Leonie (61 page)

Edouard sighed. “Perhaps you are right, Amélie, but Roberto is down on the
fazenda
as a punishment. I hardly think he’s having
fun with Diego. We must wait until he gets back and then see what happens. Come on,” he said, taking her hand, “let’s go and watch the sunset over the bay and then we’ll get the ice cream for Xara. I bet I know what flavor you’re going to have.”

“Bet you don’t,” she said, cheering up.

“Chocolate with marshmallow?”

“No!” she said, slipping her arm through his. “Tonight it’s peach. I feel like peaches.”

The ice cream lay forgotten in a melting puddle on the kitchen table. They had returned to find that Xara was already in labor. “My girls are on their way,” said Edouard, grinning.

“Our boys,” Xara had corrected him gently.

“Boys or girls, I’m happy,” he promised.

Amélie waited on the terrace with Edouard, watching the twinkling lights of the town below them. She had wondered how she would feel when the time came and now she knew. She heard Xara cry out, it was terrible, frightening, she didn’t care about anything else, not the babies—nothing. Oh, God, she prayed, just let Xara be all right.

Edouard put his arm around her and she turned to hug him, hiding her face against his chest.

“It’s all right, Amélie,” he said, stroking her soft hair. “She said to tell you it’s all right.”

Vicente d’Aureville was born at three in the morning. Edouard stood beside Xara, smiling down at their small scrap of a son. “Isn’t he the most beautiful baby you’ve ever seen?” she murmured proudly.

“The most beautiful.” He smiled. “And you’re the loveliest mother. I love you, Xara—and I love him.”

“Wait,” she cautioned him with a smile. “Save some love for Jean-Paul—he’s next.”

Jean-Paul was born exactly two hours after Vicente and weighed one pound less. But he was just as beautiful and just as perfect, thought Amélie, gazing at them in awe.

They lay in twin cradles, their crumpled pink faces looking like flowers still in bud, eyes tightly shut against the alien new light, as exhausted as their mother from their long journey into life.

“Xara, they’re wonderful,” she breathed, touching a tiny hand, marveling at the perfect fingernails, fearful for its very smallness. “I love them already. I can’t wait to hold them.”

“You shall, darling, as soon as they’re awake. They’re yours, too, you know—your brothers.”

Amélie looked at them regretfully. She’s being nice, she thought, they’re cousins really, not brothers. She glanced at Xara, lying back against the pillows. She looked exhausted but lovely in a fresh blue nightdress with a lacy shawl around her shoulders. My own mother must have felt like that when she had me, she thought, and Charles, my father, must have stood by my crib and admired me, just like that. “Xara,” she said, sitting on the bed and taking her hand, “what does it feel like to be a mother?”

“Oh, Amélie”—she smiled at her gently—“you can’t imagine what it’s like, it’s the most wonderful feeling in the world.”

–
• 55 •

Léonie was quiet as she sat beside Jim in the silver Bentley on their way to Paris. Too quiet, he thought, maneuvering the car through the sudden spurt of traffic on the outskirts of Tours, and I know why.

They had spent a marvelous, satisfying, happy day at the Château d’Aureville, supervising the combination of sports day, prize-giving, and birthday celebration—Amélie’s birthday. The children had crowded around them as they left, pressing kisses on them and demanding huge hugs, exclaiming with renewed delight as Jim handed over the box of presents to be distributed after they had gone. Yes, for them it had been a perfect day.

He glanced at her again. She was gazing straight ahead, a frown creasing her smooth forehead.

“All right,” he said, putting his foot down on the accelerator as they came to a good straight bit of road, “let’s have it … what’s the problem?”

Léonie unwrinkled her brow and looked at him. His profile was strong and handsome as he gazed ahead, confident hands firmly on the wheel. Of course he knew what was wrong, he just wanted to make her talk about it. It’s better to talk, he always said, don’t keep things locked up inside anymore, talk to me!

“Amélie’s sixteen today,” she said. “Up until now I’ve always hoped that some day, by some miracle, I would see her again, but as each year goes by the possibility becomes more remote.”

Jim frowned, thinking about it. He still hadn’t discovered the whereabouts of the red-haired assassin, Marigny, but he hadn’t given up hope. He’d covered the south of France from border to border, but the man simply hadn’t been there. Maybe he’d gone to Spain, they said, or Italy. Each marina and each boat yard was
alerted to contact him if Marigny should ever return. There was nothing more to be done.

Léonie was still convinced that Monsieur was a threat. He had overcome an accident, which might have killed a normal man or at least left him crippled for life, and within a year was back at the helm of his vast empire.

De Courmont strode around on legs whose shattered bones were pinned together with steel, covering Europe with an energy that a younger, fitter man might have envied. One thing
had
stopped, though, and that was the spying on Léonie. After the accident he had been too ill, but for some reason it hadn’t picked up again. Yet he still sent her flowers—always jasmine—at the theaters. Was he giving up on her? Jim doubted it. The white yacht was there every now and again, anchored in the bay. Could he know that she was married? Was that it? Few people did. It was one of the best-kept secrets in France, and Léonie still insisted on it—just until she stopped performing. Well, this was her final year. Afterward she would be simply Mrs. Jamieson, his wife and lover. But he couldn’t let her give up hope of seeing her daughter.

“I promised you when we married that you would see Amélie again,” he reassured her, “and one day you will, Léonie. Just give me time.”

She lay her head back against the cushions with a sigh. “I’ll wait,” she said simply.

“I had fun today with all your other kids,” he said with a smile. “You’re like the old woman who lived in the shoe, you have children coming out every door and window. But they surely love you.”

She smiled reminiscently. “Did you see the look on little Andre’s face when he heard he’d won the prize? And the amount of food that Genevieve ate?” Jim was right, she had forty children, not just one. And she had Jim. Even though he was busy, traveling often to New York to take care of his many business interests, he was always there when she needed him. When he was gone, she never felt abandoned and desolate, the way she had when Monsieur left her. Her days were busy and filled with happy anticipation of his return, secure in his love. She was a lucky woman.

“We’ll just make the theater in time,” he said glancing at the clock. “We’ve cut it a bit fine, but we’ll be there.”

She didn’t doubt it. Jim always took care of her.

*   *   *

Voisins was crowded, as usual, but Gérard de Courmont had no trouble getting a table for three. “How do you do it?” marveled Sebastião, following the maître d’hôtel through the busy room.

“It’s not me,” whispered Gérard, “it’s my father, he’s been coming here for years.”

Agneta Lofgren took the chair he offered and stared around in surprise. This was much grander than she had expected when they’d invited her to their farewell dinner. In all the years they had been students together, she had never been taken anywhere other than the bistros and cafés of Paris. “I hope you two can afford this,” she said suspiciously. The enormous menu showed no prices, as though money were too vulgar to be discussed.

Sebastião glanced around the room appreciatively. This had definitely been a good choice. Trust Gérard, he always knew where to find the best, though with a father like his he supposed he’d had a good apprenticeship. This was such an intimate room despite its size—it was a place meant for lovers, like those two at the next table. The man couldn’t take his eyes off the woman. They held hands under the table and every now and then he would stroke her naked arm. It was a lovely arm, he conceded, and she had beautiful hair, a tawny blond mane. He liked it, pity he couldn’t see her face—her back was to him—but he bet she was beautiful.

“I see you’re staring at Léonie,” murmured Gérard. “I don’t blame you.”

“Léonie? Is that who she is? I’ve only seen her on stage—she probably looks quite different in person.”

“She does,” said Gérard quietly. “I have good reason to know.”

Sebastião and Agneta looked at him curiously. “Do you know her then?”

“Not really, but she dominated my childhood—from a distance, of course. You might say she changed de Courmont history.”

“But how, Gérard?” persisted Agneta.

“Léonie was my father’s mistress. He was obsessed by her. For all I know, he still is.”

Sebastião stared at Léonie in surprise. Then she was a femme fatale as well as a great singer. This man she was with must be her latest lover. What, he wondered, does a femme fatale look like?

“Is she still your father’s mistress?” whispered Agneta.

“Of course not, but she’s still very beautiful.”

Sebastião stared at her again. She was tall and very slender and she was wearing some sort of misty, silvery dress, high-necked and yet not at all demure—at least not from the back.

Jim glanced around the restaurant. The young people next to them were obviously having a good time, two young men and a pretty girl. One of the young men was obviously smitten with Léonie. “I think you have an ardent fan at the next table,” he said with a faint smile as he caught the young fellow’s eye.

“Oh? Really?” She turned to look, nice young people having fun. How lovely to have such an uncomplicated youth, not to always have to struggle. Her eyes met the shocked-looking ones of the nice blond boy and she smiled in surprise. Good heavens, did she have that much effect on them? He looked amazed that she had even smiled at him. She turned back to Jim apologetically. “You’ll see, darling,” she said, “this time next year no one will even recognize me. They may not even remember me. Only a few more appearances and then I’m all yours.”

Sebastião put his hand on Gérard’s arm. “Gérard,” he said urgently, “it’s extraordinary!”

“What is? God, you look weird! Whatever’s the matter?”

“Léonie,” he whispered, “it’s Léonie … she looks exactly like my cousin Amélie.”

“Then you’re a lucky fellow.”

“No, you don’t understand,” he repeated urgently, “she looks
exactly
like her—they could be sisters!”

Agneta and Gérard stared at him in surprise.

“I’m telling you,” repeated Sebastião, “that Amélie is the image of her. It’s uncanny.”

“Things do happen,” whispered Agneta. “I’ve heard of strange coincidences like that.”

Sebastião took a gulp of his champagne, staring at Léonie. They were leaving; Victor rushed forward personally to take her chair and she thanked him—she had a charming voice, low and musical. He waited; he must see her again. Léonie tucked her purse under her arm and turned round, smiling directly at him—amber eyes with that special mischievous gleam he knew so well, and that same wide coral smile. She nodded politely to them and swept off, bestowing smiles on the charmed diners, who turned eagerly to see her go by. “It’s Amélie,” he said to Gérard, his voice incredulous. “I’m telling you, Gérard, that’s Amélie!”

–
• 56 •

Roberto do Santos brushed his straight blond hair carefully and examined his reflection. He didn’t like what he saw. The mirrored image seemed all right—the blond, blue-eyed, suntanned athlete, a sober and enthusiastic young businessman who worked with Edouard on the endless details of the construction of the Florida hotel—but he could see beyond that. Could others? he wondered nervously. Especially Sebastião. His brother knew him too well, he could sense when things were wrong. Sebastião had wanted to know why he hadn’t shown up for the exam. He’d been tempted to tell him what really happened. But, of course, he couldn’t, not now. Months had passed, things had gone too far. He wanted that other nighttime world of Diego’s—prowling around the cafés and brothels where women with tired eyes and flamboyant flesh promised them anything they wished, the bars where nervous men bargained furtively for the favors of knowing young boys, and the rough cafés where you met the drug peddlers and the misfits and the other night-world drifters, like themselves. He couldn’t be without Diego, he needed him. He felt the heat again as he remembered the night in the bordello. Diego had laughed it off casually; it happens, he had said, when there’s a group of you making it like that. It’s just sex. Was it? Roberto wondered uneasily. It hadn’t happened again, and he had no desire for sex with the men they met in the homosexual clubs, although he’d been asked often enough. No, it was just Diego. He stared despairingly at his clean-cut untroubled reflection in the mirror. It was a perverse and twisted love, but he knew he loved Diego Benavente.

The receding tide had left the sand firm and cool and the horses were enjoying their gallop along the flat length of Ipanema beach
in the cool of the early morning. Sebastião slowed his horse to a canter and looked back at Amélie. She was a hundred yards behind him wading her horse in the surf and he waited for her to catch up. She rode bareback, her long legs in her baggy old shorts gripping her horse with casual authority as she guided it through the edge of the waves. Her hair streamed behind her in the wind and she looked, he thought, like the valiant figurehead of some old ship. One thing was certain, the little girl he’d known last time he was in Rio had grown up. She was still naive and innocent, still impetuous and outspoken, but she had gained a new maturity, and she was now, at sixteen, a beautiful young woman. And he loved her. He’d always loved her, but now it was different. Now he wanted to press kisses on that curving coral mouth, he wanted to hold her in his arms and feel her heart beating next to his, he wanted to stroke and soothe her into loving; now he was
in love
with her. When she was eighteen, he would ask her to marry him, even though right now she treated him as her best friend, the recipient of her confidences, the keeper of her secrets, soother of her fears, audience to her daily life—he knew her soul as intimately as he wanted to know her body. She thought she was in love with Roberto. It would pass, though, he was sure of it. The two had been thrown together since they were babies, it was just familiarity and proximity. She hadn’t been out in the world, hadn’t yet met any other men.