Leonie (54 page)

“You saw Amélie?”
Léonie’s voice was as thin as glass, as though it came from a distance.

“I saw her, Léonie. I saw your daughter.” The words Maroc had been holding back for so long tumbled out in a haste of confession. “Remember how you looked when you first came for the job at Serrat, all thin arms and legs and a mass of hair … she looks exactly the way you did then, Léonie.
Exactly
like you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you let me see her?” Léonie’s heart was breaking all over again. She rolled in agony on the sofa, banging her head against the cushions, hiding her screams in their softness.

“Léonie, I couldn’t … I couldn’t. There’s more. Monsieur was here, too, in this hotel.”

Frozen into silence, she stared into the silk cushion, its zigzag pattern echoing her disjointed thoughts. Had Monsieur found Amélie at last? She turned her face slowly from the cushion, afraid of the answer to her unspoken question.

“No!” said Maroc. “He doesn’t know! It was a coincidence, it just happened. No one knew, except me.”

Léonie’s face was so full of despair that he wanted to cradle her in his hands, to brush away the tears, the smudged rouge, and the eye pencil. She was so utterly defenseless, like a kitten in the current of a fast-flowing river. He couldn’t let her go under, she couldn’t be defeated now.

“It was sheer chance, Léonie, I swear it. Amélie is safe.”

“Are you sure, Maroc? Are you absolutely sure?”

“I’m sure, Léonie.”

She began to cry again, quietly this time, the tears falling unheeded down her cheeks. “Tell me again, Maroc, how did she look?”

“She’s lovely, Léonie … a lovely girl. Tall and too slender, with your hair and your eyes exactly.”

“Oh, I should have seen her, I should have seen her … just this once,” she wailed, hurling herself again into the pillows.

“You don’t have the right, Léonie,” murmured Maroc. “Amélie has her own life now, her own family … it’s over, Léonie.”

She stared at him, aghast. But she knew he was right. It was over.

“What the hell have I done?” said Jim out loud as he paced the lobby of the Waldorf once more. It had been three days now that Léonie had stayed in her room. She wasn’t taking any calls and she didn’t answer any messages. He was supposed to leave for San Francisco tomorrow—he
had
to leave for San Francisco tomorrow. But how could he go and leave things up in the air like this? What the hell was going on? He headed for the telephone, he would try again—he had tried every half hour for the past two days!

Léonie hurried in through the side door of the hotel, clutching Chocolat in her arms. Pulling the brim of her hat further down over her pale face, she strode toward the elevators. She had had to take poor Chocolat out, the poor darling had been in for days now, but neither of them had enjoyed the walk. She just wished Saturday would come quickly so they might leave. Why did the elevator take so long! It was odd, but her legs felt suddenly weak and her head was spinning; she leaned against a pillar wearily, clutching the cat.

“Léonie?”

She looked up guiltily. She stared at Jim, unable to speak.

“Are you all right?”

She heard the concern in his voice and turned her head away.

“What’s the matter, are you feeling ill?”

To her horror she felt the tears slide down her cheeks and she turned away. She couldn’t cry here in the lobby of the Waldorf.

He took hold of her arm. “Lean on me, Léonie,” he said firmly. “I’m looking after you.”

She did lean on him, hiding her face against his jacket, unable to stop the tears.

He helped her into the elevator. “It’s all right, you know,” he murmured into her ear. “I’m here now, I’ll take care of you. I’ll take care of everything. Don’t worry, it’s all going to be just fine.”

She leaned against him again in the corridor, grateful for his sustaining arm around her shoulders. In her suite, he commanded Julie to help her undress and to wrap her in a warm robe while he summoned the doctor to come see her and room service to send up a light lunch.

Léonie lay back on the moiré silk cushions in front of the fire and watched him prowling the room silently, waiting for the doctor to arrive. He looked so big, so rugged—and so determined. He looked like a man a woman could rely on. It was a long time since a man had looked after her like this; in fact, had any man looked after her? Jim was a lot like Edouard d’Aureville. Edouard was a tough adventurer but a tender man. And under that rugged façade Jim, too, was a tender man.

He left them alone discreetly while the doctor examined her, confirming that the only medicine she needed was rest and food, and then he watched over her while she sipped a little of the consommé. He then wrapped a blanket around her, tucking her up on the sofa to rest. “I’ll be back later,” Jim said, dropping a light kiss on the top of her head, “and you are to go to sleep.” For the first time in days she slept a light effortless sleep, untroubled by a single dream.

Jim was back at four with tea, standing over her while she ate a cucumber sandwich. It was so different from their first tea that she felt even sadder. “I’ve waited for three days down in that lobby and when I finally catch up with you, you’re not the same woman. You’re pale and worn and tired—even a rough Atlantic crossing hadn’t done that to you—what happened? What have I done? I’m willing to bet those tears are not just from fatigue, but whatever the reason, Léonie Bahri, there’s no need for despair. There is nothing in this world that can’t be worked out.”

Somehow when he said it she could almost believe that it were true. She pushed the plate aside with a sigh and he peered at it, checking. “It’s all right,” she said. “I ate three. Now can I talk?”

“Please talk, tell me what’s the matter, Léonie. I want to help you.”

“There’s nothing anyone can do, and I can’t tell you what it is. It’s something that’s been going on for years now, and there’s no solution. But you have helped.” She leaned across and took his hand. “Just by being here.”

His blue eyes were worried. “I can’t make you tell me, Léonie,
but just remember, in case you change your mind, I’m a very sympathetic listener.” Jim hesitated. How could he leave her like this? “Come with me tomorrow,” he urged, “please, Léonie. You’ll see, things will look quite different in a different place. Please come.”

“I can’t, Jim.” His blue eyes were so pleading and for once his face was serious. If only it were possible. But now, more than ever, she must go back to France. Her responsibility was clear.

“Then promise me you’ll wait here until I return next week. Promise me.” His voice was commanding. He was allowing her no leeway.

“I’ll see,” she said evasively.

He put his arms around her, holding her close. He felt so good. His chest felt strong, his arms so secure. “It’s not good enough, Léonie, promise me.”

“I promise,” she said, listening to his heart beat next to her face.

Léonie reread the letter before she folded it and placed it in the envelope and sealed it firmly. There, it was done. If she didn’t mail it right away, she might change her mind. She glanced around the room. It looked naked without her things. There were just the steamer trunks with Chocolat perched nervously on top of the pile as she always did when they were traveling, making sure she wasn’t overlooked and left behind, she supposed. But all she was leaving behind was Jim—and a way of life that couldn’t be hers.

She ran a finger across his name on the envelope. Jim Jamieson. She could have been Mrs. Jim Jamieson. But she was “Léonie” and she had her role to play. Work awaited her. There was the meeting of the trustees of the Château d’Aureville home—she must go through the lists of figures, study the financial report and the investments—and then she must go on tour again and make some more money. She had pledged her life to it, for Amélie.

Jim had left the day before yesterday, still begging her to come with him, and then reminding her of her promise to wait.

Léonie went downstairs to mail the letter to San Francisco, watching it drop down the narrow glass chute, sealing her fate. There was no going back now. The ship was to sail at noon and at the end of the journey were France and reality.

–
• 49 •

Amélie wandered barefoot along the terrace of the Villa Encantada, comfortable again in her old shorts and shirt. She leaned happily against the rail, gazing down at the green tree-tangled hillside and the view of the tranquil bay below, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her bare arms and legs. Snow was all right, she thought, remembering Fifth Avenue, but this was better. They were to go to the St. James for dinner that night and she planned to wear the new pink dress. Edouard hadn’t seen her in that yet. She stretched lazily, wondering why he was being so mysterious. They were to have a grand celebration, he had told them before he disappeared into Key West an hour ago, leaving them all mystified and curious. Amélie kicked a pebble off the terrace and watched it bounce down the hillside. Life was good, she thought, especially when Diego wasn’t around. Roberto was so different when it was just the two of them, he was happy just being with her, she
knew
he was.

A donkey cart appeared around the bend in the lane piled with melting blocks of ice, leaving a watery trail as the animal sauntered slowly through the lemon trees, pausing to nibble a bit of grass here, a leaf there, until he was prodded back into action by the boy in charge.

“Your champagne”—the boy grinned, waving to her—“well chilled.”

Edouard’s tiny car chugged up the hill behind the donkey, leaving a swirl of dust in the flawless air. His laughter and that of the dark-haired woman sitting beside him floated toward her. Amélie stiffened. Who could that be? She leaned over the rail to get a better look as the car jolted in low gear the last few yards and shuddered to a stop behind the drooping donkey.

Edouard waved. “That’s Amélie,” he told Xara. “I just know she’s going to love you.”

Xara smiled doubtfully as she waved to the tall slender figure on the terrace. Amélie turned and darted into the house. “I’m not so sure, Edouard,” said Xara. “Stepmothers are not usually very popular.”

“This one is different.” Edouard helped her from the car. “Because it’s you, and because Amélie has never had a mother. You’re her first.”

Amélie was surely going to consider her, a stranger now in Edouard’s life, her rival. After all, she was fourteen—almost fifteen—now. She would be beginning to know how it felt to be a woman—all the pain, the uncertainties, the jealousies. Poor girl, she thought suddenly, walking up the steps to the house. Poor little girl.

“Maman,” called Edouard, “Amélie … Roberto. I’m back—with the surprise and the champagne!”

Roberto ambled into the hall behind them. “Hi,” he said, “what’s the surprise? Oh, hello.” He held out his hand to Xara. “I’m Roberto do Santos.”

“This is Xara O’Neill de Esteban,” said Edouard.

“Edouard.” Isabelle hurried from her room, tidying her hair as she went. “I didn’t know we were to have a visitor.”

“Maman, I want you to meet Xara.” The two women regarded each other, liking what they saw. There was no doubt that this was someone special, thought Isabelle, taking the girl’s cool soft hand in hers. “Welcome, my dear, to the Villa Encantada.” She smiled.

“Where’s Amélie?” Edouard looked around. “She’s usually first out.”

“She’s helping the boy unload the champagne,” said Roberto. “I’d better go and help her.”

“Hurry then,” called Edouard. “We’ll have it out on the terrace.”

Xara picked up the long box Edouard had been carrying and took it out onto the terrace with her. At least Edouard’s mother was nice, though how she would react to the sudden announcement of her son’s engagement to a widow he’d known only a few weeks would be the true test!

Amélie lifted the icy bottles from their nest and carried them
indoors, while Roberto helped the boy unload a block of ice, hauling it with his big tongs into the kitchen.

“What’s the surprise?” Amélie asked, licking her cold fingers to warm them.

Roberto grinned at her. “Old Edouard is in love,” he said. “I can see it in his eyes when he looks at Xara O’Neill de Esteban.”

“Xara,” breathed Amélie, recognizing it instinctively as the name of a rival.

“My bet is that he’s going to announce their engagement,” continued Roberto, “and I don’t blame him. She’s gorgeous—dark and exotic and very elegant.”

He placed the glasses on a tray, taking the silver wine cooler and filling it with ice crushed with a few efficient hammer blows.

“Their engagement,” echoed Amélie numbly. Edouard was going to
marry
this woman? If Edouard got married, he would leave her. Maybe he would even have children—his own
proper
children. She felt desolate suddenly and her high spirits of an hour ago plummeted to new depths.

“Come on,” called Roberto, carrying out the tray, “let’s get on with the celebration.”

Amélie hesitated by the kitchen table. She didn’t want to meet Xara. She didn’t want to know that this woman even existed.

“Amélie.” It was Edouard’s voice calling her. She must go. It’s only an engagement, she told herself, it takes ages before people get married; maybe it won’t even happen.

Xara stood by the rail admiring the view that had entranced Amélie just a short while ago. It was perfect, she decided, turning with a smile as Edouard announced Amélie at last.

That the girl was too thin didn’t matter. She would be a beauty—a tall rangy golden girl. The look in Amélie’s eyes as she shook hands politely made Xara recall her own parentless insecurities at the age of fourteen. The girl was afraid and Xara’s heart went out to her.

Xara’s smile was so warm, so sisterly, thought Amélie, as though they had known each other a long time and shared the same secrets. She shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, wishing she had thought to wear the pink dress instead of these awful old shorts. Xara was so smart in her cool blue-and-white linen dress and perfect white shoes. And she was beautiful.
Very
beautiful. Amélie hadn’t known jealousy could feel like this, it was suffocating her. She felt hot and her heart was pounding.