The Second Generation Ch 01

This story is a work of fiction. Any similarities between any character in this story and any real person are coincidental and unintended.

I have a habit of writing stories in series. This story starts another. I apologize that there isn't much sex in this story. The intention is to set the background for later chapters. Comments on this story, both favorable and unfavorable, are always welcome. Thank you for reading this. I hope you enjoy it

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I graduated from an elite private law school in Chicago. I took a job as a business and finance associate with an "up and coming" law firm in my hometown, Schuler, Hinman & Rohr. SHR bragged about its service to "the new generation of entrepreneurs." One of its marquis clients was Shawnee Solutions, later renamed S-Sol. S-Sol was a tech company founded by Parni Rava. In a few years, it grew from four friends to 300 employees and was heralded in the national business press as a "leader in Midwestern resurgence."

S-Sol turned out to be a huge scam, like Enron only with more malicious intent. Our business and finance chair, Jeff Hinman, who oversaw SHR's S-Sol work was indicted along with four other lawyers from the firm, Rava, and six other S-Sol executives. The firm was hit with lawsuits claiming billions, including two suits alleging the firm was a "racketeering enterprise." SHR closed its doors and I was out of work.

Like most SHR lawyers, I'd never done any S-Sol work and thought I wouldn't have a lot of trouble finding another job. I didn't understand, initially, how bad the S-Sol scandal appeared. Every lawyer who'd worked at SHR was considered poison by the rest of the legal community, not just locally but nationally. After a few months of unemployment, I was stocking shelves and running a checkout register at a small non-union grocery. My mentor, name partner Miriam Rohr, was selling perfume in a department store.

About a year after my legal career ended involuntarily, I got a letter from a lawyer in Athens, Ohio. The lawyer was representing the estate of my uncle Emile Stone. Emile had died without a will and, as his closet living relative, the estate passed to me. The lawyer described Emile's estate as "not insubstantial" and asked me to contact him immediately.

I hadn't known Uncle Emile well. He was about 12 years older than my father. Emile had been born in the South of France in 1944. My grandparents had gone there from their native Paris when Paris was occupied by the Nazis in 1940. My grandparents did something to help the invading Allies that got them preferential immigration status to the US. They ended up in Cleveland where my dad was born.

Dad had met Mom in college. Mom was from Southwestern Ohio and they moved there after graduation. Dad became a bank executive. Uncle Emile did something connected to importing beer, wine, and foods and spent a lot of time in Europe. I was an only child. Uncle Emile never married and, so far as I knew, had no children. Emile's estate would have passed to Dad, but Dad and Mom were killed in a 50 plus car chain-reaction pile-up on a fog shrouded freeway in Tennessee while I was in law school.

"Not insubstantial" sounded substantial to me since I no longer had a career. I called the lawyer and met him in Athens. Emile had investments of about $ 10 million that threw off annual income between $ 100,000 and $ 150,00, and a house on a farm in the Appalachian foothills about an hour from Athens valued at just under $ 2 million. I'd never heard of a house that valuable in that part of the State.

A real estate appraiser drove me to the house. We followed a US highway to a state route to a county road to a township road. Finally, we turned onto a gravel drive that went about a quarter mile up a hill to a plateau. On the plateau was a brick farmhouse, nice but nothing special, and a small vineyard. The appraiser said, cryptically, "Looks are deceiving," and led me inside the house.

The exterior gave no hint of what was inside. The first floor had a formal dining room and a large kitchen with modern, high-end appliances. The other two rooms (excluding a small commode) on the first floor had been converted to a library: four walls of books from floor to ceiling. Upstairs there was a large bedroom with a huge four-poster bed, a large master bath with a new shower and tub, and a second bedroom that had been converted into another library room. Four more walls of books. The titles I saw on the books on the second floor all appeared to be in French.

The appraiser said, "I saved the best for last" and led me to the basement. I expected a cellar with a furnace and water heater. Those were there in a utility room, but Emile had massively expanded the basement extending it out as a lower floor on the rear of the house. He'd installed a sauna, steam room, jacuzzi, and workout room with a big screen TV, exercise bike, and a rack of light dumbbells. The highlight was a small indoor pool, a lap pool really, in a room that opened onto an outside patio overlooking the valley behind the property.

Emile died March. I moved into his house in May. Exploring the house took me to the attic where Emile had put several metal boxes. Opening one, I realized it was airtight. The box was full of letters, handwritten and some many pages long. The letters were organized chronologically starting in May 1976 and ending the preceding August. The letters were in French, which I can't read. The earlier ones were signed "Anna." Just the letter A was signed on the more recent ones.

Another box held six fat photo albums. The first two albums contained the usual vacation-type pictures. I recognized landmarks in London and Paris. There were mountains which I guessed were the Alps. The same woman appeared in a lot of the pictures, sometimes by herself and sometimes with Emile or others. She looked very attractive. She seemed somehow familiar although I had no idea who she was.

The third album surprised me. There were more vacation-type pictures. Most seemed to have been taken in a warm climate. Many were beach scenes. Some were on village streets or in a bar or bakery. Emile and the woman; or just the woman; or Emile, the woman, and others appeared in many of the pictures. The people in the pictures all appeared to be happy. The huge difference between these pictures and the ones in the first two albums was that all the people in all the pictures were naked.

Damn, I didn't know Emile was a nudist. The second album had more pictures of Emile, the woman, and, I assumed, their friends naked in various settings. Many of these pictures seemed to have been taken in resorts of some type. Nudist resorts I assumed. The longer I looked at the woman with Emile, I realized she was very beautiful. She had long, perfectly shaped legs, neatly trimmed pubic hair, narrow hips, a flat waist, larger breasts than I expected. Her face had high cheekbones, a pert nose, a strong chin, and a warm smile. I wondered if she was Anna and what had happened to her.

I felt like a voyeur looking at this aspect of Emile's life I'd never known about and that, I assumed, my father had not known about. However, there was something magical, something I can't articulate, that I felt when I saw Emile and the woman together. That troubled me a little. I put the albums back in their box and re-sealed the box.

I chose a hot day in June to start gaining control of the grass. Emile had only a walk-behind mower despite having a large area to mow. It was around 4:00 p.m. I was sweating profusely behind the mower, wearing only shorts and shoes, when I saw a car coming up the drive.

I walked to the parking area as the car, a generic Japanese compact, stopped. A young woman got out. I guessed her to be about 25. She was roughly five-six or five-seven. She had shoulder-length, slightly wavy, light brown hair. She had a lovely face with high cheekbones, a pert nose, and a strong chin. I couldn't assess her figure because she wore a loose peasant-style blouse and long, flowing skirt.

The young woman gave me a warm smile and asked, "Is this the house of Emile Pierre?" She had an accent that wasn't American. I didn't know what it was.

I recognized the original French version of our family name. My grandparents had simply translated it into English when they came to the US. "This was the home of Emile Stone," I answered. "I live here now. I'm his nephew, Harry Stone."

"Yes," the woman said with a slightly sad tone, "I saw from the public records online that he had passed away. I'm Yvonne Charet." The woman said her name as if expecting me to recognize it. I stayed silent. After a moment, she added, "My mother was Anna Charet." Of course, "Anna" made me think of the letters in the attic. "Charet" seemed familiar, but I couldn't say why.

"I'm aware," I said, "that Uncle Emile had a correspondence with someone named Anna for several decades."

Ms. Charet's warm smile became amused. "Oh," she said, "your uncle and my mother had more than a correspondence. They were lovers for, as you said, several decades."

Shit. Was this Emile's daughter? Was the inheritance that I was getting very comfortable with going to be yanked away? That would have been consistent with my recent luck. "I don't know how to ask this delicately," I said, "are you Emile's daughter?"

Ms. Charet laughed. There was something musical and haunting about that laugh. "No, no," she said. "I'm very certain my father was Francois Charet. He was a banker in Paris until he died a year ago."

In that case, I couldn't guess what this woman wanted with me. To buy time, I asked, "You are French?"

"Yes, I am," Ms. Charet answered.

"You speak English very well," I said.

"Thank you," she replied. "Rather, I suppose I should thank your American universities. I received my bachelor's degree from Brown University and my masters from Johns Hopkins." Now, I was intimidated. I had an ok resume, but not on par with hers.

I bit the bullet. "How may I help you Ms. Charet?"

"My mother died five weeks ago," Ms. Charet said. "She was diagnosed with a bad form of cancer about when my Father died. I knew the end was coming and went back to France to spend her last two months with her. The cancer ravaged her body, but her mind stayed clear. That may not have been the easiest for her, but we talked a great deal and I learned a lot about my family and about her life. She mentioned your uncle very often. He was obviously very important to her. I'm between jobs. I have time. I decided that I wanted to learn more about Emile Pierre."

She seemed very capable and confident, but there was something about Yvonne Charet that made me want to help her. I was having the same feeling I'd had when I looked at the pictures of Emile and this woman's mother together. I was also dirty, tired, and stank. I didn't want my first interaction with her to be under these conditions, but I did want her to come back. "Ms. Charet," I said, "my uncle left things that may be of interest to you. They are stored up in the attic. I'll have to bring them down and put them somewhere you can go through them." I gestured at my dirty body. "I wasn't expecting any visitors today. Could you come back tomorrow, maybe late morning? I will have the things down from the attic and set out so you may look at them."

"Certainly," Ms. Charet said," and I apologize for showing up unannounced. I had seen your name as Emile's heir, but you don't have a listed telephone number."

"Only my cell phone," I said as I pulled my old flip-phone from my hip pocket." Ms. Charet looked at my phone like you'd look at an artifact in a museum.

Ms. Charet started to get back into her car, then stopped. "I drove here from Washington this morning. Could you suggest a place for me to stay?"

I thought aloud. "There's an old motor court in Eden, about five miles south of here, but I don't think anyone goes there unless they're looking for oxycontin," I said. "Your best option is probably in Athens. That's about an hour from here. There's a university there and several hotels and motels. I can write you directions to Athens if you like."

Yvonne Charet pulled an i-phone from her skirt and held it up. "I have GPS," she said, "but thank you." She got in the car and drove off.

I went inside, cleaned up, ate, and poured a glass of wine. After washing dishes, I went up to the attic. Ms. Charet would certainly want to see the letters, so I lugged that box down to the dining room. I went back up to get the photo albums. I thought the woman in the pictures with Emile was probably Anna Charet. Did I show her daughter all six albums? There were two I hadn't gone through yet. I took the two "normal" albums down to the dining room.

Going back to the attic, I decided that I didn't have the right to censor what Ms. Charet saw about her mother. I picked up the other four albums and took them downstairs. I set them on the dining table, apart from the "normal" albums. Back in the attic, I saw another metal box I'd not opened yet. Opening it, I saw expensive looking diaries. Each had a year and the name "Emile Pierre" embossed on the cover. The oldest was 1970. The most recent was that year. I took those downstairs.

Ms. Charet came up the drive around 11:00 the next morning. As I walked out to meet her, she said, "I am very sorry. I meant to be here earlier. I must have set the alarm clock in my room improperly. It didn't go off and I slept until 9:30."

"That is not a problem," I said. "Please come inside." Ms. Charet was wearing a tee shirt and jeans that day. Under the tee shirt were beasts that were not large but were noticeable and in proportion to her body. The jeans covered legs that were slender and relatively long given her height. As I held the door for her, I saw that the jeans also covered a very nice-looking ass.

In the dining room, Yvonne said, "This is splendid! I'd never have expected his from the outside."

"Uncle Emile did a lot of unexpected things to the inside of this house," I said.

"May I see?" Yvonne asked.

I gave her the tour. She looked closely at the books in the upstairs library. "Do you read French?" she asked.

"No," I said.

"Too bad," she replied.

Yvonne was most impressed with the basement. "Do you use the pool?" she asked.

"Yes," I said, "I've been swimming a lot of laps to try to stay fit."

Yvonne looked at me for a second. Walking along the pool, she said, "This is so private. You don't need," she caught herself and didn't finish whatever she started to say. I followed as she walked out onto the patio. "What a nice view!" she said. Looking around, she added, "This is very private too. There's no one to see you out here." I didn't understand the repeated mentions of privacy.

I took Yvonne back to the dining room. I told her, in general, what was there. I left the room as she opened the box holding her mother's letters to Emile.

I thought it would be rude to resume cutting grass. I went into one of the library rooms and pulled out a book Emile had on grape-growing. I was trying to learn what I could do to preserve, or revive, Emile's vineyard.

Sometime in the middle of the afternoon, I heard a sob from the dining room. I rushed in. "Are you alright?" I asked.

Yvonne looked up at me with moist eyes. "Yes, it's just reading my mother's words. I miss her."

I went back into the dining room around 6:00 p.m. Yvonne was only a bit more than halfway through the box of letters. "It's around that time," I said. "May I fix you dinner?"

Yvonne looked at her phone. "My god!" she said. "I had no idea it was that late. I badly lost track of time. No, I can't impose on you. I'd better call the hotel and see if I can get my room back. Will it inconvenience you if I come back tomorrow?"

Sometime during the day, my brain had recognized the fact that Yvonne Charet was a very beautiful woman. Her accent and her very polite manner of speech was, well, sexy. "I don't have a busy schedule," I said. "You're welcome to come back until you've seen everything you wish to see."

"Thank you," Yvonne said. She dialed a call. I stepped out of the room so as not to eavesdrop. It seemed like she made several calls. I couldn't hear what she said, but I sensed a growing tone of frustration in her voice.

Yvonne walked into the library about a half hour latter. "I can't find a room anywhere in Athens," she said. "Some conference started today at the University. How far is Parkersburg, West Virginia? That the only place I could find a room."

"Too far," I said. I paused. "Uh, you're only coming back here tomorrow. It's already after 7:00 p.m. Why don't you stay here? You can use the master bedroom."

Yvonne smiled. "That's very kind," she said, "but where will you sleep? I didn't see a second bedroom."

"There isn't one," I said. "But I've got an air mattress and there's a mat on part of the floor in the exercise room downstairs. That will be fine for me."

Yvonne kept smiling. "It truly will not inconvenience you?"

"Not at all," I said.

"Ok," Yvonne said. "Let me get my bag from the car."

"I'll start dinner," I said. I wanted to impress Yvonne Charet, but I'm not a talented cook. I went with my strong suit and lit the charcoal grill outside. I served grilled steaks, corn on the cob, and a decent California red wine on the patio outside the pool.

We talked over dinner. Yvonne elicited the short version of my life story. I learned that Yvonne had gotten her master's in international relations three years ago, which made her a year or two older than I'd guessed. She'd done "contract work" in D.C. until she went back to France to be with her mother. Apart from ambiguity about what she'd done in D.C., Yvonne was a very engaging conversationalist. She was witty, informed, and willing to listen. She had opinions but supported her opinions with facts. She asked questions and seemed to care about what I said. The first glass of wine became a second, then a third.

Yvonne helped me clean up. It was dark outside now. I opened a second bottle of wine in the kitchen. Yvonne took her glass and started to the dining room. Looking over her shoulder at me, she said, "Come on. Let's see what your uncle has pictures of."

To my relief, Yvonne started with one of the "normal" albums. She recognized many of the places in the pictures and named most of them in a soft voice. Finishing that album, she set it aside and took up one of the nudist albums.

Yvonne started smiling as she flipped through the first few pages. I was sitting across the table from her. Yvonne looked at me. "Harry, come over here," she said. Hesitantly, I stepped around the table and looked over her shoulder. She tapped her finger gently on a picture of Emile and her mother. They were standing naked in what looked like a town street, facing the camera with their arms around each other's backs. In the background, I could see other naked people.

"That's my mother," Yvonne said. I hadn't thought of it before, but looking at the picture, probably at least twenty years old, and at Yvonne, I saw a strong resemblance. I couldn't say Yvonne looked like a woman in a nude picture!

"Do you know where this is?" Yvonne asked.

"No," I said.

"It's a place called Cap d'Agde on the south coast of France," Yvonne said. "It's not far from Montpellier. There's an entire naturist city there, shops, hotels, apartments, restaurants, clubs; and no one has to wear any clothes anywhere in the city."

"From the pictures," I said, "it looks like Anna and Emile went there many times."

"I'm sure," Yvonne said, "Mother loved it there."

"Have you been there?" I asked.

Yvonne looked up at me, straight into my eyes. She smiled. "A time or two," she said. "I'm French. We have a different attitude about nudity than you Americans." Yvonne closed the album. "I must get to bed. I'd like to start early tomorrow so I can get through these things without imposing on you for another night."