On the other hand . . . she was right. He could not be shut out of that party. He, and not Mother, was going to control House Massot. In three years he would get all his shares, including the large block she voted.

To stay away would be to concede defeat. To legitimize her takeover of the company.

So, he would go, then. But he would not create a scene. He would need to speak to Grandmother about that.

Tom took his Limoges cup over to the window; even at this hour, cars were streaming past, lighting up the soft night with garish lights. Paris was a modern city, full of bustle, full of money. It was in this city that his father had raised himself from a poor apprentice jeweller, eking out a living repairing watches and resizing rings, to the founder of a great empire, a great marque. Papa had wanted Tom to carry it on, as his heir and only child, and his mother, who had never had to strive a day in her life, was dismantling it.

He was dreading the party. There must be some kind of confrontation. He loved his mother, but right now he disliked her heartily for making him go through all this.

It sounded like an insane extravagance. Sending Massot jewels free to hundreds. This on top of outrageously costly renovations and closing the fashion division. Well, the shareholders would have had enough. He would let Maman enjoy her last hurrah, and then there would be the shareholders’ meeting, and it would all be over.

He would have to grow up fast. To rebuild Papa’s empire, first. And then try to rebuild his family.

Chapter 27

Chapter 27

“The body of Christ,” said Fr. Sabin.

“Amen,” Sophie responded.

She extended her tongue; the altar boy held the paten beneath her chin, and the old priest reverently laid the Host upon it. Sophie stood and made her way back to her pew; Holy Communion was over; she knelt down again and tried to pray.

It was hard, today. Sophie stared at the smooth wood, its knotted surface worn glossy and soft from hundreds of years of parishioners kneeling, clutching, sitting. The dark pews were a little small for twenty-first-century bodies, but nobody complained; they were beautiful, as was the tiny church.

Sophie fixed her gaze on the bronze statue of the Sainte Vierge above the altar and tried to concentrate, to give thanks for the Sacrament. But the Virgin was holding her son, clutching him to her as though she would never let him go.

The image of motherhood filled her eyes with tears, and she had to turn away. Tom was here. In Paris—with that interfering old witch! With Katherine—but no, she mustn’t call her an old witch—that was not Christian charity. Sophie struggled, and turned her gaze to the stained glass windows; they had a nice safe picture of Sainte Genevieve.

“Let us pray,” Fr. Sabin said.