Page 95 of I Do, I Do, I Do
“I beg your pardon?”
“But I know someone who does. I’ll send for Mr. Glascon at once.” She banged her palm on top of a bell, and a man appeared as if he’d been waiting in the wings for his cue. Mrs. Wilson instructed him to take their luggage to their rooms. Then she beamed with the most artificial smile they had ever seen. “You’ll have time to freshen up.” She waved a hand toward French doors opening off the lobby. “Since dinner won’t be served for several hours, you’re welcome to use the dining room to speak privately with Mr. Glascon.” After giving them another smile, this one laden with sympathy, she lifted her skirts and fled through a door behind the registration counter.
After a minute Clara frowned at Juliette. “You speak the language of polite nonsense. Can you interpret what she said?”
“I don’t speak the language as well as I once did, but I’d say Mrs. Wilson knows why we’re here.”
Zoe shook her head. “That isn’t possible.”
“Also, Mrs. Wilson has been instructed as to what she should do and say if someone inquires about Mr. Villette. She has performed as instructed and now wants nothing more to do with us.”
They followed the bellman up a flight of stairs and down a corridor. “We can’t be expected,” Clara said flatly. “I agree with Zoe. Jean Jacques had no idea that we’d chase after him, so he would have no reason to instruct Mrs. Wilson to do anything.”
“And who is Mr. Glascon?” Zoe asked, before she followed her bags into a clean and pretty room.
“We’ll find out soon,” Juliette called from her doorway. “Shall we meet in the dining room in ten minutes?”
Clara and Zoe leaned into the corridor to stare. “You are not in charge,” Clara said. “You have never been in charge.”
“Haven’t you noticed? I’m a new woman. I’ve traveled. I’ve climbed Chilkoot Pass. I don’t like to be in charge, but I can be if I must,” Juliette said, smiling. “Ten minutes.”
Mrs. Wilson had laid out a coffee service on a table near a window that overlooked a warm, dusty valley.
“That’s a vineyard, isn’t it?” Clara asked.
Juliette nodded. “Someone tried and failed to grow grapes outside Linda Vista. Maybe the climate is better here.”
Zoe poured from the silver pot and then glared. “How can you talk about scenery! Aren’t you nervous? Before we finish drinking the coffee in that pot, Mr. Glascon, whoever he is, will have told us where Jean Jacques is.” She held out her hands. “Look at me. I’m shaking.”
Sunlight streamed through the window and gleamed along Zoe’s silver heart ring. The one-of-a-kind heirloom ring. Juliette looked down at her own hand and the same ring. Sadness surged in her throat and behind her eyes. Once she had seen the ring as beautiful. Now it was merely a circle of tarnished metal.
The French doors opened, and a slightly breathless man hurried into the dining room, carrying a briefcase at his side. Juliette noticed he was tall, gray haired, distinguished. Kindness softened his gaze when he asked if he might join them.
“I am Henri Glascon. And you are Miss March.” He nodded to Juliette as he sat at the table. “You must be Miss Klaus, and you will be Miss Wilder.”
They stared.
“I’m not a magician. Mrs. Wilson gave me your names. Having previously heard each of you described, it isn’t difficult to place names with faces.”
And there it was. No one could have described them to this man except Jean Jacques Villette. They had finally found him.
“Where is he?” Clara demanded, breaking a lengthy silence.
Juliette drew a deep breath. “Am I correct to assume you are Mr. Villette’s attorney, Mr. Glascon?”
“So, I think I understand,” Zoe said angrily. “Jean Jacques has sent you to negotiate with us, hasn’t he?” She waved a hand. “There is nothing that you or that bastard can offer that could possibly make amends for our ruination!”
“Ladies.” Mr. Glascon’s gaze swept their wedding rings. “I am indeed an attorney. And yes, I know who you are and why you’re here.” The kindness in his gaze deepened as if he understood their plight and personally regretted their circumstances. “Each of you married Mr. Villette believing you were his only wife. Somehow you encountered one another, recognized the rings, and you’ve come to Loma Grande to confront Mr. Villette.”
“Yes!” They spoke in unison, their eyes fixed on his face.
“There can be no confrontation,” he said gently. “Mr. Villette died shortly after he returned home from the Yukon.”
The air ran out of Juliette’s body. A soft sighing sound told her the same collapse had happened to Clara and Zoe.
“You won’t see any tears here,” Clara said finally.
Zoe agreed. “I feel cheated.”
