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Light traffic this early in the morning makes the drive to the office quick. I park in one of the public lots near the Rookery Building, in the heart of Chicago’s financial district. The GSU offices occupy the entire fifth floor of the historic late nineteenth-century structure.
The lights in the coffee room are dim when I fetch my first coffee of the day. “Call building maintenance and have the lights fixed,” I tell myself. When I’m back at my desk, I contact Liam and give him instructions, then tell him to meet Micki at her office at nine.
The coffee is lukewarm. A sip proves it undrinkable. I walk back, make another, sip the perfect liquid in situ. Paradise.
The distinctive voice of Edith Piaf singing “La Vie en Rose” trickles out of the pocket of my black gabardine slacks. Maman. Her favorite song from her favorite singer. Their similar backgrounds attracted my mother to Piaf’s music. After Maman’s parents died, she lived in precarious circumstances in Quebec City, until she met my papa. I slip a capsule into the coffee maker and press the start button for the cup I’ll take back to my desk. Then I grab the phone from the counter.
“Bonjour, Maman. Ça va?”
“Ça va.” But instead of saying, “Et toi?” I hear a grumble, then a scolding squawk. “Tu es très méchant, mon bout de chou.”
I wince at a name I haven’t heard since I was about seven.
“Maman! I am no longer a child.” She doesn’t answer.
I try again. “Pourquoi?”
“A week. You haven’t called in a week.”
“Désolé, Maman. Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.” My very Catholic Maman will appreciate the apologetic words, even if I can’t tell her why I have been too busy to call. To confess about the threat Micki faces and how it affects me is out of the question. She doesn’t even know of her existence, and this is not the time to enlighten her. The terrorist threatening Max is another issue I can’t say anything about. I’ll have to come up with a few white lies.
“I’ll be leaving for London in a few days for work. Getting ready for the trip means cleaning up a few jobs and making sure everything is in order with my guys. And you know how Clay is about loose ends.”
“D’accord. I forgive you.” She uses her magnanimous voice and I squirm like a small child being punished. “How is your friend, Max?”
“Merci, Maman.” Forgiveness accepted, I go on with the small talk my maman lives for. “Looking forward to his dad’s birthday party. We’re going up to Scotland for a few days after all the business is done. Cress is excited about the awards dinner in Paris.”
“That is the girlfriend?”
“Fiancée,” I correct.
“And he is younger than you!” The implication is clear, but I ignore it.
“How old is his papa?”
“Seventy-eight. All five of the children will be there, along with the grandchildren.” I put a hand over my eyes. I should have censored myself. Bringing up grandchildren in a conversation with Maman is like crashing into a beehive, so I’m shocked when she doesn’t follow up with any more than a sigh.
“And you are flying here from Paris?”
“Oui. I’m booked on a flight two days after the dinner. Max and Cress are going on to Venice.” I click over to the calendar on my screen. “I’ll be in Vancouver in less than a month.” I toy with the idea of telling her I might bring a friend, but there’s no guarantee I can convince Micki to take the extra time.
“Perfect. I have a surprise for you.” She sounds gleeful and my heart sinks.
“What kind of surprise?”
“If I tell you, it won’t be a surprise, mon chou. But I’m sure you will like it.”
I suppress a sigh. Pursuing this would be profitless so I move on to another sticky subject. “Is my uncle still with you?”
“Where else would he be?”
Calisse. Of course, he’s still there. When he was released from prison in Quebec, Uncle François arrived on her doorstep like a homing pigeon, and she’ll never kick him out. “Is he drinking?”
“Not too much,” she tells me, her voice low.
“How much is not too much?”
“Just some beer. Not here. He goes to the bar with his friends.”
