Andi's Dream - Autumn Adagio

by Duleigh

©Copyright 2024 by Duleigh

Chapter 1

Memorial day kicks off summer in Western New York, and in Springville it starts with John, Macy, and Paul performing John's dramatic reading of the Sullivan Ballou letter in church. John and Macy first did that dramatic reading in church when he was initially hired, but word got out and Springville asked them to take part in "Spring In The Park". They did the dramatic reading in the park on Howard Avenue, and that became a Springville tradition. The park was across the street from Paul and Andi's beautiful six bedroom Victorian home.

Paul, John, and Macy would perform on the small bandstand-gazebo in the park and draw small crowds of admirers. There they would warm up playing songs from the revolutionary war and the civil war. Macy would bring her violin, Paul and John would bring their guitars. Paul would also play his harmonica and both played recorders, but John was much better with them than Paul. The recorder is a small woodwind that Paul and John learned to play in school and John stuck with it and became quite good. It filled in as the fife for the revolutionary war songs.

They played songs like John Brown's Body, Battle Cry of Freedom, and Tenting Tonight on the Old Campground. Then, as the day cooled, Macy played the sweet strains of Ashokan Farewell on her violin and John read the Sullivan Ballou letter. The letter was a letter written early in the civil war by Major Sullivan Ballou, and in the letter he prepared his wife for his eventual death. Paul joined Macy's violin playing, by strumming along on his guitar. Considered one of the most beautiful, haunting, and sorrowful letters ever written, John had been reading it at Springville Congregational Church on Memorial Day since the day he was hired there, and he read it to remind his flock of what the cost of their freedom is.

This was the first time Andi heard it. At church on Sunday, she was the teacher's assistant in Children's Church and she heard the strains of Asokan Farewell, but she's been hearing them practice for weeks so she didn't think about it. Now sitting in the park in the early evening, the girls playing nearby in the park's sandbox with several neighbors' children, and she heard the words of Major Sullivan Ballou trying to comfort his wife as he heads into battle. She was stunned. John has a beautiful singing voice but his speaking voice reached out, unamplified, touching their hearts.

Veronica von Köster, a friend who lived just two blocks away, sat next to Andi and, like Andi, she was in love with a veteran. They listened to the beautiful haunting words from over a century ago, and as the letter closed, Paul and Macy ended the music with a long pull of the bow and one final chord on the guitar. Then John said the words that neither Andi nor Veronica were ready for.

"One week later, Major Sullivan Ballou died at the First Battle of Bull Run."

Andi and Veronica wept for the widows of soldiers, Andi's mom and her own husband were widows, while Veronica wept realizing how close she came to never meeting Josh who nearly died in a shot up AC-130 gunship. Andi finally looked up and she and Veronica were surrounded by Paul, John, Macy and Josh, Veronica's boyfriend. "That's how we start summer in Springville," said John. "A reminder that freedom isn't free."

"It costs a hefty fucking fee," muttered Paul and Josh under their breath, then they fist bumped.

"La fermer!" (shut your mouth), hissed Macy.

Josh looked hurt and said, "pardonnez-moi." (Pardon me)

Macy rolled her eyes and repeated herself more politely, "Excusez-moi, pourriez-vous s'il vous plaît fermer la bouche?" (Excuse me, could you please be quiet?)

"Oui, douce dame, je le ferai." (Yes, sweet lady, I will.) said Josh.

"Nice!" said Paul as they started packing up Andi and Veronica's folding chairs. "Where'd you learn the French lingo?"

"Well, ah had ta pay attention to something in fuckin' high school… OW!" Macy let loose with a rapid fire string of French as she bopped Josh in the head with her violin case.

"Really classy, wing-nut," said Veronica. (Wing-nut is a derogatory word for Air Force people, especially fliers.)

"I had to lighten it up," whispered Josh. "You and Andi were looking suicidal."

"So what else do you do in the summer, besides watch the garden grow?" asked Andi.

"We cruise," grinned Paul.

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Chapter 2

They gathered for a memorial day picnic at Paul and Andi's house. The twins laughed and squealed as they ran about playing while music from the high school band across the street in the park filled the air. Friends happily chatted with friends and the warm sun shined down on them all. "Viens ici et assieds-toi mon amour!" (Come here and sit down, my love) called John. He was sitting on a chaise lounge and was urging Macy to join him.

Children running about, laughter, music and the mouthwatering scent of chicken covered with Chiavetta's Marinade roasting on the grill. Josh and Veronica soon showed up with a large bowl of cold pasta salad and Macy waded in the cool, clear waters of the swimming pool with Andi. Je viens! (I'm coming!) Macy called to John, and she got out of the pool and dried off. She sat between John's legs as he reclined on a chaise lounge and leaned back against her man. Soon, Lucy and Gus arrived with a cooler full of refreshments. Paul handed Andi and Macy tall cool glasses of Arnold Palmer style Iced Tea, Macy's current favorite temptation.

"Here you go darling," said Paul as he handed Macy the drink. "If you ever tire of that short stick-in-the-mud that you married, you can come join Andi and I." He waggled his eyebrows at the tall, slim, Nubian beauty.

"Jean? I haven't tried to stick him in the mud. It may be fun? Will it not?"

"Let's try it at the cabin after it rains," said John as he wrapped his arm around Macy and held her close. He snuggled with her and nibbled her ear and whispered French obscenities in her ear, promises for later that night.

How did she get so lucky? As his arms, once hated, now desired, wrapped around her, she wondered how did it suddenly turn out so right? The sun was warm, and the breeze was perfect and Macy felt her mouthwatering from the scent of the Chiavetta's chicken. This was the day she always wanted: friends, children, and laughter. She snuggled back on John as the sun warmed her up.

Macy closed her eyes and dreamed of her youth for the first time in a very long time. They were the only black family in Lac d'Eau Froide, a tiny hamlet near Blanc-Sablon, Quebec, where young Marie Tremblay went to school. Blanc Sablon means white sand, but it wasn't white sand, it was snow. It was cold and ugly there. The highest temperature she could remember was 78° (25.5°C). It was always humid and cold. In the winter, the normal temperature was 2° (-16°C). And there wasn't a tree in sight. It was like living on a tundra or maybe on a high mountain slope.

And they were so isolated. Maria lived with her father Jacques Tremblay, and her older brothers Valentin and Roland on the very eastern edge of Quebec and there was no road west linking them up with the rest of Quebec. It was like Quebec didn't want them. There was a road west that went 69 km (43 miles) to the village of Old Fort, but after that, nothing. Beyond Old Fort was 425 km (264 miles) of wilderness. Their only way out of Blanc-Sablon to Montreal and the civilization it promised was a rutted road eastward that became the Trans-Labrador Highway. If you wanted to go to metropolitan Canada, you had to take a ferry across the St. Lawrence river to Newfoundland, then take a ferry across the Gulf of St. Lawrence to Nova Scotia, and then catch a bus for a full days ride westward to Montreal. Two full days of non-stop travel, if you don't miss a connection. Any missed connection would cost 12 hours of waiting for the next ferry or bus.

Marie's dad and her brothers were fishermen and spent their days fishing for cod and haddock. The joke among the townsfolk of Blanc-Sablon was Sablon blanc, pêcheurs noirs (White sand, black fishermen) In school she was ignored or hated by her classmates. She was taller and smarter than her classmates and much prettier, even though she ignored the few compliments she got. For a young girl, when you told you're ugly by 20 people and pretty by one, you discard that individual's opinion. Unfortunately, that individual opinion never came from her parents. The day that started Marie Tremblay's revolt was a day in her freshman year of high school.

"Basketball today girls," said Mister Gagnon, the gym teacher. "Emma and Maria you're our captains please come up here and pick your teams. Not you Marie, I said Maria. Learn to listen." Marie was mortified. She loved basketball. It was the only game she ever played with her older brothers. She's taller, faster, stronger and better than any of these girls. If not a captain, she should be picked first, but that didn't happen. Like always, she was ignored. When the two teams were picked, she stood alone as they went off and played. They had an even number of girls in the class. How could she be ignored?

She stood on the sidelines at the mid court line, unpicked and angry. She had enough, and she was going to do something about it. As the play moved from her right to left, she dashed out on the court and stole the ball from Alice Roy, who was lollygagging along, then drove to the basket behind Alice for a perfect layup. Macy recovered the ball and waited under the basket, dribbling slowly, daring them to take the ball from her. All the girls realized what had happened. The game changed from six versus five to eleven versus one. Marie waited for them to cross the mid court line as they headed toward her. That's when she charged. She drove straight at them and anyone who stood in her way got knocked on their ass.

She made it to the mid court line then adjusted her steps and just as she planted her foot behind the three point line; she let fly and scored the first girl's three-point shot in her school's history. She continued running, and she recovered the ball as Mr. Gagnon shouted, "Marie Tremblay! You're not on the court, give the ball back!"

Marie dribbled off the court and into the girls' locker room, where she placed the ball on top of a locker. She changed quickly, not surprised at all that no one followed her. As she tied her sneakers, she noticed that Mr. Gagnon was standing next to her. "Where is the ball, Marie?"

"Touch me and I scream rape," said Marie, and she got up and walked away. "Espèce de cochon raciste!" (You racist pig!) she spat as she left. That was it. She was not putting up with it anymore and she walked out of school, hopefully forever.

She stopped at the convenience store on her way home. She was thinking of buying ​la boisson non-alcoolisée (soft drink) but instead started leafing through a Parisian fashion magazine. Such silly looking women. They were homely! Marie was sure that she could look better, especially if she had a good makeup artist.

"Marie, the library is a hundred kilometers that way," said Mr. Bouchard, the only person in the Blanc-Sablon area that could be considered her friend. By "one hundred kilometers that way" he was referring to Redbay, Labrador, the only nearby town large enough to have a full size library. It was actually closer to two hundred and seventy kilometers that way.

"You are not a lending library? No?" said Marie with an enormous grin, but she continued to scan the magazine. Then she saw it. An advertisement for models at a photography studio in Montreal. No experience needed! She took a notebook out of her book bag and wrote all the information from the ad in her notebook. Montreal isn't far, right? "How far is it to Montreal, Mister Bouchard?" she asked as she put the magazine back on the rack.

"Two thousand two hundred kilometers."

Marie frowned and said, "There's no way to get there from here."

Mister Bouchard tapped away at his laptop. "No, little tall one," his pet name for her. "A bus ticket would cost seventy eight dollars."

"Bus Ticket?"

"Oui, you take the ferry to St. Barbe in Newfoundland and the bus station is there at the ferry landing.

"Merci, Mister Bouchard!" and Marie ran all the way home. When she got there, no one was home. Her father and brothers were probably out on the boat. If not, they were at La Palourde Heureuse (The Happy Clam) a fisherman's bar. And her mother? Marie was never sure what her mother did or where she went. Her mother was rarely at home.

Marie called TransCanada bus lines and discovered that Mr. Bouchard was right, the bus left St. Barbie at 7:24 PM; she had plenty of time. But she had a 90-minute ferry ride on an old clunker first.

Marie packed her backpack with clothes and underwear and she counted her cash, almost three hundred dollars. It was all money from chores and working on the boat. There was nothing in Lac d'Eau Froide or Blanc-Sablon to spend the money on, so it accumulated. She made her bed, grabbed her ID card and wallet, and left. There would be no goodbyes, no note. It was clear to Marie that her birth without testicles was a major disappointment to her family. She couldn't remember the last kind words her mother told her. To be honest, she couldn't remember the last words her mother said to her at all.

The ferry from Blanc-Sablon to St. Barbe on the big island of Newfoundland was indeed on une vieille péniche. To be honest, it wasn't a barge, but it was quite old. The ride in her father's fishing boat was smoother and quieter. It took two hours to complete the ninety-minute crossing because the old clunker could barely make headway against the swell. The boat was filled with tourists and their cars, Newfies, and a few locals going to St. Barbe for groceries. At least there were a few whales and quite a few dolphins to look at, animals that her father calls his competition.

Finally, they arrived at St. Barbe, and Marie stepped off the boat and dashed to the bus. She made it to the bus on time and stepped aboard a passenger bus for the very first time. The bus, commonly nicknamed the Newfie Express, was quite nice. It was new and was used to haul tourists across the island of Newfoundland. It even smelled nice. The high-backed seats were comfortable and inviting compared to the ancient bus her former school used. She found a seat near the back, stowed her backpack on the overhead rack, then sat down for the three-hour ride to Port aux Basques on the western edge of Newfoundland.

As the bus traveled, people would move about the bus, and the men would glare at her. It caused her to wonder, haven't they ever seen a teenager before? Finally, a man sat next to her, pulled a book out of his pocket and nodded to her. "Howdy," he said in English, leaving Marie to wonder what he meant. Then he opened his book and started reading. Was he a westerner? Was he from Alberta or Saskatchewan? She was warned about them. Marie was told they hated the French language and people who spoke it. Maybe he's an American! It couldn't be. She hasn't been raped yet.

Marie tried to get some sleep, but she couldn't. She had someone from the prairie provinces next to her, or possibly an American (but she hasn't been raped yet.) She couldn't sleep, she had to know! "Where are you from?" she asked in stilted English. She always scored high in English at school and loved to listen to audio books in English.

"I'm from a place you probably never heard of," he replied in horrible French. His accent screamed American.

"Tell me. Please?"

"Des Moines."

"Monks? You're a Monk?" she started laughing and showed the first American on earth the smile that she hoped would grace a million magazine covers.

The man thought about it, rolled his eyes upward and nodded. Des Moines means "monks" in English. "It is a town far south of Winnipeg." Actually, he was south of west Ontario, but there were no landmarks that he knew of on the western edge of Ontario.

An American who lives south of Manitoba. Marie realized she was right on both guesses. He's a westerner and an American, and she still hadn't been raped yet. They talked for a while, he in his painful sounding French, she in her stuttering English, but they were able to understand each other that way. She found out he was a sailor in the US Navy and just got out. He was touring places he dreamed of going before he returned home to his family. She made up a tale of being a young fashion model and was touring her old hometown before returning to Montreal for a grueling photoshoot.

He talked about what it was like to tour the world but only see rolling waves through a porthole. He was an engine mechanic on a "gator freighter" the USS New York, LPD-21 and spent most of his time below deck. The only land he saw was Mayport Naval Station. The sailor told her tales of Florida, a land she dreamed about. Warm and sunny, a tropical paradise. He knew using the term gator freighter was a mistake. It's hard to see the humor in a slang term like that because the French translation is 'cargo alligator' which is far from funny so he had to explain to her that gator was a slang term for marines, then he had to explain what marines were.

For Marie's part, she was just delighted that she met a 26 year-old man (double her age!) that's not treating her like a child. She told him she was 20, but he saw right through that. He guess she was 17, but he was four years off. The American sailor realized immediately how young she was and he realized she was going to be prey for some of the men on the bus, so he assigned himself to be her chaperone. Occasionally a man would look her over but a word from the American and he would move along.

"You really shouldn't travel alone," said the American.

"I do not worry. My brothers told me how to handle myself." They taught her that a well-placed knee will stop an attacker in his tracks, and she's found that to be the case several times. The bus rolled through Newfoundland and Marie reveled in finding someone to talk to. Her thirteen years of social isolation were finally at an end, and they talked quietly as they rolled westward.

It was late when they reached Port aux Basques, Newfoundland. She said goodbye to her American friend and was halfway to the ferry when she realized she had never got his name. Soon she was on the MV Blue Puttees and realized that she should have spent the extra $18 for reserved seating. The reserved seats were wide and comfortable looking. She ran her hands over the plush upholstery and was immediately warned that the seats were reserved even though, in the end, less than half would be filled.

MV Blue Puttees, a RO-PAX ferry (Roll-On Roll-Off Passenger Ferry) of the Marine Atlantic fleet, was named after the Royal Newfoundland Regiment, who showed up to World War One wearing blue leg bindings (Puttees) and got the nickname the Blue Puttees. The passenger area of the Blue Puttees was huge, 96 cabins with two and four-bed layouts, plus 500 reclining seats with headphone jacks USB ports. There was an upper deck with panoramic viewing, but this was a night crossing. It was cold and there wouldn't be anything to see.

As the vehicles slowly made their way onto the Blue Puttees, Marie searched the passenger areas of the modern ship for a place where she could sit down without being charged an arm and a leg. She couldn't sit at the snack bar, that seating for customers only. They wouldn't let her sit on the deck, either. She offered to pay the $18 for reserved seating, but she was told that she had to wait before the Roll-On passengers were aboard.

She was also bothered by men who seemed to want to do more than talk. They plied her with beer, something she didn't like in the least, and several offered to take her back to a private cabin. She had an obnoxious admirer who wanted to touch her constantly, and he was scaring her. He was trying to convince her he was an NHL player. He started touching her breast through her shirt and she was terrified. She was close to tears when a familiar voice called, "Marie! There you are!" It was her American friend.

"Oui! Where have you been?" she gasped in relief.

He took her by the arm and said in his version of French, "Mother and I have been looking all over for you, come, let's sit down." Without a glance at her assailant, he led the terrified teen to the reserved seating area. There, they relaxed, and the cruise was much nicer for Marie.

"Thank you," she said in her stilted English. "I'm not sure what I was going to do."

"Don't let yourself be caught alone. These men are cowards and won't bother you if there are responsible people around… unless they are drunk." Then he asked a question that shocked her. "Why are you running away from home?"

"I'm not running away from anything but a bed and an occasional meal. I'm running toward a home, I hope." She told of how she felt all alone, how she was hated for being born female and how she was treated because she was black. "They didn't insult me or make fun of me; they didn't do anything." She looked at her hands, her long slim fingers that could mend a fishing net as fast as any other fisher on the dock, but no one would hire the fille de pêche noire, the black fishing girl, not even her father.

He tugged on her so that her head was on his shoulder. "Get some rest pretty girl. I'm afraid you have a long road ahead of you."

It was a long road, but she was unaware of how long it was. When she awoke, they were docking in Nova Scotia and she and her American angel had to part ways. He was heading south toward New England; she was heading upriver to Montreal. "You've been so nice to me; I wish there was something I could give you in thanks."

"I would love more than anything if you would freely give me your first kiss before some cad takes it." And there on the MV Blue Puttee she gave her first kiss, a precious gift to a white American. An act that would surely enrage her brothers if they ever found out.

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Chapter 3

The bus ride from North Sidney, Nova Scotia to Montreal, Quebec, was long and lonely. Without her American angel as she thought of him, the road was boring and alone. She took off her parka and wore it like a blanket with the hood over her face, and she was left alone as she tried to sleep for the rest of the trip.

After what seemed like an eternity of traveling alongside the St. Lawrence river (twenty-six hours), she had arrived! Montreal was huge and exciting! There was something to see everywhere. People filled the streets. Each building was a marvelous work of art, and the scents were intoxicating from flowers to roasting meats. Her nose, which was tuned to the odor of fish her whole life, was having a field day.

She finally found the address for the studio, 1325 Rue Baxter, the sign on the door said Le Beau Studios, Bienvenu (Welcome) and opening the door, Marie found a staircase to the second floor. It was a loft over what appeared to be a warehouse. Her knocks went unanswered, but the door at the top of the stairs wasn't locked. In fact, it wasn't latched, and it swung open with her knocking. " Bonjour?" she called as she opened the door.

A photographer with a burning cigarette hanging out of his mouth looked down at the setting screen of his camera as he stood in the middle of a cluttered room. Without looking up, he said, "How can I help you?"

"I'm here about the ad in Dame de Paris magazine."

"Did you bring any headshots?"

"I… uh… no. I am just starting and the ad said no experience needed."

"I'm sure you have some experience we can use, come, we are just starting a shoot." He led her to a studio that was dressed like a young girl's dream bedroom and in the middle stood a tall, muscular man. A tall, muscular naked man, with a huge erection.

Growing up in a tiny shack with her father and two brothers and a mostly absentee mother, Marie was not shocked at the sight of a cock. They had an outdoor shower to wash off the stink of the fish and often Macy would come home from school and see her dad or a brother in the shower with the curtain not drawn. No, the cock wasn't what shocked Marie; it was the tiny blond girl.

There was a tiny, naked blond girl that looked younger than Marie and she was kneeling next to the large stupid looking man. "Ok just the tip of your tongue this time Emily," the photographer called, and she extended her tongue to the enormous cock. The photographer leaned forward with the camera, shooting picture after picture, and he said things like "Perfect! Now look up at his eyes… just roll your eyes up, keep your tongue on his dick, yes!"

Stifling a scream of horror, Marie dashed from the room. She ran from home and spent so much of her hard earned money for this? To be a slut? Her only thought was to run back to Nova Scotia and find her American angel. He could help. Maybe he could find her a job in Iowa? Never once did she think of returning to the fishing village that hated her.

Marie dashed to the door, tears of rage and anguish filled her eyes. She was almost out of the studio when someone grabbed her wrist. A woman's voice purred, "Don't run my friandise au chocolat," (Chocolate treat) she had a Parisian accent! "Seth, he is such a pig! Has he been running ads again? No experience needed?"

Ashamed, Marie nodded her head.

"Let me look at you… how tall?"

"One eighty seven centimeters." (6' 2")

"And you weigh what… sixty four, sixty five kilograms?"

"Fifty nine," said Marie nervously. (130 lbs.) She probably looked heavier because of the parka and the loose man's jeans she wore.

"That is tall for a photographer's model, but…" the blond angry looking woman backed up and said, "Walk toward me like you want to kill me, but dare not to."

All Marie could think of was John Wayne. According to her father, John Wayne was the baddest badass of all. Marie walked toward the woman, thinking of an angry John Wayne, and the woman smiled. "We can work with this. Come with me, let's get out of here. You come to my studio. I am Romée Beaulieu; I find and train models from all over the world. I come here to find the petit poisson (minnows) before that pig can touch them. I cast my net and I find you!"

"I am a guppy?" asked Marie.

"Oui, but in a few weeks you will be un requin (a shark)!"

Marie furrowed her brows as they walked a few blocks to another studio. Shark does not have a good connotation at all unless you cook them on a barbeque grill. "So, you want me on the runway?"

"No, I want you to own the runway," grinned the woman. "What is your name dear?"

"Marie Tremblay"

"C'est n'importe quoi! (That's nonsense) There's no Marie Tremblay here, there is a Romée but that is moi. You, I shall call Macy until we find a proper stage name for you."

"What's wrong with Marie Tremblay?"

"Si commun! (so common) Every little girl in Quebec is named Marie Tremblay. You might as well be named Jim Smith!" They entered another studio, and she smiled. "Do not worry Macy. We shall find you a name. Claude! Come see my Quebecois belle femme!"

A skinny effeminate man appeared from behind yards of hanging fabric. He looked Macy up and down and said, "You found her! This is the one!" He looked at Marie from all angles and said, "Yes… come dear, follow me." And he led a very confused Marie behind yards of fabric hanging from above to an open studio with a stage and runway. Several loud clicks filled the air as Claude turned on the spotlights that glared down on the practice runway. "Step up here honey." Macy climbed up on the catwalk. Jeans, t-shirt, parka and backpack. All of it was hand-me-downs from her brothers.

Romée Beaulieu and Claude Roy (pronounced "wah") sat down and looked up at her and smiled. "That's the one Romée."

"Oui, she is." Then Romée snapped at Macy. "How old are you?" Marie paused, terrified, but Romée said, "Tell the truth. We can work with the truth, but if you lie and I get caught with an underage model not properly tended to, we both go to jail."

"Th… thirteen. I will be fourteen next month though!"

"That's fine," said Romée, as she and Claude nodded. "We can work with that. You will train for six hours a day, and you will continue your schooling every morning. None of my girls are stupid. If you work for me I want good grades."

"Yes ma'am!"

"Where are you staying?" Marie just shrugged. Staying somewhere was never part of her plan. She just left. "Just fell off the turnip truck? Ok, we have rooms in the back…"

This was the start of the busiest, craziest year of Marie's life. She worked with a tutor and three other girls every morning, then every afternoon she worked with Romée and Claude, developing her skills. Soon photographers came in and began photographing them and Marie gasped when she saw the picture. Mr. Bouchard and her American Angel were right. She was pretty!

She excelled in modeling. She had an ability to adjust her attitude for the clothing she wore. If she was wearing a light, fun sun dress she was joyful Macy, happy to be picking the flowers and soaking up the sun. If she was wearing leather and chrome, she was badass Macy, ready to take on the chief of the biker gang. She was instantly in demand by showrunners who saw Romée's stable of models. This 14 year old girl was becoming famous as the unnamed, but desired, La Femme Noire.

Romée was not allowing Macy out in public before she had several months of training, along with good grades in her schoolwork. The tutor concentrated on math, science, literature, and English as a second language. Macy excelled at all of them, especially writing. She loved to write stories of far-away lands she learned about just to write the story.

"Macy, do you have a name yet? It is time to apply for your passport."

"Oui, it is Marie-Claude Solange Dagenais." She chose Marie-Claude (pronounced Mare-Cloud) for a reminder of her old life, Solange (pronounced Solanzhe) because it sounded cool, and Dagenais (Da-zhe-nay) because she liked Pierre Dagenais who was playing defense for Les Canadiens de Montréal, the Habs.

Romée nodded her approval. "Big girl, big name." She had seen Macy practicing her new signature last week, so she thought it was about time.

"Macy, you are now Marie-Claude Solange Dagenais, you are an employee of the Beaulieu agency. We are different than most agencies. If you work for me and you listen to what I say, do what I tell you, you will make money. I will demand nothing but your obedience and thirty two percent. I ask no fees, I even pay for your travel, but if you disobey, you are on your own with the clothes on your back and one set of headshots. Do you understand?"

"Oui madam Beaulieu," said Marie-Claude.

"No, you do not. But when you meet the other girls out there you will. I do not hire models; I choose sisters and we work together as a team. We take care of each other, am I right Claude?"

"She is right Marie," said Claude. "No other agency operates like this. We don't make as much money as other agencies, but we have the best clients. The contracts we fill are the envy of the modeling world and our girls are paid better than anywhere else. Other models are aching to join our family."

The next day, Romée presented Marie-Claude with all the paperwork she needed to change her name and apply for a passport. With that complete, it was time for her first show. It was a fashion event there in Montreal, and Marie-Claude was going to be on display for the Quebecois fashion world to see.

Romée demanded a biography from all of her girls, and Marie-Claude turned it into a writing challenge. Daughter of a fisherman who hated her? No. Even if it was true, it's not what she wanted to be known as. She listed her previous occupation as an orphan and wrote that she was raised in a convent orphanage in Eastern Quebec. Her parents dropped her off at the orphanage on a dark and stormy night and returned to America.

"No," demanded Romée. "You can make up a previous life all you want but drop the last line."

"It's true!" insisted Marie-Claude.

"No, we both know it is not. We are going to be going to America soon, I do not want to accuse Americans of ditching unwanted babies in Canada. If they hate you they will tell you to go home. However, these Americans… if they like you they will open their hearts to you."

Marie thought of her American Angel and said with a grin, "tellement vrai!" (So true!)

"We don't want to piss off your future audience. Marie, you may be able to write good lies, but you can't tell one to save your life. The orphanage was run by the good sisters of Saint Hildegard of Vinzgouw… who the hell is that?"

"Hildegard of Vinzgouw?" asked Marie innocently. "She's the daughter of Count Gerold of Vinzgouw and Emma of Alamannia, the daughter of Hnabi, the Duke of Alamannia. Hildegard was Charlemagne's second wife and she…"

Romée held up a hand, stopping Marie-Claude. She could feel a headache coming on. She was sure that Marie-Claude looked all that up just for her bio. "The Sisters of Saint Hildi never told you anything about your parents. End of story."

"Yes ma'am," said Marie-Claude as she tried to hide her grin.

The Montreal Autumn Fashion show was Marie-Claude's first showing to the world, and she was a hit. If Marie-Claude had a problem on the runway, it was that she smiled a lot. Many outfits called for a stern look and she wasn't able to provide that look on her first time on the runway. It was so much fun! The crowd, the lights, the music, the applause. How do you frown through all that? Marie-Claude's cheerfulness spread and the other models had the same problem. It was a cheerful group of new models that strutted on the catwalk that afternoon. They didn't appear fearful as young models normally are at their first big show.

"What was that?" asked Romée Beaulieu after the show.

"I'm sorry," said Marie-Claude. The other models stood behind her. She's younger than any of the other models, but she's taller than all of them and she was the only black girl in the group, but most of all, she was known to all as Romée's daughter, so somehow she got elected as their leader. "It was fun!" she gushed.

"Imagine how much fun it will be if you bother to do it right next week!" shouted Romée. She punctuated her angry shout with a kiss on Marie-Claude's cheek.

The next week was Denver! They were in America! Maybe her angel will watch! Des Moines is near Denver, isn't it? The show in Denver wasn't as big as the show in Montreal, but it was important. There are not very many fashion shows in Denver, so it received a lot of attention. Marie-Claude was able to contain herself this time. She walked down the catwalk several times, and the crowd loved her. Cameras flashed with each step. She glared just over their heads. They'll never know she wasn't looking in their eyes. Then she'd turn and sashay back to the stage, her cute ass swinging in time with the loud music that was being played. Once behind the curtain, she ducked back to the dressing rooms for makeup and hair, then she lined up to go again.

The Americans were crazy! Their afterparty was incredible! It was loud and boisterous, the complete opposite of Montreal. That night 14 year-old Marie had alcohol for the first time in her life, and later she decided it was the last time too. In Denver, she was given a Squirt & vodka, which she found was delicious! It was followed by two more, which were followed by many more, and she enjoyed the party tremendously!

At least she was told she enjoyed it. Without warning, she was sick, and the party was over for her. Romée and Claude took care of their new star, who swore all night that she'd never drink again.

"Yeah, yeah, sure, sure," muttered Romée. "Do you have any idea how many times I have heard that?"

"Never," groaned Marie-Claude as she knelt next to a toilet. "Never again." It was a promise that she was able to keep other than the occasional glass of wine or cold beer at the Habs (Montreal Canadiens) game.

"Do you like ginger ale?" asked Romée as she held Marie-Claude's hair back so it wouldn't drop into the toilet.

"Nooooo… eeewww uuugggg…" and she vomited another full stomach.

"From now on you carry a glass of ginger ale with you. That way someone won't try to put another drink in your hand." She discovered it worked. If she walked around a party with a highball glass full of ginger ale, she didn't attract free drinks. That and avoiding parties helped a lot. She was beginning to truly enjoy her studies as her tutor branched out into psychology.

Marie-Claude was the star of the agency. She took the live shows all by storm: Miami, Los Angeles, New York, then London, Paris, Berlin, and Rome. Her head spun with the shows, the stars, the parties, and the money. She purchased a condo in Montreal with her proceeds, but she never bought a car. Most of her pay went into the bank. She wanted to make sure she would never go back to a shack in a fishing village.

Romée had a stable of over two dozen girls, and most were experienced models and were very competitive. The world of modeling is filled with models, but good openings for models are few. Marie-Claude was getting the shows that other girls would die for, and there were some that would kill for those opportunities.

Then came the day that Romée went to Marie-Claude and said, "Let's try photography."

"How hard can it be?" asked Marie-Claude with a huge smile.

It turned out to be much harder than she expected. The photographers that Romée employed worked quickly and were used to her agency's equipment. The outside photographers were slow, their hair and makeup people were slow, and for the first week Marie-Claude was going out of her mind, waiting. Everything was waiting. The only time the job seemed to do anything was when she finally got in front of a photographer and he took a dozen shots. Then everything stopped. They adjusted her hair or outfit or the backdrop or the lighting, then finally the photographer took a few more shots. This cycle repeated over and over until the shoot was complete. She brought her schoolbooks with her and had a lot of time to study. She did her schoolwork while waiting and before she knew it; she had doubled her income with still photography and she had her high school equivalency diploma.

After Marie-Claude posed for a year, she flew to Luxembourg city for a photoshoot in the old quarter of the city that summer. She was only escorted by Corrine Favreau, another model on the shoot and one of the most experienced models in the Beaulieu Agency. Marie-Claude truly felt adult as she hustled through the Frankfurt airport and caught a train to Luxembourg city. She was even offered champagne on the flight, but she turned it down in favor of a cup of tea.

She loved Luxembourg and she couldn't wait to get there. The city looked like a fairytale castle and there were so many French-speaking people that didn't make fun of her Canadian accent there. She met a black Belgian man named Rémy Martel who played hockey and spoke "Français Canadien" and he showed her around the city. She was enchanted with the beauty of the city and her handsome escort. However, after dinner, he wanted something that she wasn't ready for. As they walked along the beautiful River Alzette, Rémy whispered in her ear, "Let's go to my room and make love until dawn!"

"No, I am sorry Rémy, that is saved for marriage, and that will only happen after I am eighteen."

"How old are you?" the hockey player snapped.

"Fifteen," said Marie-Claude.

He glowered at her. "I'm not waiting three years for something you should be handing to me."

"Handing to you?" Marie-Claude almost shrieked. "I am one of the top models on earth! You're playing street hockey in a junior rated league. You should be honored that I am…" Marie-Claude didn't get the chance to finish that statement because he slugged her in the gut and walked away in a cloud of French obscenities.

He left her bent over in pain in a strange city at night. Alone, she struggled to find her way back to her hotel. Where was her angel now? Luckily, Luxembourg is not a huge city, and she found her way to the area where the hotel was. She just wanted to lie down and take some aspirin.

"Marie-Claude Solange Dagenais!" called a voice. It was Corinne Favreau, the other model with Marie-Claude at the Beaulieu Agency, and Otmar Dieter, a local photographer. "What is the matter? Did you give Rémy that precious cherry of yours?"

"He beat me," she wheezed.

They led Marie-Claude back to the hotel, but they took her to Corinne's room. "There, there," said Corinne with faux concern. "What happened with the hockey player?"

"He demanded sex after dinner," said Marie-Claude, allowing her anger to boil over.

"So? When a man buys you dinner it's fine that he expects a little fun in return."

"I bought him dinner. That beau cave bender!" (Beau cave = total idiot, a bender is a hockey player who is too stupid to tie his skates properly and his ankles bend) "He's a hoser! A rink-rat!"

"My goodness!" said Corinne. "Romée's little bébé noir (black baby) came close to swearing! You must be very angry." She got so close to Marie-Claude that their noses touched. "Let me make you feel better," and as Otmar latched the privacy latch on the door, Corinne tore open Marie-Claude's blouse.

Marie-Claude's screams of terror and pain could be heard up and down the hallway as Corinne and Otmar had their way with her.

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Chapter 4

Romée Beaulieu and Claude Roy dropped everything and caught a red-eye flight from Montreal to Frankfurt, and from there they took a train to Luxembourg City. She received a call in the middle of an important meeting that informed her that one of her top models was in the hospital and the other one was in prison. "We apologize Madam Beaulieu," said the official that met her at the train station. "We asked Miss Dagenais if she wanted to press charges, but she refuses to speak. What can we do? She has listed you as her guardian so we turn to you."

"Laissez-les pourrir en prison," (let them rot in jail) said Romée and she spat on the sidewalk. They got in a car and the official drove Romée and Claude to the hospital. On the way, Romée spoke on her cell phone with the studio that sent Otmar Dieter to cover the shoot. "Your photographer beat and raped a fifteen year old model."

"There is nothing we can do about his proclivities," said the oily businessman on the other end of the call.

"If I walked into your studio and smashed your cameras with an axe would you say the same thing to my lawyer? No, you would sue my agency, like I am going to do to your studio."

"Madam Beaulieu, I'm sure we can come to an agreement."

"My lawyer will be there to discuss the agreement with you, and I hope you accept it because otherwise I will own a fashion photography studio in Munich."

They arrived at the hospital and found Marie-Claude in a bed, curled up in the fetal position. "How bad is she doctor?" asked Romée.

"She will heal, bruises, cuts, we are sure that she will be able to bear children after she heals."

Romée looked at the doctor in shock. "Bear children? It was that bad?"

"Oui, there was evidence that she was raped by Monsieur Dieter. It appears that one held her down and the other had his or her way with Marie-Claude using his or her fist. She gets quite hysterical when she speaks with us."

"Oh, mon Dieu," gasped Romée. "When will she be able to return home?"

"She may leave when the bleeding stops, hopefully two days? We just gave her a sedative; she will be out for a while."

"I will stay here if you want to talk to Corinne," said Claude.

"Thank you dear. I really do have some words to say to Miss Favreau." As Claude sat next to Marie-Claude's bed and read a magazine, Romée walked to the police station. It wasn't far, and Romée needed to burn off some anger. When she got to the police station, she felt the need to kill. "What were you thinking?" she demanded of an angry-looking Corinne. No! Don't! Don't tell me, you may need that for your defense. I will let you know that I have lost over seventy-five thousand dollars due to lost revenue on this photo shoot. Damages, losses… I will expect you and your partner to reimburse me every dime for my losses and for the counseling that Marie-Claude will obviously need."

"No! It is not my fault that the little slut leads us on then changes her mind!" snarled Corinne.

"She is fifteen years old!" shouted Romée. "You were sent to protect and train her! Instead, you will spend ten years in prison for raping a child!" Before Corinne could respond, Romée shouted to the guard, "Enlevez-le-moi!" (Take it away from me!) then she left and stepped out onto the sidewalk. It was a beautiful summer day. Next month Marie-Claude turns sixteen. What a sorrowful way to celebrate your birthday. Will Marie-Claude ever enjoy a summer again?

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Chapter 5

Happy Macy was gone. When Marie-Claude Solange Dagenais returned to the catwalk she returned to form, and in many ways was better, but her expression was stern, sometimes downcast. Romée couldn't put Marie-Claude in the springtime collection the next spring because who wants a dour model in their gayest frock?

Marie-Claude was in counseling and while it didn't seem to help cheer her up, it gave her a new passion to pursue - psychology. Her counselor told her, "It's a great subject to study if you're screwed up in the head. You know, like me." Obviously, her counselor had issues as well.

"That's me," said Marie-Claude. And she started looking at colleges in the Montreal area.

At seventeen, she was looking at college seriously. She just needed to settle on a major so she could start building her schedule. Trust was difficult for Marie-Claude. She was raped by a friend and a man her boss hired to photograph her. It seemed like the only man she spoke to was Romée's assistant, Claude. She spoke to photographers in single word sentences. She did everything that was required of her except smile. And eat. She was one of the few models that was underweight, and Romée would have a fit.

Marie-Claude didn't accept product advertising shoots except on rare occasion. She seemed to enjoy the Black Velvet shoots, mostly because of the dresses. They were wonderful, and they felt so good against her bare skin. And she made an impression with a brand new model named Veronica von Köster. She had just been named Miss Ohio, which was an American province, as far as Marie-Claude knew.

Life was steady for several years, and there was evidence that Happy Macy may return. She was in her second year at LaSalle College, a bi-lingual pre-university college, and she was working toward a degree in psychology. With her shooting schedule, it was difficult, but she was able to maintain her grade level. She bought a snappy little used Alpha Romeo spider to get her back and forth between class and work, and life was looking good for Marie-Claude. They were preparing for a shoot in Minneapolis and after that, she had planned to take several days off and go to Des Moines. She hoped to walk around in public and maybe her angel will see her.

In the meantime, Corrin Favreau had been released from prison after serving four years of a ten-year sentence for child endangerment and was considered a pariah in the modeling world. The only shoots she could get were pornographique. But she met a young girl called Chiot (puppy) who Romée Beaulieu had netted in and asked her for a simple favor.

Marie-Claude was considered 'the old girl' by the new minnows that Romée netted in and they gathered around Marie-Claude to hear about her success. Many were sure that it was the color of her skin and were not shy about bringing it up. "I will not doubt that my skin color played a part at first," said Marie-Claude. "But what good is that if you do not work with the people, the photographers, the makeup artists, the dressers. Without that effort, your initial popularity will fade away aussitôt (immediately). You will be labeled difficult to work with and nobody will want you with your clothing on. "

Chiot made Marie-Claude her afternoon tea every day, Marie-Claude had taken a liking to her and Chiot loved the attention from la femme noir. Marie-Claude took one sugar cube in her afternoon cup of Earl Gray and Chiot was asked by a friend to put a gift from her friend in Marie-Claude's tea. The gift was a cube of special "Jamaican sugar" as Corrie put it. Chiot gave the cube a lick. It tasted like regular sugar, so she dropped it in Marie-Claude's tea and stirred it up.

Marie-Claude was sipping her afternoon tea, and she saw that her friend, Chiot, was staring off into space and giggling. "Are you ok?" asked Marie-Claude.

"No… but it doesn't matter," Chiot said, and she got up and started running around the studio, knocking things over.

That's when Marie-Claude noticed the walls were wobbling. "Oh… putain…." She moaned. "Ostie!" (unpacked it means fuck!) "Crisse!" (holy shit) she shrieked. Her eyes were wide in terror as the walls melted, she could taste colors and feelings, the studio was engulfed in flames of odor and color, her body was wracked in pain then HE appeared and he spoke to her. He told her of how he enjoyed her painful defloration in Luxembourg and that was just the beginning. He said that he had plans for her.

When the EMTs arrived, Marie-Claude was curled up tight in a fetal position shrieking, "Non! Non! Non!" and would not let the emergency medical team touch her. The other girl, the one they call Chiot (puppy) who also went crazy, was sitting on a chair looking off into the middle distance, singing tunelessly.

The EMTs tried to get Marie-Claude to lie flat on the gurney, but she fought them with such strength that they couldn't make her lie flat. She kicked and screamed and shouted, "Chrisse! Non! Non!" (Holy shit! No! No!) The only thing they could do was strap her down curled up, and transport her to the hospital in that position. They also took Chiot with them.

"Did anyone see anything out of the ordinary?" asked a Service de police de la Ville de Montréal officer (Montreal Police Service).

"No!" said one of the young models. "Marie-Claude takes her tea every day at two PM, Chiot brings her tea every day. She was drinking her tea and they went crazy."

"Is that her tea?" asked the SPVM officer.

"Oui." The young models clustered around Romée and Claude, unsure of what to do.

"Do not touch it!" and the SPVM officer spoke into his radio and they called for the crime lab. Soon a Sûreté du Québec officer (Quebec Provincial Police officer) arrived, and they handled Marie-Claude's teacup with as much care as they would handle a hydrogen bomb. An Emergency Medical Technician described Marie-Claude's and Chiot's reactions and medical stats to the crime lab officer, who nodded and stuck a test strip into the tea.

"It shows positive for a high level of lysergic acid diethylamide. LSD," said the crime scene investigator. The SPVM officer shook his head sadly as the QPP crime lab packaged up Marie-Claude's teacup and checked the break area, and the only other thing that tested positive for LSD was the spoon she was using and an empty plastic sandwich bag they found on a counter in the break area.

At the hospital, one of the young models tried to stay with Marie-Claude, but she just curled up in a ball and screamed "Laisse-moi tranquille." (Leave me alone) It terrified the model, but Romée was there.

"It is not you she is yelling at," said Romée. "Listen, she is with someone in her hallucination. Someone that terrifies her. If we keep showing her our love maybe she will come out stronger."

The next day, Chiot seemed to be much better, and she was quite talkative. "Corrie said that she is an old friend of Marie-Claude's. She gave me a cube of Jamaican sugar for her tea. She said Marie-Claude really liked it. I tasted it, and it didn't taste different."

"How did you taste it?" asked the QPP officer.

Chiot blushed. "I licked it."

"Corrie?" asked Romée from over the officer's shoulder. "Corrine Favreau?"

"I do not know Corrine Favreau…" then Romée held up a copy of Corrine's mug shot from Luxembourg that she had in her folder. "Oui! That is Corrie!" said Chiot happily.

"Thank you," said one of the officers there and he walked out, speaking into his radio.

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Chapter 6

For the next two days, Marie-Claude merely trembled in her hospital bed. She didn't speak to anyone. Eventually Romée asked the hospital chaplain to spend time with her and she explained to him what happened to Marie-Claude.

Pasteur Lemaire sat down next to Marie-Claude's bed and he tried to get her attention. She was staring straight ahead. "How can I help you Mademoiselle Dagenais?"

She shook her head sadly. "Je vais en enfer." (I am going to hell)

"My dear, you were given a wicked drug that addled your mind… it even effected the one you call the puppy… Chiot? Such a sweet girl. The woman that gave you that horrible drug, Corrine Favreau, is back in prison."

At the sound of Chiot's nick-name Marie-Claude turned her head and saw the black clerical shirt with the roman collar and her eyes grew wide. "Satan! Le Diable!" She grabbed his hand and said, "Please père, hide me! Le diable wants me…"

"Daughter, calm yourself. It was an illusion, a trick in your mind… and I am not a priest. I am a Baptist…"

"Please Pasteur!" she grasped his hand and brought it up to her tear-filled eyes. "My angel! He said that an angel will come for me… I will meet my angel and I will hate my angel and drive it away…" She grasped his hand firmly as she wept.

"You stay here and I will speak with your mum, and I will be back just outside the door." He looked and saw a stack of textbooks next to her bed. "Are you a teacher?"

She sniffed and wiped her eyes. "Non, but I wish to be…"

"What do you wish to teach?"

"Everything, anything." She softened as she talked about teaching. It was something that she found very desirable. To accumulate knowledge and pass it out to the younger generation was becoming her passion. At nineteen, she was helping Romée train new models, and her trainees were in great demand by advertising agencies all over North America. In the morning, she was tutor to the drop-outs and runaways. Romée didn't tell Marie-Claude, but when a new model strolled down the runway and the word got out that she was trained by Marie-Claud Solange Dagenais, the contracts came rolling in.

"Could you teach this?" he asked as he placed his personal bible on her lap.

Marie-Claude picked it up and began looking through it. She used to go to church every day when she was in grade school, but the priest didn't speak from this book except for the readings. His homily could go anywhere from litter on the school lawn to the game the boys' basketball team just won. She looked up at Pasteur Lemaire and smiled and nodded eagerly, then she went back to reading. "In the beginning…" She immersed herself in the words and found a place she could hide from le diable.

Pasteur Lemaire stepped out into the hallway to speak to Romée. "Madam Beaulieu, she believes Satan is hunting for her, she's looking for a refuge."

"She is nineteen now, she's…" Romée sadly found the words she was looking for. "I'm not her guardian anymore, she can do what she wants."

"Maybe the refuge she wants is in divinity school," said Pasteur Lemaire. "Who knows," he shrugged. "Maybe next week this will be a bad memory and she will be back modeling. Let's give her support, but also the space to make her decision."

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Chapter 7

The years in school were kind to Marie-Claude. She still had her youthful beauty and grace, and her figure remained model slim. Her career in divinity school was nothing short of spectacular, and the terror she felt was no longer the focal point of her life. And now she stood in the vice chancellor's office and he just presented her a job opening that anyone in her position would be crazy not to grab.

"Doctor Dagenais, this church is a perfect fit for you. It's large, there's multiple pastors there and they need a shepherd."

Marie-Claude thought about the offer. Ever since she was ordained as a pastor, Doctor Rodolphe Chauvin has been eager to place her in a church. Why doesn't he understand she wants to remain teaching? She loves the academic life. Doctor Chauvin was Vice Chancellor of École de Théologie Évangélique du Québec, the leading evangelical college in all of eastern Canada, and his job was to supply the churches of Canada and the US with pastors. He was good at his job; he found the perfect fit for any church that asked for help, whether he selected from graduates, the student population, or the faculty.

"I would like to remain on faculty if possible. I love teaching so much…"

"Is it your love for teaching or do you like the security?" asked Dr. Chauvin. Marie-Claude froze. Does he know? The chancellor, Dr. Paquet, said he wouldn't tell anyone why Marie-Claude remained on the faculty. Dr. Chauvin continued, "It was an offer, nothing more. If you wish to remain, I have a doctoral candidate for you to whip into shape."

"A new teaching assistant?"

"But of course. He has a 3.98 GPA from Buffalo Seminary."

"Another lapsed catholic," groaned Marie-Claude. "Was the vow of celibacy too much for him?"

"No, it was the catechism. Your new teaching assistant is a true believer."

Marie-Claude opened the folder that Dr. Paquet gave her. "An American?"

"Oui, he's very eager to be here. He can't wait to meet his loving, trusting doctoral advisor."

Marie-Claude sighed. "Ok, he's my puppy for the next two or three years and… oh! I just forgot something!"

"What did you forget?

"The English language. Au revoir!"

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Marie-Claude was in her office reading a poorly written doctoral thesis and wondered how someone with such poor command of the French language could be considered as a doctoral candidate. As she scoffed and sipped her tea, someone knocked at her office door. "Entrer!" she said in a sing-song voice.

"Hi, I'm John Jarecki and…" but Marie-Claude held her hand up, stopping him.

"Excusez-moi?"

"Excusez… Salut, je m'appelle, John Jarecki. Le docteur Chauvin a dit que vous seriez mon conseiller."

What he said was perfect French, but his comical American accent almost caused Marie-Claude to spray her tea over her desk. "Hello Mister Jarecki. Yes, Doctor Chauvin gave you to me to do with as I wish. You smile?" she said in French.

"J'aime les défis," said John with a larger smile.

"I'm glad you love a challenge," she said in French. "Your first challenge is that in my classes English is not spoken."

"I thought this was a bi-lingual college."

"It is, but my classes are not, all students speak French, only half speak English, so why waste our breath?"

"Yes doctor. What would you have me do?"

She handed him the thesis and frowned. "Read this and tell me what is wrong with it."

"Yes doctor." And he took the thesis and left.

"I hate him," said Marie-Claude, and she started leafing through a fashion magazine.

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Three hours later, John tapped at her door and handed her the thesis. "It's pretty weak. I eventually had to use two pencils; the blue marks are language issues. I really think the author speaks French natively, but his grammar is lazy. The red marks are the theology issues. The author has a very unusual understanding of the subject matter." He handed Marie-Claude another page and said, "Here's the correct take on the theology."

Marie-Claude looked at the marks he made. He was quite good with his French… it was just that horrible accent! But grammatically, he was as sharp as an angry nun with a class full of troublemakers. He's cute. He looks like he is still in grade school. The girls in her sophomore class are going to eat him alive. And he's short! He's barely 170 CM tall (5' 7") That's 18 CM (7") shorter than her! He's going to have to walk behind, so we don't look like a comedy troupe.

That was a preview of Andi's Dream - Autumn Adagio. To read the rest purchase the book.

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