Leonie (50 page)

He caught the faint tremor in her voice. “Of course I’ll come,” he said. “I want to be the first to throw a snowball at you.”

“A snowball?” Amélie paused with her hand on the doorknob. “A snowball, Roberto do Santos! I bet I get you first!”

It took her exactly two minutes to throw on her clothes and stuff her hair under the new woolen hat she’d bought yesterday when her ears were so cold. She had never felt such cold; it gripped you, chilling even your bones until they felt tight and
cramped, and the freezing wind scratched at your face. It was never like that in Rio, but then, they never had this wonderful snow either. She peeked through Isabelle’s door. She was still asleep, her lacy robe folded neatly on the chair by the bed. The room smelled sweetly of perfume—like flowers, thought Amélie. Grandmère always smells like summer flowers, was that what Roberto meant by “growing up”? Should she smell of flowers now instead of soap and water, should she have lacy peignoirs and fluffy feminine little slippers? She stared down at her feet looming large from beneath her warm new winter coat. How could her feet ever look small and pretty? She dismissed the idea impatiently.
Where
was Roberto?

“Come on, then,” he said, emerging from his room and making for the door. “You’re keeping me waiting.”

“Oh, Roberto!” She shot after him furiously, running down the corridor to the elevator, waiting impatiently for it to clank its way up to the sixth floor, pushing him aside so that she could be the one to press the buttons. The metal grill slid across, closing them in as it began to descend. “We’re animals in a cage trapped by the wicked circus owner.” She laughed.

Roberto smiled at her fondly. She was really such a little girl. He felt so much older than she, much, much older.

Amélie dashed across the lobby of the smart hotel, empty but for a surprised desk clerk and a couple of lounging porters, pausing at the big revolving glass doors to stare at the vision outside. The street in its coat of white had a new brightness, and the gray buildings opposite were hidden by a veil of swirling flakes. “Wait,” said Roberto, turning her around to face him. “Let me fix your scarf before you go out there in the cold.” She tilted her chin, watching his face as he tied the blue woolen scarf. Roberto was really very good-looking, such nice thick straight blond hair and the clearest blue eyes, you could trust him with anything. He patted the scarf into place under her chin and with a quick tug pulled her woolen cap down over her eyes, then he dashed through the revolving door to be first out in the snow.

“Beast,” cried Amélie, hurling herself into the door after him and erupting onto the sidewalk with a laugh as she skidded in the unexpectedly soft snow. “Isn’t this supposed to be crisp?” she asked, picking up a handful and rubbing it against her cheek. It was wonderful—cold and sparkly clean.

In the new blanketed stillness, even her voice sounded oddly
muffled. Fifth Avenue was empty, the unseasonable October snowstorm had brought New York to a standstill, and there was only the crunch of her own footsteps as she trod carefully across the sidewalk.

The snowball smacked into her shoulder and she turned to protest, ducking as another sailed toward her. “I’ll get you,” she yelled, her voice bouncing off the walls as she scooped up the snow and hurled it at Roberto.

“Wait, wait,” he called, “
pax
, Amélie.” He held up two crossed fingers. “
Pax
, come with me!” He took her hand and led her out into the middle of the street. “Look at that,” he said in an awed voice. The length of Fifth Avenue stretched before them, immaculate and white, unmarked by human feet or traffic. “It’s like being the first men on the moon,” cried Roberto. Shrieking and laughing they ran hand in hand down the center of the avenue, a zigzag of slippery tracks marking their erratic progress.

“Stop, stop,” protested Amélie as they reached Thirty-fourth Street. “I’m quitting, are you?”

“Not yet … come on.” He tugged her down a pristine Thirty-fourth Street, dragging her by the hand, too breathless to protest. She skidded weakly to a halt near Macy’s. “I can’t run anymore.” She leaned against the plate-glass window, gasping.

He grinned at her. “Had enough, huh? Girls can never run properly, they always wave their arms around too much.”

“Oh, Roberto, if I had the strength left, I’d rub your face in the snow.”

“Never threaten when you’re at a disadvantage,” he leered, holding a dripping handful of snow over her head.

“All right, all right,” Amélie said with a laugh. “I’ll give in if you’ll buy me a cup of hot chocolate and a donut. I’m starving.”

Roberto peered into Macy’s glossy window. “Look, Amélie, why don’t you wear something like that?” He pointed at the dress, a pink silky confection with a wide white collar. “You would look really pretty in that—if you fixed your hair properly, of course.”

Amélie inspected it critically; it was everything she hated: silk, so you had to be careful with it, and pink—ugh! And that silly collar! Why did she have to be pretty all of a sudden just because she was fourteen? With a doubtful backward glance at the pink dress, she crossed the street hand in hand with Roberto to the steamy storefront café. Would she look pretty in it? And why had he said that?

*   *   *

“Hello,” called Isabelle as the door to the suite slammed shut. “Where have you been so early?”

“Grandmère!” Amélie pulled off her wet hat and coat, dropping them in a heap on the floor. “How are you feeling today?”

“Much better, darling, thank you.” Isabelle flexed her fingers in satisfaction. Two weeks of treatment had straightened out what she had feared was the onset of arthritis. It had been worth the trip to New York just to have her fears put to rest.

“Grandmère, it’s snowing! It’s
wonderful
. Roberto and I have been snowballing, we ran all the way down the middle of Fifth Avenue”—she peered from the window—“you can still see our tracks.”

Amélie’s cheeks were still pink from the cold and her clear eyes sparkled with enjoyment. Isabelle smiled at her. “Your first snow, Amélie … that’s an unexpected treat in October.”

“Grandmère, will you go shopping with me?” she asked suddenly. “I want to buy some new clothes, a few dresses and things, you know—more grown-up stuff.”

Isabelle put down her tea and took her granddaughter’s hand. So the little tomboy wanted girls’ clothes, did she? Was she finally admitting that she must grow up? “Of course we’ll go, darling,” she promised, “there’s nothing I’d like better.”

De Courmont checked his watch wearily. The train from Chicago was already an hour late, and at this rate it looked as though by the time they got to Grand Central Station it would be closer to two hours. Who would have expected a snowstorm this early in the year? He leaned back against the cushioned seat trying to concentrate on his papers, but the figures danced in front of his eyes and he pushed them away with a sigh, thinking about the meetings that had just taken place with the automobile manufacturers in Chicago. They had not been good meetings. De Courmont cars were slipping in the sales race as more and more companies invaded the marketplace. His cars were too “special,” they had told him, too exclusive and up-market, if he wanted big sales he had to do what Ford had done. Ford! He was like Citroën in France, making cheap little cars for cheap little buyers! They put the working man on the road in their little black boxes and called them automobiles! The new de Courmont was a thing of beauty, long lean lines, the deep luster of a dozen coats of special
enamel paint glittering in scarlet, or rich royal blue, or a deep opulent green. Everything about his car was perfectly crafted and carefully thought out. The leather was ordered specially from a single tannery that used only flawless hides, softening them to exactly the right buttery degree of suppleness and then tinting them buff or cream or bronze to blend perfectly with the lacquered bodywork. The brass fittings were made at a small factory in England that had specialized in quality brassware for more than a century, the woodwork was a rare burled walnut and the engines were masterpieces of French and Italian design, a combination that had produced the smoothest precision instrument to provide speed and power.

Then why weren’t the damn things selling? The question nagged him. He knew they were the best on the market, and people were buying expensive cars, he saw them everywhere—Rolls-Royce, Bugatti, Hispano-Suiza, Mercedes-Benz, Lagonda.

He heaved a sigh of frustration and glanced again at his watch. Oh, God, it was going to take hours yet, he knew it. Did it really matter? There was no one waiting for him, no one he wanted to see. He had no reason to linger in New York. He’d try to get a sailing as soon as possible, maybe even tomorrow or the day after, though no doubt everyone had decided to leave now that the weather had turned bad, no one wanted to hang around and face a crossing in the winter storms. It was terribly cold on this train. Gilles rubbed his chilled hands together. He’d go and see if he could get a whiskey to warm him up. He’d be glad when he arrived: at least the Waldorf would be comfortable.

Roberto waited in the sitting room for Amélie and Grandmère; they were certainly taking their time tonight, he’d been ready for ages. “Come on, you two,” he called through Amélie’s closed door. “Remember, it’s our last night in New York you’re wasting.”

They were to go to Delmonico’s for dinner and he was looking forward to it. It would be something to boast about to Diego for a change, instead of Diego always bragging of where
he’d
been. Madame Susana’s and all that. He wondered what Madame Susana’s was like. Diego said the girls were wonderful, big Nordic blondes from Germany and Sweden; smooth-skinned, almond-eyed girls from Asia; dark, fiery, blue-eyed girls from Romania and Ireland; as well as the beautiful sensuous local mulatto girls.
Roberto shivered as he thought about them, wondering again where Diego got the money. He never told him. Diego
never
told him
everything
, he always held something back, kept some secrets.

The silk felt nice, thought Amélie, sliding it over her shoulders and smoothing it down. She hadn’t realized it would feel like this, sort of cool and soft. The pleats in the skirt swirled quite prettily as she clasped the belt with its neat small buckle around her waist and inspected herself in the mirror. There was no doubt it made her look like a girl, it showed off the small breasts that she had tried to pretend weren’t there but, somehow, now looked nice. Tightening the belt a couple of notches, she swirled around to see the back. Roberto had been right. It did suit her.

“I’m ready,” announced Amélie, sweeping haughtily into the room, stopping in front of Roberto to allow him the full benefit of her new appearance.

Roberto dragged his thoughts guiltily from Madame Susana’s and white thighs. He stared at Amélie in surprise. She looked so pretty, lovely in fact. The bright pink silk fell in soft pleats, concealing her still girlish slenderness, making her look rounder and more grown-up. Long sleeves bloused into tight cuffs, white to match the wide collar banding the
V
neckline, and she wore pink stockings on her too-thin legs and silver sandals with tiny heels. Her beautiful mane of hair had been brushed and brushed until the fizz had calmed into a subdued wave and she had tied it back on her neck with a big velvet bow.

Amélie waited anxiously for his verdict, ready no doubt, thought Isabelle, to rush back into her room and tear off all her new finery if he said one critical word.

Roberto gave a low appreciative whistle. “Isn’t that the dress I pointed out in Macy’s window?”

Amélie smoothed the skirt nervously. “Yes,” she admitted.

“You can always trust my good taste, Amélie,” said Roberto with a grin. “You look
terrific!
I shall have the two loveliest women in New York on my arm tonight—Delmonico’s, here we come!”

It was seven-thirty when Gilles de Courmont finally walked into the Waldorf and he went directly to the main desk to learn that week’s sailings to France. Thank God, the first bit of luck since he’d arrived: there was a British liner sailing at eleven the next morning. It couldn’t come soon enough. He glanced down
the list of names as he signed the register—there was no one he knew. He was alone in New York. The manager, hurriedly summoned by the desk clerk, took care personally of his distinguished guest and Gilles cut short his effusive greetings wearily. He waited irritably for the elevator, it seemed to be stopping on every floor. The manager glanced at him apologetically as the first elevator stopped in front of them and a well-dressed woman with a handsome blond young man emerged smiling broadly. Gilles stepped into the cage and the ornate iron gates meshed neatly together behind him, imprisoning him in a sudden overwhelming loneliness. He thought of the opulent suite awaiting him, empty.

Isabelle waited in the lobby with Roberto for the other elevator to descend bearing Amélie, who was playing tricks on Roberto again. Who was that man? His face was familiar, it was someone quite well known, she was sure of it, and he was French. It had been so long since she was in France she couldn’t even recall the faces of her own friends anymore—at least not in detail, they were just a pleasant blur of memory.

The second elevator gates opened and Amélie emerged, grinning happily. Roberto helped her on with her cape, arranging it carefully around her shoulders while Amélie smoothed back her already unnaturally smooth hair. She was such a golden girl, thought Isabelle, overly tall for her age but with a coltish grace that she was completely unaware of. She would be a lovely woman, like her mother, and yet there were traces of Charles in her spontaneous nature, her devil-may-care attitude. Poor Charles, he had never even known he had this lovely daughter. And poor Léonie, who was still alive but who would never see her.

“Come along, Grandmère,” cried Amélie, sliding her arm through Isabelle’s, “you’re dreaming again.”

The liner
Normandie
had had a rough crossing. October wasn’t renowned for good weather in the Atlantic, but this trip had been exceptionally stormy and the dispirited passengers had spent much of it in their cabins. Maroc tapped on the door to Léonie’s stateroom. “It’s snowing out there,” he said, brushing the melted flakes from his jacket as he entered, “but the news is that we’ll be arriving in New York early in the morning.”