes her head. She'd been so sure of Jenna. Such promising breeding stock . . .
Jenna. She glances at her watch. She should be back by now. She reaches for the phone and presses the intercom that connects to the kitchen. "Hannah, has Jenna returned?"
"No, Madame. Not yet."
"Merci, Hannah. Let me know when she arrives."
"Oh, Madame, I believe she's just come in the front door."
"Merci, encore." She drops the phone in its cradle, turns back to the credenza, and returns the file to its drawer. She turns the key in the drawer, then takes the key and places it in the small safe under her desk. She stands and brushes a piece of lint from her wool slacks. Eh bien, no time like the present.
She leaves the office connected to her bedroom suite and heads down the stairs. On the landing above the entry, she pauses, listening, discerning Jenna's whereabouts. She hears the murmur of voices beneath her—Jenna and Hannah—then footsteps, indicating they head in separate directions.
Brigitte comes down the stairs from the landing. "Jenna?"
"Yes." Jenna stops in the hallway and turns toward her.
"Ma chérie, you're back. I was beginning to wonder . . . Let's take tea in the solarium." Brigitte reaches Jenna, places one hand on her cheek, and leans in and kisses her other cheek. "I want to hear all about your appointment. I'll advise Hannah. Take a few moments to freshen up and I'll meet you there."
"But . . ."
Brigitte's eyebrows lift. "But what, darling? Surely you have nothing else to do? Take a few minutes to yourself and then we'll catch up. It's been too long, amour, since we've had time together. I want to hear what the doctor said. I need to know that you're well. That's all that matters, yes?"
Jenna nods. "I'll be right there."
Brigitte turns, hiding her smile. Bien sûr, she would be right there.
Anything less would be unacceptable.