Chapter 2
Miquela
Miquela had her fair share of French winter truffles in life. Her family may have been Spanish, but she grew up in southern France – and anyone who was anyone in her home neighborhood served Perigord truffles on appetizers and desserts at every big function.
Nevertheless, she would not tell her hosts that there was nothing special about being served the most sought-after truffle in the world. Not worth sharing when the woman next to her clapped her hands as soon as the server brought the platter of scallops into their private dining room at the region’s most esteemed French restaurant.The food is fine and most certainly French, but I forget that truffles aren’t as common on this side of the pond.At least her new companions hadn’t commented on her accent.They should hear me speak French. The worst accent. Miquela may have been fluent, but her tongue neverwanted to do it. Or at least not to the standards of the Frenchmen she knew.
English speakers were much more forgiving. Even thought it sexy. Until that one lady in the coffee shop…
“You must eat this all the time in Monaco,” Adele Thompson, the woman with an affinity for French cuisine, said. Her business voice was about one octave higher than the natural voice Miquela heard her use with her business partner, Etta Coleman, the last woman at the table. “Unfortunately, I’ve only had about three in my life.”
That is indeed unfortunate.“They didn’t have it here, but my family has an affinity for truffle shavings on their salads. Every night at dinner, we would have truffles in our salads.”
“That sounds… intense.” Etta looked torn between awe of such expense and bored with the idea. “Most of our palates can’t eat more than this.” She gestured for Miquela to have the first scallop.
She served herself, picking up one small scallop laced in black truffle shavings and a fine covering of Mornay sauce.Definitely interesting. She had cheese sauce with scallops before. She had truffles on scallops before. Both at the same time? She could hear her mother cursing out the chef in heavily-accented French.
Even more interestingly, she tasted the Gruyere cheese within the sauce before the truffles. Then again, Miquela often fancied herself a cheese aficionado. Her tongue had been trained to search out a finely aged cheese before anything else, even truffles.
“Delicious.” Miquela wiped her mouth with a napkin while her hosts helped themselves. “Just like my mother used to make… if Mother cooked, of course.”
Her hosts chuckled. Great. She had forgotten that both Adele and Etta were self-made successes who came from lower-classbackgrounds. One would never guess looking at them in their Dior dress and Armani suit.
This dinner was purely business. One of Miquela’s first stops on her road to taking over America in the name of Bolivar was the newly merged Thompson-Coleman Enterprise that was in the market for new investors around the world. They wanted to expand some of their dealings to the Mediterranean – Etta was particularly keen, since her eyes were often set on Italy, for whatever absurd reason.Italy’s not that great. Compared to Spain and France, anyway. They had good fashion and even better cuisine, though, she would give the Italians that.
If Miquela liked what these two had to offer well enough, she would suggest that her family support the company’s expansion into France for a nominal return. The whole thing was God-awful boring, really. Miquela was having enough trouble as it was focusing on this business dinner since she was due to drive up to the Manoir to make short work of June in her bedroom.
It would be a late night for both, but oh so worth it.Good thing I made an appointment for later instead of dropping in.
Dinner continued with more French food and enough trite conversation to last Miquela the rest of the year. She was asked all the usual things these Americans asked whenever they encountered a Monegasque for the first time: what was Monte Carlo like from her perspective? How often did she travel? Was it true that everyone was more superficial than in LA? Had she ever seen Grace Kelly? What did she mean that was before her time?
Both Etta and Adele had been to Monaco multiple times, but Miquela was quickly learning that she was a strange specimen. It was starting to wear thin.For some reason, it never bothers me when June asks me these questions.Perhaps it was the sense of adventure in her eyes. These two knew that Monaco was already old hat.
Adele had to leave shortly after the main course. She gave Miquela a polite kiss on the cheek and waved her fingers at her as if she should be so impressed. The moment she was shown out by the maître ‘d, Etta conspicuously coughed into her hand and asked the waiter to bring the French white wine she best liked at this place.
“Ah, Pessac-Leognan!” Miquela exclaimed as the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc was brought out. “How did you know my favorite white wine?”
Etta waited until her glass was half full before responding. “Lucky guess. You seem like the kind of woman who likes her wine oaky. Me, too.”
“Good call.” Miquela grinned as her glass quickly filled as well. “It is some of the best in the world.”
Things were much more relaxing without Adele around. Not that there was anything wrong with the woman, per se, but her nervous energy and inability to talk about anything but business through dinner had made Miquela disconnect from her biggest appointment of the week. Why would she sit around and listen to that when she could think of better things… and people? Like June.I wonder what she’s doing right now.Miquela almost choked on her wine when she caught herself thinking that.As if I even have to ask... it’s Friday night…Not only that, but why would she think of her anyway? Out of all the women in the world, she was thinking of… well, she was thinking of a woman she intended to spend thousands of dollars on a month. No other woman could say she had that honor.
Miquela still couldn’t believe that she had to raise her bid. No problem with that, but who else could be vying for June’s fake affections? She was more popular than even Miquela gave her credit for.
“So, how is America treating you?” Etta asked, leaning back in her seat and crossing her legs. Good. The business chat wasformally over. Any business that came up from now would be organic. “I hear you’ve taken up residence over by the river. Nice view.”
Miquela nodded into her wineglass. “I have an affinity for the water, if you understand.”
“Monaco thing, I’m sure.”
“Of course. But even before my family relocated there, they lived in Barcelona. Most of my family is from the Valencia region.” Miquela spent half her childhood there, before her parents decided whether to let her get her education in the homeland or in the international school in Monaco.
“I’ve never been to Valencia, but I have heard many good things about it.”
“You’ve been to Barcelona?”
Etta cracked a rueful smile. “Once or twice. Unfortunately, I’ve never stayed long.”
