PERFECT    Chapter One "Kick?" Thomas's back was to me as he stooped to toss another log and a bouquet of dried lavender onto the fire. "Yes?" "We need your help on something." He put his hand on the small of his back and straightened himself with a slight wince before turning to look at me, his bright blue eyes serious above his black-rimmed reading glasses. It was wintertime in Provence and we were sitting in our living room, sipping hot cider laced with rum, and enjoying a rare snowstorm that hid the valley and Les Alpilles, the Little Alps, behind a wall of whirling white. Lamps on the side tables and my long book table beneath the picture window cast a warm glow silhouetting the drinks tray and stacks of books against the starkness outside. The bookcases on the far wall were in shadows but above the mantle, a small light illuminated my most treasured painting, Polonaise Blanche by Renoir—skaters whirling on a pond in an almost pink snowstorm. Our Westie, Bijou, was curled up on the cut-stone hearth, sound asleep, a fluffy little indoor snowball unconcerned by the change in weather and uninterested in anything not directly related to her stomach or her comfort. "'We'?" I said, feeling a little like the dog, fully enjoying the snugness of my champagne-and-salmon paisley armchair and ottoman, and the cozy softness of my cashmere warm-up suit and the persimmon cashmere throw over my legs. It was absolutely heavenly, and I was completely unreceptive to anything that might mar this perfect day. "That sounds rather regal, Thomas. Are the snow and cold making you homesick for England? Missing the royal 'we'?" "Well, in fact it is the royal we." He swept fallen bits of bark and spattered coals back into the fire before replacing the iron screen. He rubbed his hands together. "Of course it is, darling." I returned to my needlepoint, a pale yellow canvas covered with bright red cherries with their stems and a few leaves attached here and there. I thought it would make an apt addition to the chaise in our bedroom. Some people have pillows scattered around their houses that say things like: 'Chocolate is Life.' Or, 'If You're Going to Run Away from Home, Please Take Me with You.' Or, 'Give Me the Luxuries of Life—It's the Necessities I Can Do Without.' A statement I can relate to fully. But the fact is, I'm not a talking-pillow kind of woman, I'm more interested in subtleties and refinements, in living the message, not talking about it. Living a life, not intending to. I loved the cherries because, in fact, our life was a bowl of them. What a thing to be able to say after years of running and hiding and lying. I've finally arrived at the safe harbor I pictured all those dozens of years ago. But interestingly, I'd never imagined a lover, a husband, a partner, a friend as a part of that vision, but here he was. My Thomas. If people knew what a completely unlikely couple we are, they would never believe it. "I'm not joking, Kick." There was an attention-getting sharpness to his voice. "Excuse me?" "We need your help. It's serious and highly confidential." "All right, Thomas." I put down my sewing and sat up a little straighter. I was an expert at confidentiality. I have more secrets than the Sphinx. You don't get to be the greatest jewel thief in history by blabbing what you know. Correction: the greatest retired jewel thief in history. "Tell me what it is." Thomas, one of Scotland Yard's most distinguished, highly decorated and revered inspectors, also claims to be retired, but things keep cropping up here and there, assignments, secret calls. All very hush-hush. I don't care for it. "The Queen has a problem." It was my turn to look at him over my reading glasses. "The Queen? And she needs my help?" Thomas nodded. "She does," he paused. "I do." I studied his face. "I think you've had too much rum, my darling sweetheart, or else we need to go to the sun for a rest." Being married, which I was very new to, is an extremely complicated affair. You make a number of serious promises, and if you want to keep a rich and honest relationship—honesty being something I was new to as well—you can't just say and do whatever you want, whenever you want. So, I bit the inside of my lip to keep from saying, No. Absolutely not. Whatever it is, I'm not interested. Find someone else. "I know what you're thinking." Thomas retrieved my mug and took it to the cocktail tray which he'd set on top of stacks of art and antiquities auction catalogues. "Just let me tell you about it." He measured double tots of rum and poured them into our mugs and then dropped a spoonful of clove-scented butter into each. Then, he added a small splash of steaming cider from a stainless steel electric pot that simmered away atop a massive volume of Impressionists that no one had looked inside of for years. He replaced the cinnamon sticks with fresh ones and stirred, absent-mindedly. The silence was deafening. There was a small—I might even say, smug—smile on his lips when he brought me my drink. "Careful, it's hot," he warned and then circled the coffee table and sat down opposite me on the matching ottoman. He took a slow sip of the steaming rum, placed his mug deliberately on the table, and then examined his hands, as though he were considering whether or not to have a manicure. "Thomas, if all of this pedantic pondering is some sort of police tactic designed to make suspects crack and spill the beans, as I believe you all call it, it's extremely impressive, and I thank you for sharing it with me. Now, kindly say whatever it is you have on your mind or pick up your book and read, because you're coming very close to ruining my perfect day." "Sorry," he grinned and put his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands together and stared deeply into my eyes as though he were searching for something. I suspected, deep-down, he was wondering if he could trust me. "Thomas. I'm going to count to ten." "There's been a robbery," he finally said. "Some of the Queen's Jewels are missing." © Marne Davis Kellogg