| Subject: À la Vie! – Chapter 11 |
Author:
Diane
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Date Posted: Monday, October 25, 08:46:05pm
In reply to:
Diane
's message, "À la Vie!" on Tuesday, October 19, 01:16:54am
Chapter 11
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.
“He was a good man.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“We’re so sorry.”
“Thank you for coming.”
The litany droned on and on. Michael had no idea his father had this many friends. Of course, as a diplomat, he would have many mourners, but most of those present seemed to genuinely miss the ambassador. Estrella Vacek’s grief was evident, as was that of her daughter. Michael looked at Elena closely. She was definitely not wearing well under the strain of the funeral. In fact, she looked rather ill.
He began to walk toward her when he was intercepted by her father, Salla. The man was grim-faced, and pulled Michael roughly aside. “Your father was a good man, no?” he queried. Michael agreed that he was. “The kind of man who keeps his promises, yes?” Again, Michael answered in the affirmative. Then Vacek smiled cunningly. “It is like father, like son, is it not?
“I believe I am a man of my word—yes,” answered Michael.
“Then you will marry my daughter, and give your child a name.”
Michael was stunned speechless. He did some quick calculations. If Salla knew Elena was pregnant, then she must have been so when Michael met her two months ago. Obviously, she had told Salla that he was the father. No wonder Salla had agreed so readily to their “pre-engagement” arrangement.
“I’d like to speak to Elena for a moment, if you don’t mind,” he said, shrugging off business and personal acquaintances of his father to go in search of the girl. He found her in the back garden, near the Olympic-sized swimming pool. He walked up behind her and came directly to the point.
“You told your father that I was the father of your unborn child.” Elena didn’t speak or turn around, but he could tell by her shaking shoulders that she was weeping. “I had to,” she whispered. “I’ll never see Jamie again, and my father wants his grandson to be legitimate.
“Do you know that he expects me to marry you?” Michael asked impatiently.
Elena turned around then. “Would that be so horrible, Michael?” she countered. “I thought you liked me.”
“I do like you. But I never planned on getting married to you!” He cried in exasperation.
“Then why did you talk to my father? Why did you agree to become pre-engaged?” she said, sorrow evident in her voice. He didn’t want her. He didn’t want her at all.
“Because I promised my father I would,” Michael answered flatly. Elena sat down on a stone bench, her face in her hands, the tears flowing freely. Michael looked up at the sky. The sky was clear and bright today, the color of Nikita’s eyes. He pondered. Would marriage to Elena be so horrible? They did have a lot in common, they got along well, and she would be an asset to his galleries. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Nikita was gone. There was no point in waiting for her. She was gone, and he would never see her again.
“Are you a Catholic?” asked Michael.
Elena turned to him, confused, but nodded in the affirmative.
“We’ll have the wedding in Marseilles. Very small—immediate family only. I’ll get a special license so we can be married by the end of the week.” Elena’s jaw dropped. Michael continued. “My business is in Marseilles, so that’s where we will reside. We can live in my loft or, if that doesn’t suit you, we can buy a house.”
“W-Why are you doing this?” Elena choked out.
A slight smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “We want my son to be legitimate, don’t we?”
Mick Schtoppel was not pleased when Nikita told him she would be moving to the States permanently. He told her that all of the really famous models lived in France. She countered by reminding him that her present employer, l'Éclat, had a studio in San Francisco, and had no problem with Nikita living in the city. It didn’t take long for Nikita to pack her personal belongings, sell her flat, and move the States. She had held onto very few keepsakes over the years—her childhood experiences had taught her to travel light. She held Michael’s shirt in her hand for the longest time. She had owned it for over 17 years, and it was only thing that she had never traveled without. She dropped it on the pile of clothes to be donated to charity, but within seconds had picked it back up and crammed it in her carry-on. Now she was ready to leave.
On her 25th birthday in February, l'Éclat kicked off their new eyewear campaign. Nikita’s baby blues were featured everywhere—from billboards to magazines to bus stops. A total face shot appeared in several women’s magazines, with her name, NIKITA, splashed in bold letters across the bottom.
It was one of these magazines that her mother saw when emptying the trash cans at the Howard Johnson. It was the name that caught her attention—at first she didn’t recognize the face that she hadn’t seen in over 15 years. Then she took a closer look at the eyes, and her heart stopped. She would never forget those eyes. Well, how about that. Her kid was a model. A famous model. Probably making big bucks. It might be worth it to make a few phone calls to this l'Éclat place. Her neighbor, Simone, had done some modeling. Maybe she would know how Roberta could reach Nikita. It was definitely time for a mother-daughter reunion.
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