The Charmers: A Novel(21)

I leaped from the bed in a move never to be repeated in my entire life no matter how often I went to the gym. Fear definitely lends strength. I was on him before he knew it, scrabbling at his chest, my thumbs searching for his eyes, the dog nipping at his ankles, the cat slowly stalking around him, looking, I knew, for an opening suitable for claws. My defenders. My little family.

I didn’t realize I was yelling until the door was flung open and I glimpsed Verity standing there in an old T-shirt and skimpy shorts, golden hair straggling over her face. She peered through the strands, taking in the crime scene.

“Ohh…” she exclaimed, a hand flying to her mouth. And then she screamed.

Verity was a good screamer. It echoed off the walls, out the open french doors into the quiet night gardens, bouncing back just as the storm broke. Lightning illuminated us like a stage set: the two half-dressed women; the man with the shiny steel gun and a ski mask over his head; the small animals arranged before him, one growling, one hissing. I might have laughed it was so funny, except I was scared as hell. And the canary awakened by the storm-light kept on singing.





16

Before I could move, the man was gone, through the open french doors.

“Fine, I’ll call the cops,” I managed to say between claps of thunder. Then I remembered I was in France. I didn’t know the French equivalent of 911. “Ohh,” I stammered.… Verity understood at once.

“Call the neighbor,” she yelled, wrenching her hair back from a face parchment-pale under the soft light of my bedside lamp.

“What neighbor?” I could not think who she meant, I knew no one.

“That man, Chad, he lives next door.”

I understood she meant the doctor, Chad Prescott, who’d helped me after my accident and owned the land contiguous with mine. He was my only neighbor. I did not like him, he was gruff, abrupt, good medically I’m sure, but no charmer, and he wanted my land. He certainly did not like me and now I was supposed to ask for his help?

“Jesus, Mirabella, there’s a guy with a gun in the house,” Verity snarled. “Give me the phone.” She grabbed the handset and Chad’s card from the night table where I’d left it, quickly thumbed the number, and handed me the phone.

He answered on the second ring. I heard him say, “Yes?” He did not sound a bit surprised or even puzzled at being awoken in the middle of the night; his voice was light, expectant.

“It’s me,” I said (even as the thought crept through my head, it should have been, “It is I”). “Your neighbor,” I added.

“Ms. Matthews? I assume this is something important?”

You couldn’t shake this fella, he didn’t even sound interested in hearing my answer. But then I said, “There was a man in the house, in my room … he had a gun.…”

There was a short pause, a tiny flicker of time. “Are you alright?”

“Yup. Just scared.”

“Did you call the cops?”

I shook my head though of course he couldn’t see me. Verity came and slumped on the bed next to me. She swept her hair to one side, clutching it in a sideways ponytail. I’ll bet she was wondering what the hell she was doing here in this madhouse; she might have been better off with the cheating husband than with a potential killer running around with a gun.

The cat jumped up on the bed and went and sat on her lap. The canary sang, and the dog, panting as though from a run around the woods, reclined against my knee and I choked back my tears, not wanting Verity to see my fear.

“I don’t know the emergency number here in France,” I said to Chad Prescott, sounding, I knew, as foolish as I felt, all helpless woman appealing to the strong male.

He said, “I’ll be right over.”

I told Verity to get dressed; we couldn’t have strangers and possibly policemen gaping at us in our night attire, such as it was. We both slipped on jeans and T-shirts, mine emblazoned with the logo CLUB 55 SAINT-TROPEZ—hers with GRATEFUL DEAD FINAL CONCERT. Just in time.

The doorbell chimed a loud ear-blistering rendition of “La Marseillaise.” I’d have to change that, get something more soothing, though I’d still keep it French, of course. Hurrying to answer the door I asked myself how my mind could fill with such trivia when I had just almost lost my life? Was it a safeguard, so I wouldn’t feel threatened? Afraid? But hell, I was afraid, I was shaking in my flip-flops I was so afraid.

Chad Prescott pushed into the hall and grabbed me by the shoulders. “Are you alright?”

His firm hands held me up since my knees were definitely wobbly.

“Yes,” I said as calmly as I could manage. Then I spoiled it all by bursting into tears.

He did not, thank God, put his arms around me and tell me I was okay, it was all going to be alright. In fact he said it very much was not alright. An intruder with a weapon meant business.

“What was he after? Do you know?”

His eyes searched mine, a deep narrow blue, or was it brown? Too dark to tell, and when I thought about it he was about the same height and build as my would-be attacker.

“It might have been you,” I said. “You could have come into my room with a gun and tried to kill me. You want my villa.” I nailed him with my glare.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He turned on his heel and made for the door. “I can see you’re alright. I’ll leave you for the cops to deal with.”