his stare immediately on Pépé and me, getting up and excusing himself to his other guests. He was dressed like an aging matinee idol or Hef at the Playboy mansion—bottle-green velvet smoking jacket with silk lapels and cuffs, collarless open-neck white dress shirt, navy ascot and pocket handkerchief, charcoal trousers, black patent leather shoes.
Though my mother had been fond of Juliette, she had never warmed up to Charles, whom she considered a cold fish. Even now,I saw something steely in his dark eyes as he joined us, shaking hands first with Pépé and clapping him on the back, greeting him in flawless unaccented French. He extended a hand to me, clasping mine warmly in his.
“It’s been a long time, Lucie,” he said in English. “So glad you both could make it.”
I smiled and said nothing. Charles had invited us tonight for a reason. How long would it take him to get down to business and tell us what he wanted? I hadn’t seen him for years, yet he seemed well steeped in the details of my life and my business. How else could he have pulled puppeteer strings to get Mick to persuade me to site-sample some fabulous California wine, with the bonus and perfect timing of accompanying my elderly grandfather on his trip to the West Coast?
“I spoke to a couple of friends who flew out to the Grove today for the opening ceremony tomorrow, Luc,” Charles said. “You’ll be well looked after, meet a lot of good people. Those lakeside talks are always one of the highlights of the campout. Of course the alcohol’s first-rate, flows like water. You’ll drink some fabulous vintages, I promise you.”
“The ‘grove’?” I said. “What campout?”
Charles looked from me to Pépé. “Didn’t you tell her?”
“Eh … no.” My grandfather shook his head. “I wasn’t certain how much of what you told me was confidential.”
Until now I’d assumed Pépé had been invited to give a talk at some organization’s annual meeting, probably the featured speaker after a dinner of chicken with mystery sauce or dry roast beef with vegetable medley at a generic convention hotel.
Instead he was going camping. And Charles had arranged that, too.
“What’s going on?” I said. “Why all the secrecy?”
Charles’s smile was tolerant. “The Bohemian Grove is no secret, but it is private. The club, which is based in San Francisco, is probably the most prestigious gentlemen’s club in the United States. Been around since 1872. They’ve been camping each summer practically since that first year. After a while they managed to buy a couple thousand acres in a redwood forest on the Russian River sothey’d have a permanent place to camp. They named it the Bohemian Grove.”
“The Bohemian Club is legendary,
chérie
,” Pépé said. “Some of the most powerful men in the United States belong, or have belonged—including several of your presidents.”
“All these important men camp together in the woods, out in the middle of nowhere?” I asked. “What exactly do you do that you need so much privacy?”
“Please.” Charles waved a hand. “There’s been enough rubbish written about conspiracies and subterfuge or that the members are an elite ‘guild of illuminati’ getting together to plan their strategy on how they’ll rule the world—picking political leaders and manipulating financial markets. None of it’s true, I assure you. It’s strictly a social gathering.”
“Don’t tell me you spend your time roasting marshmallows and telling ghost stories,” I said. “Or do you?”
Charles pursed his lips. “Actually, I’m not a member. The waiting list is years, even decades, long. But I’ve been a guest there enough times to know what does go on. Obviously you meet … well, the right people. But it’s a couple of weeks to kick back and unwind with friends—get away from all the daily pressures.”
“And you camp in tents like the Boy Scouts?”
The idea of Pépé spending several nights on
Though my mother had been fond of Juliette, she had never warmed up to Charles, whom she considered a cold fish. Even now,I saw something steely in his dark eyes as he joined us, shaking hands first with Pépé and clapping him on the back, greeting him in flawless unaccented French. He extended a hand to me, clasping mine warmly in his.
“It’s been a long time, Lucie,” he said in English. “So glad you both could make it.”
I smiled and said nothing. Charles had invited us tonight for a reason. How long would it take him to get down to business and tell us what he wanted? I hadn’t seen him for years, yet he seemed well steeped in the details of my life and my business. How else could he have pulled puppeteer strings to get Mick to persuade me to site-sample some fabulous California wine, with the bonus and perfect timing of accompanying my elderly grandfather on his trip to the West Coast?
“I spoke to a couple of friends who flew out to the Grove today for the opening ceremony tomorrow, Luc,” Charles said. “You’ll be well looked after, meet a lot of good people. Those lakeside talks are always one of the highlights of the campout. Of course the alcohol’s first-rate, flows like water. You’ll drink some fabulous vintages, I promise you.”
“The ‘grove’?” I said. “What campout?”
Charles looked from me to Pépé. “Didn’t you tell her?”
“Eh … no.” My grandfather shook his head. “I wasn’t certain how much of what you told me was confidential.”
Until now I’d assumed Pépé had been invited to give a talk at some organization’s annual meeting, probably the featured speaker after a dinner of chicken with mystery sauce or dry roast beef with vegetable medley at a generic convention hotel.
Instead he was going camping. And Charles had arranged that, too.
“What’s going on?” I said. “Why all the secrecy?”
Charles’s smile was tolerant. “The Bohemian Grove is no secret, but it is private. The club, which is based in San Francisco, is probably the most prestigious gentlemen’s club in the United States. Been around since 1872. They’ve been camping each summer practically since that first year. After a while they managed to buy a couple thousand acres in a redwood forest on the Russian River sothey’d have a permanent place to camp. They named it the Bohemian Grove.”
“The Bohemian Club is legendary,
chérie
,” Pépé said. “Some of the most powerful men in the United States belong, or have belonged—including several of your presidents.”
“All these important men camp together in the woods, out in the middle of nowhere?” I asked. “What exactly do you do that you need so much privacy?”
“Please.” Charles waved a hand. “There’s been enough rubbish written about conspiracies and subterfuge or that the members are an elite ‘guild of illuminati’ getting together to plan their strategy on how they’ll rule the world—picking political leaders and manipulating financial markets. None of it’s true, I assure you. It’s strictly a social gathering.”
“Don’t tell me you spend your time roasting marshmallows and telling ghost stories,” I said. “Or do you?”
Charles pursed his lips. “Actually, I’m not a member. The waiting list is years, even decades, long. But I’ve been a guest there enough times to know what does go on. Obviously you meet … well, the right people. But it’s a couple of weeks to kick back and unwind with friends—get away from all the daily pressures.”
“And you camp in tents like the Boy Scouts?”
The idea of Pépé spending several nights on
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