Puppy Love For The Black Queen

Chapter 1

Xavier

"Oh, honey, you're getting more handsome every time I see you! How is that possible?" 

My godmother, Madame Dubois, releases me from a vanilla-scented warm embrace and pulls back to smile at me. 

"You look fabulous, Maman D," I say back, calling her by the name I’ve always used for her, the French word for ‘mom.’ Because she’s always been like a second one to me.

"Damn right, I do," she says in her endearing French-accented lilt, giving me a wink. "Now let's get you inside the B&B before the paparazzi find you."

"Paparazzi?"

"My soccer-star godson’s triumphant homecoming? You’ll probably make the front page if Sam at the paper has anything to do with it."

"I haven't played in years, Maman, but you’re sweet.” I smile as Maman D links her arm through mine and walks me in. 

She is obviously proud, and that makes me even more determined to live up to my promise of being a help to her for the next two months before I leave for Spain.

"You know Spain has some of the best football in the world, right?" Maman D remarks.

"Please tell me you follow LaLiga, Maman D."

"We have it on the television in the bar sometimes on weekends, along with the English Premier League. In your honor." She cuts me off as I begin to object that it’s not necessary. "And Monsieur Climpson also loves it. I always watch the World Cup and root for France, of course. And Paris St. Germain in the Champions League. I made an exception when Zidaine played for Real Madrid. I met him, you know."

“Of course you did, Maman.”

My room in my godmother's sprawling B&B, La Maison de la Rose des Montagnes, is the same as it's been since I was a child. B&B is a misnomer, of course. It’s more of a castle than an inn. More Swiss Alps chalet, paid for with secret Swiss money as well, than Rocky Mountain cabin.

A John Denver song it is not, apart from the fact that Maman makes it feel like home for every guest who comes.

Maman D, better known as Madame Dubois to everyone else, has always had a taste for finery. The hotel has borne the same ornate brocade wallpaper and floral bedspreads since I was a child.

It doesn’t seem old so much as frozen in time to remain in a gilded age.

The armoires are ancient antiques, and a red oriental rug covers the floor that looks as new as when it was purchased somehow. I slump back into the deep old leather wingback. 

As a boy, I used to curl my entire body into it and sigh contentedly, imagining myself to be un petit chat, purring myself to sleep.

I feel like I'm home. But I know I can't get attached to this place. In two months, I leave for Spain. I have a consulting gig that's going to put me in some of the most beautiful places in Europe. 

I imagine seeing flamenco live and watching Real Madrid play in Santiago Bernabeu Stadium. And I look forward to many evenings spent entertaining beautiful senoritas who can teach me about their culture, while I teach them a thing or two about American men.

In my fantasies, I imagine a woman I’m with for the evening looking like Penelope Cruz, because she's the only Spanish actress I can think of. It’s easy to imagine a Penelope clone taking me by the hand and helping a charming, successful American man learn el lenguaje del amor. Because that’s about the extent of my Spanish right there. 

I slap my hands down on the armrests and lift myself up out of the chair. A drink will do me good after all the travel I've just done. I head down the delightfully creaking flights of stairs toward the B&B's restaurant and bar, Café des Mélodies.

"I hope you don't change the setup you got here." I hear Mr. Climpson, a regular of the restaurant, regaling Madame D with his thoughts. "I like being able to watch my game, but I also like looking in that big mirror to see what folks are doing behind me."

"Don't you worry about that," my godmother says. "This mirror has been here for over a hundred years. And it's staying another hundred years if I have anything to do with it!"

She beams at me. "There you are, Xavier." She leans across the bar and gives two kisses on each cheek.

"Well, hello there, stranger!" Mr. Climpson, one of the regulars for years, shakes my hand and pats me on the back. He pulls the bar stool out beside him, offering it to me. "Madame Dubois has been talking non-stop about two things for the last month. The renovation and you." 

"Not necessarily in that order," Maman D remarks. 

"Good to see you again, Mr. Climpson. Can I buy you another whiskey?"

"Well, certainly, son!"

I look at Maman D who smiles and nods. She pours two Johnnie Walker Blue Labels for us, and Mr. Climpson nods in approval. 

"Thank you.” Mr. Climpson gives a toast. “Here's to you and your adventures in… Where are you going again? Spain, your godmother said?"

"Yes, sir."

Mr. Climpson clinks my glass and takes a long sip. "This is the good stuff."

"So, when do the renovations start, Maman D?" I ask.

"I still need to find a designer. I have some ideas, but it’s hard to hire the right person and run this place at the same time. Selecting a designer, given the character of this place, could be a full-time job."

My mind is quickly elsewhere. Straight back to Nina. She’s a gifted interior designer, I know, from her social media profile through the years and mutual friends. She has an incredibly successful business from what I’ve heard from mutual friends. 

Before I have a chance to think about it, I pull out my phone, open my social media account, and type in her name. It's something I've resisted on many a tipsy night, coming home to an empty apartment. And sometimes I’ve had to resist it even when I’m coming home with an overnight guest on my arm.

‘Nina Alders’ I type into the search box. And then, through the magic of technology, there she is.

I take a sip of my drink to calm my breathing. 

She's just as beautiful as I remember. Dark, curvy, and now sporting aqua-colored tips at the end of her braids. They perfectly suit her personality – calming yet adventurous, and colorful.

I scroll down a little. She lives in New York, and yes, as I thought, she is now an interior designer. I switch over to her professional site and see that she’s a successful one. Most of the before and after photos feature palatial mansions or lofts with floor-to-ceiling windows.

"Don't tell me you've gone downhill with the rest of the youth of this world." 

I look up. Maman D is frowning at me something fierce. 

"Hmm?"

"See?" she says to Mr. Climpson. "They're all on their phones now. They don't socialize."

She leans over me to see my screen. 

"What's so interesting?" Her face changes. 

"Maman, I was looking up interior designers, I’ll have you know."

I smile at Mr. Climpson, and he raises his eyebrows. She reaches her palm out, and I reluctantly give her my phone. "This woman does beautiful work," she says.

"It's probably a little high-end," I say, holding out my hand for my phone and looking for an excuse for the brush-off. My godmother starts walking away with my device. "Hey, Maman? I think you’re forgetting something… My phone? Don’t you have one of your own?”

“Yes, but it’s already up on your phone.”

She's rapt in the phone an instant later, frowning and pacing slightly, scrolling up and down. "Hmmm. Nina, Nina, Nina. Why does that name sound familiar?" She looks up as if hit by lightning. 

"Mon dieu, the Christmas card."

I frown at her.

"Christmas card?" Mr. Climpson asks.

"This is your ex-girlfriend from college. The one you sent out a joint Christmas card with one year. Last name reminded me of a tree. Elmers?"

"Alders."

"Yes!"

I sigh and gesture for the phone, getting increasingly more annoyed. 

"She does good work." She paces with my phone once again.

There’s something about family that can reduce a successful professional, a consultant who manages more than a dozen employees, into a sulky teenager. It’s been a while since I haven’t been in charge. Leave it to Maman.

Maman D and Mr. Climpson are gushing over Nina's work. "I love how she handled that staircase."

"The patio area with the pool is so open after she took out that wall."

My godmother is looking at the company bio page, and suddenly I'm worried.

"Listen," I cut in. "I have no problem with you looking for inspiration. But Maman D, you cannot contact her."

I hold my hand out and glare. I cluck my disapproval. 

“You kids and your phones.” She sulkily slaps the phone back into my palm. "When did you get so pushy?" 

“I learned from the best, Maman D.”

Mr. Climpson tries to hide his smile in his drink. 

"I'm serious, Maman. I have had zero contact with her, and our last encounter was a disaster. So please, let's just leave Nina Alders in the past."

"Don't you want this place to look its best?"

"That has nothing to do with it," I say, my voice going quiet and calm. It works in the boardroom, and it appears to be working now. “There are 330 million people in America. Surely there’s another interior designer you like.”

Maman D holds up her hands in feigned innocence. 

“Okay, Xavier. If you're that insistent, I promise that I won't contact her.”

She puts heavy emphasis on the ‘I,’ and I'm instantly on my guard. 

“And none of your little minions, either,” I say, gesturing at Mr. Climpson. “No one contacts Nina.”

Just saying her name brings back feelings I'd rather not revisit. It just solidifies my insistence that Maman find someone else.

Maman D reaches out a soft, vanilla-scented hand and lovingly pats my face. 

“Okay, mon cher,” she says, smiling. “I promise no one will contact her.”

And just when I'm feeling like I've won a small victory, Maman D straightens up and winks at Mr. Climpson.

"Ugh, Maman D!" My exasperation prompts customers at surrounding tables to look up at the commotion. I throw up my hands to the old tin ceiling and cover my eyes on the way down. 

Mr. Climpson laughs and grips my shoulder.

"Sorry, son. But you know it’s much better to be on your godmother’s side than on the other side."

Truth be told, there could be worse things than seeing Nina again. But she’d better not hire her.