Choices Made: Missouri or Misery

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

THE PLAYERS

TRANSLATIONS/PAINTINGS

PROLOGUE

STREET LORD'S PRAYER

CECE'S JOURNAL

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 53

CHAPTER 54

CHAPTER 55

CHAPTER 56

CHAPTER 57

CHAPTER 58

CHAPTER 59

CHAPTER 60

CHAPTER 61

CHAPTER 62

CHAPTER 63

CHAPTER 64

CHAPTER 65

CHAPTER 66

CHAPTER 67

CHAPTER 68

CHAPTER 69

CHAPTER 70

CHAPTER 71

CHAPTER 72

CHAPTER 73

CHAPTER 74

CHAPTER 75

CHAPTER 76

CHAPTER 77

CHAPTER 78

CHAPTER 79

CHAPTER 80

ADDITIONAL TITLES BY AUTHOR

BOOK 4 SYNOPSIS

BOOK 4 CHAPTER 1

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Writing is a learning experience and each book in this series teaches me more. Those who have supported me in the process are much appreciated when they answer the big questions and those nagging small questions that are important to address. Thank you Sandy for the first read of this book. Thank you Tory for the many questions you've answered.

For this book, I have a new friend, and editor, who has taken the time to not only check over my grammar and story, but has given me some additional rules to remember as I write.

Thank you, Marge, for your help and patience!

The Players:

Jamy Chance MacGregor

(aka: CeCe Chaumbers, Lord Chance, Chance)---b: 12/21/1954

– Grandfather: James Charles I----------------------b: 1889 d: 8/1959

–––– Father: James Charles II (aka: Jamie)--------b: 1911 d: 6/1959

–––– Mother: Chatelaine Chaumbers---------------b: 1934 d: 12/21/1969

JamyNick MacGregor (aka: JaNick, JaNi Chaumbers) b: 5/17/1971

– Parents: Jamy Chance MacGregor and Linde Ashling

Henri Freneau – best friend to Jamy (CeCe)

Paul Linders – considered Jamy's stepfather – engaged to Jamy's mother (Bk 1)

Nick (Bucharelli) Bradley – Jamy's friend later adopted by Gene Bradley (Bk 1)

Isaac Sands, Professor of Art – Jamy's mentor and friend (Bk 1)

Gene Bradley – first employer, Owner of Joseph's Coat, an art supply store (Bk 1)

Maddy Bucharelli – Nick's mother, prostitute who forced Jamy into the trade (Bk 1)

Syl Anderson, BNDD agent – friend, along with his wife Suzanne (Bk 1)

The MacGregors we met in Book 2 and now:

James I - (aka: The Old One, The MacGregor) Jamy's grandfather

––married: Rhionnen – bore one son

––– James II (aka: Jamie) (Jamy's father)

––––– married: Adelaide (MacInnes)

–––––––––– James III (natural father: Ian)

–––––––––––––Wife: Molly, Children: Jason, Katie

–––––––––– John (natural father: Ian)

–––––––––––––Wife: Sarah , Child: Caitrin

–––––––––– Sam (natural father: Ian)

–––––––––––––Wife: Jeanne, Children: Jessica, Sandy

–– consort: Chatelaine Chaumbers, Child: Jamy Chance

––consort: Ellen MacPherson – bore multiple children, one living son

––– Ian (Jamy's uncle)

–––––––––– Big Luke Scruthers (natural father: Ian)

–––––––––––––Wife: Martha (deceased) Sons: Charlie, Frank, Jake, Lukey

–––––––––– Jack Torrance (natural father: Ian)

–––––––––––––Partner: Gus

–––––––––– MaryEllen MacPherson (natural father: Ian)

Translations / Paintings

Nudité au Lever de Soleil : Nude at Sunrise

Toile d'Araignée au Point du Jour : Cobweb at Daybreak

Galerie de Vie : Gallery of Life – Jamy's gallery

Abbreviations:

Mlle. – Mademoiselle

Mme. – Madame

M. – Monsieur

BNDD – Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs

PROLOGUE

We met Jamy Chance MacGregor at his mother's funeral in Choices Made: The Street Years, when, at just fifteen, Jamy, in a decision based on emotional trauma and lies, ran from the foster care system in an attempt to find his biological father.

After a harrowing night on the streets, and becoming a victim of a vicious sexual attack, Jamy no longer held the idea that his father would want him and succumbed to the ravages of street life. A victim of repeated rapes and abuse, he fought with the history of his own genteel upbringing and his new life in a violent world. Even as his dead mother's warnings echoed in his mind, he placed the needle to his arm as a heroin addict who soon became Street Lord, the local dealer, and head of the largest gang in St. Louis, the Forty-second Street Gang.

Time and a new life with the birth of his son when only sixteen, pushed Jamy deeper into trouble when he became the favorite dealer and party-boy for the head of the St. Louis syndicate, the Drug Lord, Mr. Granges. Yet, that same child reawakened memories of a peaceful life. Yearning to bring up his son in a non-violent world prompted Jamy to gather his strength and turn his back on the Forty-second Street Gang, and Granges.

An aspiring artist, he used his talent in his quest for help. Isaac Sands, Professor of Art at the local university, and Gene Bradley, the owner of a popular art supply store, opened their arms to Jamy and his young family. Syl Anderson also wanted to help, but Jamy's life as a Street Lord conflicted with his own as a Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drug (BNDD) undercover agent. As their worlds collided and intermingled, Jamy found his chance to escape in a blood bath that nearly left him dead.

With his body slowly healing, we moved along with Jamy in Choices Made: Fathers and Sons, where we found him struggling with his past as he ventured into a future in the hometown of his biological father. Leaving his child, JamyNick, and best friend, Nick, behind with his friends Isaac and Gene, Jamy entered the Witness Protection Program managed by Syl Anderson and a man Jamy had grown to hate, his stepfather, Paul Linders, who, he believed, abandoned him and his mother during her illness, for the sake of his job.

In the chasm of his emotions, he struggled, feeling abandoned and lost. In St. Louis lived his son, his friends, and his stepfather. In Juxton, Missouri, lived the man he believed to be his biological father, James MacGregor, and his hope for a future.

Though he found friendship in Sam MacGregor, Sheriff of Juxton and his caretaker while in the Witness Protection Program, his dream of family pushed him into a confrontation with James who violently denied him and, unknowingly sent Granges and his murderers to Jamy's home.

A bloody narrow escape and his forced return to St. Louis by the BNDD, brought Jamy to a joyous reunion with his son, JamyNick, but also found him situated in the home of his step-father, which opened wounds of what his life would have been had the man not turned his back on them. Confrontations between Jamy, his past, and Paul, who was also an agent with the BNDD, kept the wounds raw as Jamy teetered on an emotional brink during his testimony at the murder and drug dealing trial of Granges. His artistic renderings brought forth in the trial revealed his life as a dealer, addict and prostitute, which only inflamed Paul's anger as to what Jamy had become. In the skewed belief that Jamy would not be a good father to JamyNick, Paul took Jamy's son from him.

Realizing what his testimony had done to any possible future with either James or Paul, and the subsequent abandonment by his friends, Jamy reached out to a total stranger who had mysteriously appeared during the trial, claiming to be his father's black-sheep brother, Ian MacGregor. Snatching at any glimmer of hope, they rescued JamyNick from those who would keep him from his father.

Not trusting Ian, but desperate, Jamy followed his lead to a secluded cabin in the Pristine Forest, located on MacGregor Land back in Juxton. Spending time away from the demands of his past, Jamy's body healed; his physical strength grew. Learning of his family's mysterious past, Jamy read from The Histories written with words only he, the heir, could see on the aged parchment pages. Charms, curses, and the secret of The Heart of MacGregor told him the truth of his birth. Knowledge of family helped him begin the slow process of emotional healing. As time edged forward, life at the cabin could not answer all his questions. His dream of becoming an artist and his youth propelled him away from all that he had known. Traveling with JamyNick and his Uncle Ian to Paris, and taking the new name of CeCe Chaumbers, Jamy left Missouri, or as he pronounced it, Misery, behind – or did he?

Does Jamy revert to his dark past or does his dream propel him to a bright future? Follow now as we join Jamy in Choices Made: Missouri or Misery.

Jamy knelt. It had been a long time since he had, but need propelled him to his knees. To only himself, he whispered, I'll say it, not the way I was taught, but the way I've learned it from my life. He started slowly, enunciating every word, and pausing on the most difficult passages, those imitating his own life.

A Street Lord's Prayer

Father, who art in heaven,

it's me, Jamy, here on earth,

hallowed be thy name.

Thy kingdom come.

Thy will be done,

but I don't know what you want from me.

Give me this day my daily bread,

without having to steal, lie, or sell my body,

and forgive me my trespasses,

for they are many Lord,

as I forgive those who trespass against me.

When I cannot forgive,

have pity on me; do not damn me,

but give me the strength to find my way

and lead me not into temptation,

though it envelops my life.

Deliver me from evil

for it lurks at every corner.

For thine is the kingdom,

and the power, and the glory,

forever and ever and I only want

to find my way home.

Amen.

Journal Entry of CeCe Chaumbers

December 10, 1978

Every day the world changes.

I look at my life and see it change, except some things don't change. Society is more open now. There is more freedom to live your life, but repression and class warfare live in the undercurrents. Ambassador Freneau despises me; I don't know why. There are others in his circle, even younger, who look down their noses at me and don't hide their feelings in any way. Callous remarks are common enough. No matter how polite the society, their tongues are sharp. I've tried to analyze the situation, but am at a loss.

I wonder what he would say if he had visited the Foreign Minister's office with me. They remembered my grandfather, Guy Chaumbers! There weren't many who recalled working with him, since he died before I was born, nevertheless those who did held him in the highest regard. I remembered Maman saying he had worked with a government agency. Only a passing comment by the Ambassador made me think of going there. I got lucky, really lucky, to have tried there first.

It was interesting to find out he worked on a project promoting French and American business associations, so had been sent to St. Louis to meet with businessmen there. That had to be where Papa and Grandfather MacGregor met him, my grandmother, and Maman. According to dates they gave me, Maman was sixteen when they went to America. Less than two years later, my grandparents died in a car accident. I don't know where they're buried, France or America. Maman never visited a grave, never spoke of it. I vaguely remember her saying Papa helped with the arrangements; that must have been when they fell in love.

I understand some of my upbringing now! Maman's rules of etiquette were always so strict. Her constant thoughts of dressing properly for every occasion certainly had a basis in Grandfather Guy's position with the Foreign Minister's office.

The conversation with the secretary was enlightening. I loved hearing her speak of Grandfather and how particular he was about having flowers in his office. Maman always wanted flowers on the dining table, no matter how poor we were.

I'll cherish the personal items they stored after hearing of his death. She thought Maman would return one day so saved them for her. She was happy to give them to me. I'm happy to have them. Finally, I know what my grandparents looked like. The photo of them was the one he kept on his desk. Fantastic! Even the picture of Maman at that age is priceless to me.

The secretary got all teary eyed when looking at the photograph of Grandfather in his suit, stiff white collar, and cane. She said he was an impeccable dresser, very vain, and recalled parties with my grandmother, who was beautiful. Maman looked like her. Maman always said I was vain; now I know where I got it.

I wish Maman had told me stories of her parents.

Well, all the rules of etiquette and proper dress help advance my cause now. I need to know all of these things in the company I keep. Attending parties at the homes of rich people when you are poor puts me under the microscope.

I remember years ago when Granges was surprised that I knew the proper utensil to use for the dishes that were brought to the table… Damn, why did I let him in my thoughts? He doesn't belong there. I want to forget him. Well, I did fool him when it came to the French drug connection. When they laid out their drug deals, they didn't know I spoke fluent French from speaking it at home.

Well, thank you, Maman, for keeping your family alive by pressing the rules and teaching me to speak French properly; it serves me well now. There isn't anyone, not even the Ambassador, who doesn't think I wasn't born right here in Paris.

I am an American in Paris with impeccable manners, impeccable dress, and the language skills of a native. How better to fit in high society!

I must remember to tell JaNi about this. They are his family and I want him to know things about them. I feel a bit more a part of this world now.

A man needs a history.

BACK TO TOC

CHAPTER 1

December 10, 1978 – Paris, France – early evening

Darkness came early in December, yet laughter lit up the room as CeCe, Ian, and JaNi sat to dinner. Keeping with the simple, hearty food that Ian preferred, the potatoes, beef, and carrots filled the single roaster that now graced the center of their table. Not one for pretense, Ian reached in with a large ladle and scooped out the mixture, placing a serving on each of their plates.

JaNi shouted, Wait, Uncle Ian, we forgot something!

CeCe and Ian watched JaNi run from the room, only to return with a single rose in a vase. Pushing it toward the center of the table, JaNi exclaimed, Now we can eat.

Ian looked at the youngster, asking, What's this all about?

Papa told me about his mother. She was my grandmother and she always had a flower on the table when they ate their meals. So we have to have a flower, too.

Reaching over to his son, CeCe ran his fingers through his son's auburn curls. That is so kind of you to remember what I told you.

Well, when I'm not here, I hope you remember things about me, Ian said, as he sat to his meal.

I'll remember everything about you! I'll get our big cooking pot and put lots of stuff in it and put it in the oven and say, 'that's our supper cooking', just like you do, JaNi said, as he stuffed a potato in his mouth and mumbled through the last words.

Well, youngster, when I'm gone, I'll make sure you get that cooking pot, Ian laughed, now eat up, your papa's got a big doings tonight and has to get ready. Can't be holding him back with our silliness.

CeCe looked to Ian; their eyes met in a knowing gaze. As Ian averted his eyes, CeCe felt the angst that had been coursing through his bones more often of late.

Ian's mentioned again about being gone from us. He's been talking about MacGregor. I don't like it. I don't want MacGregor. I don't want him to leave. My dreams say that no good will come of his leaving us, yet he keeps saying the 'Curse of the MacGregors' will befall the family if I don't go back.

I remember the words in The Histories. 'Be warned, if the truth of the MacGregors is not resolved before midnight at the end of a score and one year, MacGregor crops will fail, their children will grow weak, and the old will die. Those left behind will weep and naught can stop the curse, but the truth.'

Something else about the curse bothered CeCe, as the words filtered through his mind.

'Mothers of the heir all die young, many in childbirth. Those who live longer only bear girl children after an heir is born, but all die before the heir reaches manhood.'

Looking across the table at JaNi a shard of guilt struck his heart.

Linde doesn't know about the curse. I didn't know about it until I met Ian and read The Histories. I wonder what will happen to her when JaNi reaches manhood? Does it only count if you're living as a family?

CeCe toyed with the food on his plate, remembering the strange things that happened when they lived in the cabin on MacGregor Land. How could he explain a perfectly functioning chimney that didn't smoke? Ian said it was because the natural world would protect him; that he could command nature on the lands of MacGregor. Nature did seem under his command when he chanted some strange words from The Histories. Trees began swaying without a breath of wind, and the images of his father and grandfather appeared. He thought of the time he was anxious for spring and wished for flowers to paint; flowers appeared through the snow along with the image of his mother. Other things had happened during their stay on MacGregor, but always he tried to explain them away with reason and logic. Deep in his heart, he knew MacGregor was not like any other place. Flowers through snow would make sense if they were crocuses, but wild roses were another matter. Something inside him told him he wasn't alike any other man when he stood on MacGregor, but that knowledge shackled him like a prisoner.

Ian tapped his fork against CeCe's plate dragging him from his thoughts. Eat. You're going to have a busy night. Need something in your belly.

* * *

Inside the gallery, artists hawked the uniqueness of their work and drew onlookers closer to their paintings and sculptures. Amidst the throngs of artists, men and women flaunted jewelry and finery that was the splendor of Parisian society. Top hats, tails, bow ties, pristine white gloved hands escorted women sparkling with jewels and gemstone dresses. Long gloves clung to bare arms while hands held bright fans that waved furiously to friends while giving a breath of air to their owners in the crowded gallery. Excitement raged.

Comfortable in his element, CeCe strode toward a waiting butler and handed him his long mink coat, then stood before a mirror briefly examining his look. His tuxedo fit his body perfectly, right down to his highly polished shoes. No one there knew he scavenged the very thrift shops where they tossed their old clothes for the clothes he now wore. Mink coats weren't in his budget, but a fine coat discarded for the sake of a new one by the very people in this room, along with a handy tailor sworn to discretion, gave him the best of both worlds. Fine clothes on a student's budget.

His Scot red hair dragged across his shoulders and down his back as he gave his mane a brief shake. He raised his chin a bit, ready for the onslaught of his competitors, as a man called to him, Chaumbers! Here.

Turning to the voice, he greeted his friend, Henri Freneau, Bonjour, Henri! I need to get my piece in place. Go on in. I'll find you later.

* * *

As a bell rang, the crowd hushed. The emcee announced, Madames, Monsieurs, Mademoiselles please take your places. We will begin the auction, momentarily.

Again, the emcee made his announcement as he walked through the gallery. People filtered to the sitting area near a stage that had been set up for the presentations.

The emcee retook the stage. Welcome. This evening we are, with the cooperation of our finest artists, auctioning their work for a number of charities to assist homeless children within the city. Please feel free to empty your wallets. A soft laughter rose in the crowd. As in the past, the artist will announce themselves and describe their piece. I will then permit bidding. Now, to the first piece.

The crowd clapped and exclaimed as paintings in all mediums – oil, watercolor, tempura, casein and others, along with sculptures in stone, marble and glass moved up and down the stage as the auction proceeded. Thousands of francs passed through elegant hands.

CeCe rushed to the table where Henri sat with other friends, placed a hand on his shoulder while leaning toward him, snarled, They refused to let me display my work on the floor and are insisting it be presented while cased. No one has seen it!

No. This is unfair, Henri hissed, damn.

Henri turned toward him and CeCe, catching the look in his eye asked, What do you know of this?

My cousin Lizzette is angry you haven't called her. It's her way of getting even. If no one sees the piece, bidding will stay low; you will take a loss. I should have warned you.

I don't understand. What does Lizzette have to do with this evening?

My father said that Lizzette was driving them all crazy with talk of you. This is the result. Her father is on the committee.

The evening wore at CeCe's nerves as the hour grew later. Already thousands of francs had been spent and some of the major buyers talked of leaving. He looked again at the catalog of presenters. While marking off pieces sold, he heard the announcer call his name. He brushed an unsteady hand through his hair, took a deep breath and smiled broadly.

Your attention. Our last auction is to be handled very differently, the emcee announced, then whispered into the microphone as though speaking to a confidant, "as we all know, CeCe Chaumbers has been making headlines lately with his long list of beautiful companions and, of course, his recent exhibitions.

Our next item has not been shown on the floor; in fact, other than the artist, no one has ever seen it. When Monsieur Chaumbers submitted his entry, a comment was made that he could clean his brush on a canvas and someone would purchase it for thousands, such is his recent reputation. Our foundation representatives thought this a clever statement and decided that the next and our last piece, would be auctioned, he took a breath, held it, then said, sight unseen. Will Monsieur Chaumbers present his work?

Undeterred by the remarks of the emcee, or the chortling in the crowd, CeCe wheeled a large platform onto the stage. On it was a box, typical of how he shipped pieces, fully enclosed and bound with heavy straps. He stood before it as they handed him a microphone. He lowered his head. When the crowd noise subsided, he simply stated, I present to you a triptych painting, oil on linen and crystal with a hand-carved frame.

Pausing for a moment, he thought back on the past two years of painstaking work he had put into the piece and how he had waited for just such an auspicious occasion to present it, then nodded slightly to the emcee to begin the bidding.

A lone voice called out, Why should we bid on what we cannot see? Tell us why we should bid on your piece!

The pride that CeCe's mother had recognized in her son at a young age, and often chastised him for, welled up in him. He raised his chin and gazed down his patrician nose at them, saying, I am, he paused, Chaumbers. He spread his arms wide and bowed. The lights illuminating the stage reflected off the satin lapels of his tuxedo. Standing straight with shoulders back, he looked the part of a gladiator before the lions.

Young ladies, who admired his good looks and charming manners, cheered and called his name. Chaumbers. Chaumbers. Chaumbers.

CeCe stood, chin held high, his head cocked a bit, with his weight on one leg and his other toed in slightly, waiting for the crowd to quiet. He moved his head a little as though considering a thought; a long lock of his Scot red hair slipped along the shoulder of his tuxedo. The crowd watched him with curious silence. He lifted the microphone. His powerful voice with its deep resonant tones carried to the hushed crowd. His sensuality radiated as the words rolled off his tongue. This work, unseen by any other human, is all of me. The gift I have been given pulsed through me. When I took up the brush, dipped it into the oils, and touched the canvas, I knew my purpose. I worked alone, with only my gift and purpose guiding me, and when I finished, I wept. He lowered his head in a small bow, and then motioned for the emcee to begin the bidding.

Do I hear an opening bid?

Five thousand, a female voice called out, as she waved her fan frantically in the air.

Instantly, 'ten' overtook the five, when fifteen and twenty followed. The bidding flashed through the crowd like a wildfire. Male voices soon overcame the ladies' calls and the number broke one hundred. The crowd audibly gasped as the next number jumped to one-fifteen.

One-twenty. One-twenty-five. The crowd held their breath waiting for the next number when an elderly man shouted, We are not children, bidding on a toy; I've seen his work. One-seventy-five!"

The emcee called out the amount, One hundred seventy five thousand is bid; do I hear more?

As auction fever struck, another called out, Enough of the games. Two hundred.

The man bidding one seventy-five pushed forward. Wait!

CeCe watched in amazement at what suddenly seemed an uncontrolled mass of people pressing forward as a man pushed toward the competing bidder. When next to him, he called out, Two-ten.

The competitor called to the crowd, The gentleman is playing a game that I will win. Sir, he shouted to the emcee, Two-thirty!

CeCe held his breath; the amount staggered his mind. His work sold well, but this…

Instantly, two-fifty followed.

The emcee called out the amount, Two hundred and fifty thousand, he paused, a quarter of a million, is bid for a work that has not yet been seen, do I hear more? Looking to the bidder of two-thirty, the gentleman bowed, as his wife grabbed his arm, and called, To you, sir, with my congratulations.

When the crowd remained silent, the emcee called, Sold. Will monsieur please come to the stage?

A man and woman stepped onto the stage and a curtain concealed the painting. CeCe disappeared behind the makeshift screen with the buyers. After a hair-raising twenty minutes had passed, they reappeared. The emcee pushed a microphone toward the man. Monsieur, can you tell us, was your bid worth it?

Butlers and maids held their breath. Those sipping on glasses of champagne, stopped sipping, as the man answered, Had I seen it first, I would have begun bidding at a million, for I would have it at all cost. Thank you, Monsieur Chaumbers, for the privilege.

Cheers and shouts erupted from the crowd, but instantly quieted as the emcee handed CeCe the microphone, asking him to display his work.

CeCe disappeared behind the screen for a moment, then reappeared and motioned to remove the screen.

The cadence in his voice caused his words to sound like poetry as he announced, The case you see is of rosewood, which I, myself, carved then hand-rubbed with oil to bring out the beauty of the wood. Each scene in the carvings depicts another scene from the life of my subject.

Pausing a moment for those closest to see the carvings of the young Mary being told of her future child, Joseph's visitation by an angel and the trip into Bethlehem, CeCe bowed, then pulled at the carved case. The rosewood panel moved aside, and to the rear, displaying a painting. CeCe described, In this, the Christmas season, I thought of the young woman in a manger, bearing her first child, born into the hands of his father, Joseph.

The crowd gasped; murmurs rose and fell like the tide. The painting wasn't the pristine scene of a Madonna and child with Saint Joseph standing nearby as a stoic non-involved bystander, but rather of a woman in the midst of childbirth with Joseph receiving the newborn Christ child into his hands. Painted in the Trompe L'oille fashion, the crowd immediately became part of the scene's reality. Those closest put their hands together in the fashion of praying.

CeCe closed the panel and the mechanism moved the front to the back. Another panel and other carvings emerged of the Christ child growing up, playing ball with other children, before the priests in the temple and the Sermon on the Mount. When it moved aside, a painting of Christ crucified came into view and once again, pulled the crowd along. Women dabbed at their eyes as tears flowed; men bit their lips so as not to concede to their emotions.

CeCe explained, At his birth, his death was foretold. Mary, his mother, was a grieving woman who saw the death of her child in the most heinous manner. We are here, with her, as she is given her child's body.

Women cried harder as the mother's grief poured onto them. Not a copy of the Pietas gone before, with a composed and saintly mother, CeCe had painted Mary, holding her son's bleeding body, her clothes, covered in his blood. Tears streamed down her face through a smudge of blood; his lifeless body, limp in her arms.

Again, the mechanism moved the painting out of sight. A panel, painted to look like a massive stone, took its place. For three days he lay in his tomb, he said.

Pulling the panel aside, the mechanism showed only a darkened shiny surface. CeCe reached over and moved his hand along the edge until he felt the switch and flipped it. Ever so slowly, a light crept up the painting as the crowd ascended with it. The light touched the bottom of clouds drifting on the painted surface of crystal as though a sunrise were beginning. Someone turned off the lights; the painting held their focus. As the light moved up the panel to illuminate it fully, the image of the risen Christ emanated from it. The brilliance filled the stage.

CeCe's voice carried to the crowd, "As he suffered for all of us, he weeps this night for the children of Paris forced to live in poverty, forced to make their living on the streets selling themselves or begging for food. I ask you, please, give to this charity to help the children. Look beyond the auction and deep into your hearts. As Christ is our brother, so he is theirs and they are ours. Please help them.

I am Chaumbers. I am for the children of Paris. CeCe bowed.

As he stepped from the stage, the crowd erupted in cheers, screaming his name. Those near him reached forward to touch him.

As he approached the table, Henri shouted, Well, done, CeCe. Fantastic!

CeCe said, to those nearby, The charity is for the street kids of Paris. Children of the night, hungry, doped up, pushing drugs and selling themselves to live. The charity gives them safe places to sleep, doctor visits, and other help. Children are dying throughout the city because of how they have to survive. I urge you to help them.

Quietly to Henri, he said, Children of the street, like I was.

Like you? Henri asked.

From the burgeoning crowd surrounding them, a man, immediately recognized as Lizzette's father, stepped forward. Chaumbers, he said, my daughter's complaints about you ignoring her are incessant, but I thank you for your support in this cause. We are getting even more donations than expected. Merci. Turning back for a moment, he said, I'll expect you to continue ignoring her.

* * *

Early the next morning, Jamy dragged himself from bed when the smell of breakfast overpowered his urge for more sleep. He slipped into a pair of jeans and tossed on a rumpled shirt, then made for the small kitchen area where JaNi dug into a pile of toast.

Bonjour, he mumbled.

Papa, your picture was in the paper. JaNi thrust a paper into his father's hands. Uncle Ian read me the article. It said you sold your painting for two hundred and fifty thousand. That's fantastic!

You worked hard on that piece, Jamy, Ian said, as he set a plate of eggs in front of him. If all your work takes you that long, two-fifty, or half, won't make ends meet.

That was a signature piece, Ian. There won't be many that intricate, but as a signature piece, it shows the variety of expertise I bring to any commission. That's what I need, commissions. Once I graduate, I can teach at the university, or the Louvre doing restorations, to make ends meet. I need something stable until I can make a living on commissions. You're right, one piece doesn't make ends meet, but a piece to garner that much money will bring me a great deal of publicity. It is a good beginning. The notoriety will bring in the commissions.

That's what I'm planning on, Jamy. That's what I'm planning on, Ian said.

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CHAPTER 2

Repulsive. That's what it is. Look at him. Look at the way he's touching her, Antonio said. His eyes glittered with distain; he curled his lips at the scene before him.

Look at the way she's arching her back! Look, she's answering his body. See the way she consents to his every wish. He only touches her and she is his, Paulo whispered with urgency. Fantastic! They're staring each other down – the electricity, the connection.

Why do you concern yourself with him, Paulo? He is so far beneath us on the social scale that I am surprised Monsieur Freneau allows him through the door, Antonio snapped.

Antonio barely finished the sentence as Paulo pushed him away, saying, Get out of my way. I can't see them. Look, Antonio, his tuxedo accentuates his perfect physique. Her body fits right into his. He's magnificent.

I can't imagine why you'd bother with the likes of him, Antonio sighed. I'm going to get a drink.

Paulo followed Antonio on his trek to the bar. "There isn't anyone like him. He sets this room on fire with his energy. Every move he makes is nothing more than pure sex. See how tense she is. She wants to culminate in ecstasy, but he's holding her off. See how he moves her body with his, then holds her away a bit. A tease, all a tease.

Look! Look! He's arching his back. See how she responds. he's only holding her with one hand. One hand in the small of her back and she is nearly… Her head is nearly touching the floor. What control! What poise!

Are you enjoying the scene? Henri asked his friends. Chaumbers has everyone speechless. I haven't seen anyone leave since the dance began.

Paulo adores him, though I can't imagine why. And, I don't know why you bother with him, Henri; he is nothing more than an impoverished artist. Why, he doesn't even have any proper blood in him. God knows what mongrel dropped him, Antonio sneered.

Henri consoled him, saying, "You know we've been friends for some time, mon ami, and the reasons are my own. Nothing ever changes with Paulo. He often admires men who are very much unlike himself. Chaumbers is an upstanding friend and I'm glad to call him mine.

Monsieur, une boisson, s'il vous plaît, Henri ordered, and waved at the bottle of Scotch on the bar. The Scotch is excellent. Have one, and leave Paulo to his watching, Henri said, and turned toward the dance floor where Chaumbers still had the onlookers in awe. He frowned, saying, Papa is heading toward us and he doesn't look pleased.

Henri, how dare you allow this spectacle to continue. I insist you stop that man immediately. I will not have such a display in my house. Henri's father, Ambassador Freneau, spat the words as his son winced.

Papa, I can hardly stop… Oh, Oh, here comes the young lady's father. Perhaps we should go elsewhere; but, ah, it is too late. Henri stepped back as another man joined their group at the edge of the viewers.

Ambassador Freneau, I wasn't aware a Frenchman could perform in such a manner. I am surprised; this was most unexpected.

I'm sorry, Señor, if this action causes embarrassment. The young man is my son's friend and though I have suggested many times that he is not welcome in my home, he continues to show up.

Ambassador, there is no cause for concern. I understand he is quite a famous artist who has recently been involved with an important charity function. Very impressive. I've come to compliment you on the fantastic exhibition. My daughter is well versed in the tango, as it is a dance inspired in the streets of our beloved home, Buenos Aires, but never have I seen a foreigner dance it so impeccably. His footwork is not that of a European, but that of a true connoisseur of dance. See how he puts his toe forward as he steps. He is even improvising, as a true master should. I ask to be introduced to the young artist. There, it is ended; he is coming our way. I insist on meeting him, Señor Cablas said.

As the couple joined the viewers, CeCe reached his hand toward the older man who his partner had pointed out as her father moments before. As they shook, he said, Señor Cablas, I am, he paused for effect, Chaumbers, he paused again and bowed slightly, and have had the most enchanting dance with your daughter. May I compliment you on her beauty?

As the ebony haired woman took her father's arm, she said, Papa, tell him you will allow him to spend more time with me. He thinks you will disapprove if we dance too often.

Ambassador Freneau whispered into Señor Cablas' ear, It is not safe; he is well known to the bedrooms in this city.

CeCe shot an angry glance at the ambassador, but held his tongue.

As usual, Henri's father is in his chronic