Leonie (55 page)

“Well,” said Edouard, pleased with his family, “now for the surprise.” He took Xara’s hand in his and turned to the three waiting faces.

“Xara is to be my wife. We shall be married the day after tomorrow, here in Key West.”

“Edouard … Xara!” Isabelle threw her arms around them both, tears brimming in her eyes. “It’s silly to cry,” she sniffed, “but it’s really only because I’m so very happy for you both.”

“We hoped you wouldn’t mind it being so sudden,” explained Xara, “but we love each other and there seems no reason to wait.”

“I’ve no intention of waiting.” Edouard’s eyes met Xara’s and the look that passed between them seemed to Amélie to shut out everyone else from their world. Their own private world.

“May I kiss the bride?” asked Roberto, shaking Edouard’s hand and planting a firm kiss on Xara’s cool cheek.

“Amélie,” cried Edouard cheerfully, “what do you have to say?”

“Congratulations,” she murmured, stepping forward dutifully, barely touching her lips to Xara’s cheek.

Edouard flung his arms around Amélie and swung her into the air. “It’s not every new wife who gets a ready-made daughter like you,” he said, ruffling her hair.

“Don’t do that!” cried Amélie sharply, brushing her hair back into place with her hands and retreating again behind the table.

Roberto stared at her in surprise, but Edouard was too busy to notice her tight little face. He poured the champagne lavishly, handing a chilly glass to each of them, raising his own in a toast. “To Xara,” he said, his face brimming with love, “my future wife.”

Amélie thought the champagne would choke her. She swallowed a mouthful and stared miserably at the terra-cotta tiles. How could he do it? It had always been just Grandmère and Edouard and her. Now what would happen? Edouard was talking to Isabelle, talking about Xara, she could tell by the expression on his face; she’d never seen him look like that before, all sort of thrilled. Damn her, she thought suddenly, as the tears pricked at her eyelids. Damn Xara. I hate her.

“Amélie”—Edouard put his arm around her—“we have a present for you.” He handed her the long box emblazoned with the elaborate Boutique Oberon script.

“A present.” Amélie looked at the box doubtfully.

“Come on, open it.”

Amélie ripped off the ribbons, pulling at the lid impatiently. Beneath a layer of tissue was the prettiest dress she had ever seen. It was the blue-pink of wild lilac, its fine cotton-lawn ruffles edged with satin ribbon in lavender and rose. “It’s beautiful,” she said, touching its softness.

“Xara chose it for you. We want you to be her bridesmaid.” Edouard beamed.

Amélie’s eyes met Xara’s. The tears were going to come, she knew it. Dropping the dress back into its box, she ran along the terrace and through the hall.

Edouard stared after her in astonishment. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “What did I do?”

“Poor Amélie,” said Xara gently. “She’s shocked, Edouard. It is too much for her to accept so quickly that her father is to be married. I understand how she feels.”

“I’ll go to her,” said Roberto, heading indoors.

Amélie slammed the door shut behind her, hurling herself onto the bed as the sobs shook her. She didn’t want Edouard to marry that woman. He was her father, he had no right to marry and leave her. She didn’t want to lose him.

Roberto could hear her sobs even before he opened the door. He sat on the window ledge watching as she lay on the bed, her head hidden beneath a pillow. Poor silly kid, he thought compassionately. He went over and pulled back the pillow. Amélie’s face was blotchy and swollen and her eyes still brimmed with tears.

“You look a mess,” he said, bringing over a wet cloth and wiping her face gently. “There’s really no need for all this fuss, you know. He’s only getting married.”

“You don’t understand,” she whispered despairingly.

“
What
don’t I understand?” He knelt by the bed and took her hand. “Tell me, Amélie.”

“You’ll
never
understand, Roberto, because you have your own big family. Grandmère and Edouard are all I’ve got and I’m so afraid of losing them. Don’t you see?” she cried. “He’ll probably go away to live and then he’ll have other children—his
own
children. Oh, Roberto, this woman won’t want an almost grown-up girl around and she won’t want to be my mother. Why should she? She’ll want Edouard all to herself.”

“That’s not true, Amélie. Edouard would never let that happen.
You
know
he loves you. You are his daughter, just as if he were your real father.”

Amélie’s red-rimmed eyes were anxious. “If only I’d known my mother, just known what she was like, then I’d know about myself.”

Roberto looked puzzled. “What do you mean—about yourself?”

“No one ever talks about my mother. Her name was Léonie, she was lovely and good and sweet. And I look exactly like her. But what was she
like
, Roberto? Did she ride horses and did she like cats? Did she laugh at silly things the way I do and did she like to dance and wear pretty clothes … or maybe she liked mucking about barefoot in the sand. I don’t know if she ever felt jealous. Or did mean things. Don’t you see, Roberto? I’m like a jigsaw puzzle with a piece missing, it’s lost under a rug somewhere and the picture is spoiled. It’s almost there, but you can never be quite sure what it was really like!”

“Amélie, there’s no use worrying about a mother you’ve never known. You’re one of us—part of
my
family as well as Edouard’s. You know my father thinks of you as one of us. Doesn’t he always call you ‘his other son’ when he’s teasing you?” He dabbed at her eyes with the damp cloth. “You are what you are, Amélie d’Aureville, and it’s very nice. And I love you.”

Amélie sat up, pushing away the cloth. “Really, Roberto? Do you really love me?”

“Of course I do.” His clear blue eyes emphasized his sincerity and Amélie heaved a sigh of relief.

“Well, at least I have you,” she said, taking his hand.

“Come on, dry your eyes and wash your face, and let’s tell Edouard and Xara that you are pleased for them.” They walked hand in hand to the door. “Let them be happy, too,” he said.

Edouard smiled compassionately as Amélie came toward him, brushed and neat and very subdued, with Roberto beside her. She looked so vulnerable with her skinny arms and legs and tear-blotched face.

“I’m sorry,” she said shyly. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I was just surprised and a bit afraid of losing you, Edouard. I really want you to be happy—and Xara, too.”

Edouard wrapped his arms around her. “Thank you, my little daughter, thank you.”

*   *   *

The wedding day dawned as blue, clear, and perfect as all Florida days, and Amélie and Isabelle waited in Xara’s tiny sitting room at the St. James while she dressed for her wedding. This is it, thought Amélie miserably, nothing will ever be the same after today.

“You’re going to be a beautiful bridesmaid,” said Isabelle encouragingly. “You look so pretty in your lovely dress, and so like your mother.”

Amélie looked up hopefully. “Do I
really
look like her, Grandmère?”

Isabelle stroked her pretty hair; it hung loose and tawny, streaked with paler gold from the sun, tiny ends curling around her face despite the vigorous brushing she had given it to make it lay smooth. The circlet of pink flowers she wore was already turning faintly brown at the edges from the heat and its sweet scent filled the room. “There’s no mistaking that you are Léonie’s daughter, it’s all there—your hair, your eyes.”

At least I know that I look like her, thought Amelie, that’s something. Now if I only knew what she was
like
.

Xara sat in front of the dressing table brushing her long black hair. Her wedding dress of white organdy, banded on its full skirt and flounced neckline with satin ribbons, waited on its hanger and she could see its reflection in the mirror. Marcella and the Boutique Oberon hadn’t let her down, it was beautiful. She wondered what Edouard was doing now. He’d left her discreetly in the lobby of the St. James last night, after pulling her into the shadow of a doorway and covering her face with kisses. She closed her eyes, remembering the sensation of his warm lips on her skin. Tomorrow, he had whispered, you’ll be the Comtesse d’Aureville. Tomorrow, she had whispered back, you’ll be mine at last. No, he’d said, you’ll be mine. Either way, she had murmured from beneath the kisses. I’ll be happy.

There was just Amélie to worry about. And she
was
worried about her. There was no way to be a mother to the girl. Isabelle was already doing a good job of that. If Amélie could think of her as a sister, it would be easier for them to become friends.

Xara put down her hairbrush and went to the door. “I don’t know what to do with my hair,” she called, lifting it up on top of
her head. “What do you think, Amélie, should I pin it up like this?”

“Oh, no,” responded Amélie instinctively, “please leave it loose.”

“Could you help me? I feel so nervous somehow, I just can’t seem to do anything right.”

Their eyes met. She looks like a little girl, thought Amélie, puzzled. Is she really nervous? It’s only Edouard, after all. Still, it’s her wedding day, all brides are nervous.

She followed Xara to the dressing table and began to brush the heavy blue-black hair. It was so smooth and silky, not like her own unruly mop. “There,” she said, brushing the ends over her fingers, “now all you need is a flower or something.” She picked up the gardenias and held them to Xara’s hair. “These are perfect.”

“You’re right, Amélie.” Xara clipped the flowers into place. “Thank you for helping me.”

“You’re welcome,” said Amélie uncomfortably. “Do I look all right—for a bridesmaid, I mean?”

Xara had been afraid to comment on the dress, or on how she looked. Amélie was so prickly, looking for hidden hurts in every word. But she looked adorable, the flounced neckline and ruffled skirt disguised her coltish thinness, and the color suited her tawny blondness. “You look like a Renaissance princess,” she said, touching the mass of blond hair lightly. “You are a perfect bridesmaid.”

They smiled at each other. It was turning out better than she had expected, thought Amélie, withdrawing from the room. If Xara wasn’t marrying Edouard, she might even think she was very nice.

Xara’s brother, Tomas, and his wife, Lola, had arrived on the ferry from Havana. Lola was a vision in yellow silk, beaming with such excitement and happiness that even Amélie was won over by her charm. “Ah, you look so pretty, little one,” she cried, “the dress was a perfect choice … and such hair. Look at her wonderful hair, Tomas.” She hugged Amélie to her. “How nice to have you for a new sister-in-law … or is it daughter-in-law?” she asked, wrinkling her nose in puzzlement as Amélie laughed. “One of those ‘in-laws,’ anyway. Here, let me straighten your ribbons.” She pulled the sash tighter, adjusted a ribbon here and
there, and fixed the circlet of flowers firmly on her hair. “There, you’re ready. All we need now is the bride.”

Xara emerged from her room, pale and perfect, nervously holding a spray of creamy gardenias. They stood for a moment admiring her in her demure white gown that set off her dark exotic beauty to perfection.

“Xara,” said Lola softly, “you look beautiful. Oh, Tomas, look at her.”

Tomas took his sister’s arm. “It’s the beginning of a new life for you, Xara. I know you’ll be happy.”

Passersby smiled admiringly as the bridal party walked the short distance to the tiny white frame church where Edouard waited with Roberto. Edouard turned as the organist began to play and he and Xara smiled at each other as she walked down the aisle and put her hand in his.

Amélie stood behind them, listening to the quiet words of the service, watching Roberto as he handed Edouard the ring. She caught the expression of love between Edouard and Xara as he slipped it on her finger. They looked so, so
nice
, she thought helplessly, at a loss for the right word. Is that how marriage made you feel? Sort of loved, as though you belonged to someone? She looked at Roberto again. His back was toward her, his shaggy blond hair was combed neatly, and his white jacket looked very smart. He looked very grown up. We’ll get married one day, she thought, and then we’ll feel just the way Xara and Edouard do.

–
• 50 •

La Vieille Auberge. The name flowed in stylish script across the little wooden gate at the top of a rocky path and Jim checked it against the scrap of paper in his hand. Yes, this was it all right. He slammed the door of the yellow Mercedes-Benz and put on his jacket. Might as well look smart even if it’s hot. You can’t ask a woman to marry you in your shirt-sleeves, even if she did know you a lot better without your clothes on. He grinned as he opened the gate and strode down the path.

The house stood white, four-square and green-shuttered, amid a riot of flowers on an olive-strewn slope leading to the sea. He smiled in satisfaction. He liked that blue sea. He liked this place. All of it. Naturally she would live here. He started for the front door that stood open to the sun, flanked by great earthenware pots of geraniums, but stopped suddenly. He followed the path around the side of the house, emerging onto a broad terrace overlooking the sea. Another little path led from the steps down the slope past a silent pool that reflected the blue of the sky and a vine-covered arbor. It was the perfect garden in which to sit and dream in the shade, idling away the hours, recuperating from life’s mortal blows. It was Léonie’s garden, and he knew that was where she would be.

He followed the path until he found her. She was tending a bed of flowers beneath a blossoming tree, while Chocolat chased her feet. The sound of Léonie’s laughter floated toward him.

“At least it’s good to hear you laugh again,” he said.

Léonie wore a simple blue cotton skirt and blouse and her face was golden from the sun and lit with surprise. She had never looked more beautiful to him.

“Jim Jamieson,” she said, “what are you doing here?”