Angels and Thieves

Chapter One Andre

Chapter One André

Friday, December 25, 2015

NO ONE BUT Michel la Roche and the angels took notice, although Michel had cautioned Parisian attorney André Gensonné excessive worry would generate bad karma. André dismissed his friend's concern as religiosity. Would heeding Michel's warning have changed the outcome?

ANDRÉ GENSONNÉ TRACED the veins on Anne's hand as they sat with his family ensconced in two pews on Christmas Eve in Paris. It was hard to believe Anne had married him and they were attending Mass. André had an uneasy relationship with Church, but his mother's serene face kept him from checking his watch—a habit he was determined to break.

Cocooned within the congregation under aged chandeliers that barely held away the darkness, their unborn infant fluttered against his arm. He smoothed his hand over Anne's womb, and she smiled. The apprehension André had carried for months dissipated.

After communion, Anne whispered to André, "we should go to the hospital."

"What's happening?" André gripped the pew in front of him, thoughts tumbling. Four weeks, they had four weeks. It was too early.

"I'm not sure, maybe contractions." André half-stood then he settled onto the pew. Touching his knee, Anne leaned close, "we have time." Anne tipped her head toward his mother. "Tell her we're leaving but don't worry her."

He whispered to Sophia, "we're taking a cab to the hospital."

"Anne?"

"The baby may be coming." André's legs trembled as he helped Anne navigate the kneelers and then rushed her down the aisle. The congregation stood for the final blessing.

"The Mass is ended, go in peace." The priest's haunting words lingered behind them.

ANDRÉ LEANED AGAINST the wall outside Anne's hospital room hours later, weary brain and body too weak to support his legs. But his family was waiting. He reached for his mobile and groaned. The battery was dead.

"Use mine." Anne's nurse offered her pink-encased mobile.

"Thanks, it's been . . ."

"Call your family," the nurse urged, then entered Anne's room.

He rang his mother. "Andre?"

"I'm using someone's mobile."

"How are they?"

"Our baby girl is healthy but small. We're both tired."

"What's her name?"

"Camille Sophia. The doctor recommended a C-section. Anne is sleeping now."

"We can't wait to see her."

"She's tiny."

"Babies grow fast. We love you both—all three. . ."

"Love you, Maman."

"Everything will look better in the morning. Get some sleep."

"Maman?"

"Call us tomorrow, when you're ready for visitors. Au revoir."

"Au revoir."

André discovered the nurse checking Anne's pulse. Counting, she held out her hand for her mobile. "Thank you," she said, looking up.

"I appreciate—."

"Your wife and baby are sleeping, get some rest."

André kissed Anne's forehead, breathing in her scent. "It's okay to leave?" André's eyes searched the nurse's eyes. She nodded. "Everything will look better in the morning." The same words his mother had said. He watched Anne breath; she was in capable hands.

Camille Sophia Gensonné had been born around three o'clock; the premature baby carried to intensive care as Anne slept.

The hours-old infant disappeared from the hospital early Christmas morning—before anyone but André had seen her.