Leonie (63 page)

Diego sucked in his breath in a gasp of astonishment.

“Surely Monsieur can no longer be a threat to her? It’s been so long, Edouard,” said Isabelle.

Edouard recalled the fear in Léonie’s eyes as she’d spoken of Monsieur as a threat to Amélie. He would kill the child out of jealous rage, she’d said. But that had been sixteen years ago. Maman was right, surely the threat must have lessened. What man could sustain such a passion for so long? Léonie had thought he was capable of anything, but she had been so young and so helpless then—and she had to protect her baby. “You’re right, Maman, so much time has passed. Now Amélie has a mother
who’s a famous woman, a celebrity … I told her
almost
everything … about Charles and Monsieur’s threat to her. I didn’t want her to feel that Léonie had abandoned her. She
has
the right to see her mother. We can’t keep them apart any longer. I want you to take her, Maman … it’s a woman’s help she’ll need in Paris, not mine.”

Hurried footsteps sounded along the corridor and Diego slid silently back through the kitchen and out into the garden. He turned out of the gates into Avenida Atlantica and strolled, hands in pockets, along the sandy road smiling to himself. So there was a mother, was there? And a mysterious one, a celebrity with a past! And “Monsieur,” who was a threat—well, well. He’d bet not too many people were aware of Amélie’s sudden acquisition of a mother. You never knew when information like that could be valuable.

Sebastião glared at his brother. “What do you mean, you don’t want to go?” he demanded. “How could you refuse, Roberto? You know how much your support means to Amélie.”

Roberto avoided his eyes. “It’s not that I don’t want to go,” he said miserably, “it’s just that, well … I should stay here. There’s work to be done.” Even to his own ears the words sounded hollow, and he really wanted to go to France, he wanted to be with Amélie. She was afraid and he should be there to help her. But Diego had threatened to tell her about him if he went. It was blackmail and Roberto knew it. Suddenly Amélie and the normal orderly life she represented seemed infinitely desirable. Roberto wished he’d never been with Diego, had never known the Hotel Orfeo and the lure of that other life. He hated it, he hated Diego for introducing him to it. But it’s part of you now, an inner voice warned him, it’s your life now. “I’ll go with you,” he said suddenly, “I really want to go, Sebastião. I know she needs us there for support.”

“Then why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Sebastião demanded in exasperation. “You would have saved us all a hell of a lot of trouble.” He looked at his younger brother wearily. “Come on, Roberto, tell me what’s wrong. Why are you so difficult these days, so elusive?”

Roberto shrugged, turning away so that Sebastião wouldn’t see the fear in his eyes. He’d done it, he would go. He’d call Diego’s bluff. And if Diego told, well then, he’d face up to it. But he couldn’t tell Sebastião, he couldn’t.

–
• 57 •

Gilles de Courmont’s assistant sprang to his feet and held open the door for his employer. “I shan’t be back tonight, Satère,” he called, as he strode through the vast offices of the de Courmont Automobile Company. Satère looked after him in surprise; he usually worked until ten or eleven at night, and he was always there before any of the staff in the morning. He spent so much time in the office that sometimes Satère wondered if he had a private life at all. Maybe he’s got a woman waiting tonight, Satère thought with a grin.

“Damn,” muttered Gilles as pain shot through his knee, “why does that still happen?” He thought of those long months in the hospital after they told him that he wouldn’t be able to walk and the despair he had felt. How he struggled to master the painful exercises with weights strapped to his feet, forcing himself from his bed to stand on his own two feet, proving to the doctors that he
could
do it, that he
would
do it. But he would have traded both legs for Armand’s life, and without legs he was better dead. He had contemplated it. There had been only one thing left to live for: he had wanted to see Léonie again. He couldn’t bear the thought of dying and leaving her.

The big blue limousine drew up at the curb and Hoskins leapt out, opening the door apologetically. “Sorry, sir. I hadn’t heard that you were leaving early.”

“I should have warned you.” Gilles looked at his watch. “The Ile Saint-Louis first, then I’ll be leaving for the theater at seven o’clock. I’ll be driving myself.”

“Yes, sir.”

It was Léonie’s farewell performance. He couldn’t miss that.

*   *   *

Léonie’s dressing room was filled with flowers; they spilled out into the corridors, lining the drab walls with splashes of color like a village flower show. “It’s nice, folks, that you appreciate her, love her, adore her … call it what you will,” announced Jim, bowing to the floral offerings as he made his way toward her room, “but this is it … no more flowers are needed by Mrs. Jamieson.
I
shall be the only one allowed to buy her flowers. Thank you, thank you.”

“You’re cheerful, darling,” she said, as he swung into the room laughing.

“Just my own silly joke,” he said, kissing her soundly. “How does it feel to be
almost
plain ‘Mrs. Jamieson’?”

“I’m not even going to think about it until after the show,” she said firmly. “If I do, I’ll never get through it. I’d just want to go home with you and curl up next to you in bed.”

“And that, my love, is exactly what you’re going to do
after
the show … curl up with me and a magnum of Roederer Cristal—nothing but the best for the famous
ex
-star!”

“Oh, Jim, you are crazy.” She laughed, tilting back her head to apply the eye pencil. “What is it like outside?”

“People are arriving in droves, the place will be packed and scalpers are selling tickets on the street asking five times the box-office price and getting it.”

“See what a gold mine you’re turning down,” she teased. “People are getting rich out there and you scoff at it.”

“You’re rich enough, you don’t need any more money, besides, there are easier ways of making it than this. You’ll see,” he promised, “I’m going to turn you into a tycoon.”

“I thought I was going to be just plain Mrs. Jamieson,” she said, standing up and taking off her kimono.

“Oh, Mrs. Jamieson,” he said softly as she smiled at him temptingly, standing there in nothing but her high-heeled slippers, “you’ll never be plain anything.”

She walked into his open arms and hugged herself to him, loving the way his hard body felt next to hers. He kissed her hungrily. “You’ve smudged my makeup,” she murmured with her eyes closed.

“Oh, Léonie,” he murmured, “thank God this is your last night!”

*   *   *

Paris, decided Amélie, was the most romantic city in the world. It wasn’t a place you had to take time to like, it was instant, and for her it wasn’t just liking, it was love at first sight. The chestnut trees were in blossom under a blue early May sky, the café terraces were crowded, the women were chic, and the young girls far more stylish than in Rio—she was definitely going to have to buy some new clothes, maybe try her hair a different way. “Paris,” she said to Roberto, sitting opposite her at the café table sipping Pernod, “is an inspiration for a girl. Everyone looks attractive here, even if they’re not really pretty.”

“Then there’s hope for you yet,” he teased.

“Do I look awful?” she asked anxiously. She’d bought this suit especially for the trip and the pale peach-color linen skirt and jacket had seemed very smart then. But no one else was wearing pleats like that and weren’t their jackets a bit shorter?

“You look lovely,” he assured her. “You always do.”

She smiled at him, pleased. “Why are you being so nice to me?” she asked, suddenly suspicious.

“Because I love you,” he said simply. He didn’t know why he said it quite like that, the words just came out—and he did love her. He felt free with her, alive again, part of the
real
world. The weeks on the ship with Isabelle, Sebastião, and Amélie had felt like a convalescence from a serious illness. He had become himself again, and it was all because of her, her innocence had redeemed him. She was looking at him rather shyly and he took her hand. “I’ll always love you, Amélie,” he said.

Amélie breathed a sigh of contentment. She’d never doubted that he loved her, but she needed to hear him say so. She rubbed his hand against her cheek, feeling dazzled with happiness. Roberto loved her and now she could face anything. “I’ll always love you, too,” she murmured.

Sebastião wound his way between the tables and took a seat. “Isabelle is too tired after the journey to face dinner tonight,” he said, “so we’re on our own.” He tossed the newspaper on the table, signaling the waiter to bring him a beer.

Amélie sighed. “All I really want to do is see Léonie,” she said, “but Grandmère thinks it will take a few days to contact her and make arrangements. I’d just like to get it over with. Oh, Sebastião, I’m so nervous.”

He looked at her sympathetically; of course she was nervous,
who wouldn’t be under these circumstances? He’d been stunned when she told him that Léonie was her mother. She’d said little else, and he had asked no questions, but he had to come with her. He couldn’t let her face it alone, she might need a strong shoulder to cry on. He picked up the newspaper with a frown. Should he tell her? How could he not? He opened the paper to the page where the announcement spelled out Léonie’s name in bold black letters and passed it to Amélie.

“Here,” he said quietly. “You could see her tonight if you wanted to.”

“Farewell performance,” she read. “Léonie at the Théâtre de l’Opéra. Tonight at eight.” The words danced in front of her eyes: this was her mother, she would be there tonight! She was suddenly becoming a reality, not just someone her imagination endowed with a voice and a smile and words of her own creation. Léonie was real. “I have to see her, Sebastião—can we go there? If I see her on the stage first maybe it won’t be as strange later when I meet her,” if, she added silently, I still have the courage.

Roberto looked at his watch. “It’s already seven,” he said. “We’d better go … if it’s her farewell show, it’s going to be crowded.”

Sebastião elbowed his way through the throng outside the theater. The box office had a sign saying “No more tickets available,” but he knew there’d be scalpers in the crowd. There was one! He grabbed the man by the arm and spoke to him, bargaining angrily in rapid French. The tickets were ridiculously expensive, but they were good ones—center-front in the dress circle. He pushed his way back to the steps where Amélie and Roberto waited anxiously. “I’ve got them,” he called, waving the tickets in the air as he pushed his way toward them.

“Oh, I knew you would,” cried Amélie. “Sebastião, you’re so clever, you always know how to work things out.”

Roberto felt a pang of jealousy toward his brother. He wanted Amélie to say things like that to
him
. “Come on then,” he said, taking her hand, “we’d better go in.”

This is it, thought Amélie, staring around the big rococo theater. All these smart people in evening dress and all those crowding into the balconies are here to see my mother; they all know her better than I do, they know what to expect—and what she’s like. She smoothed her skirt nervously, tucking her hair back behind
her ears, leaning forward to watch the constant stream of people as they took their seats in the stalls, wishing she had had time to dress properly for the occasion. But if there had been time, she might have changed her mind. The orchestra filed into the pit and there was a sudden ripple of applause as the conductor took his place, bowing to the audience before he took up his baton and began the overture. The house lights began to dim. Amélie took a deep, shaky breath. She felt Roberto’s hand on hers. “It’s all right, Amélie,” he whispered, “I’m here with you.”

Caro, rustling in silk taffeta, hurried down the aisle with Alphonse, murmuring apologies as they took their seats in the fifth row, center stalls. “Thank God,” she said, “we’re just in time. I would have hated to miss any of her final show.”

“Did you see the car outside?” whispered Alphonse.

She had seen it. The familiar dark blue car had been parked directly across from the theater. “You didn’t think he’d miss this one, did you?” she whispered back. “I’m sure he’s still not given up hope of getting her back … wait till he reads the announcement in the papers. Then he’ll know he’s beaten.” She felt almost sorry for Monsieur. He’d destroyed his life in a futile quest for Léonie and yet he had never really loved her—or if he had then it was a strange kind of love. To them it all seemed so far away—lost in the past—but he still lived it, day and night. He was an extraordinary man. Under other circumstances, he might have been a wonderful man.

Jim stood in the wings with Léonie, waiting for her entrance. She stared silently ahead, concentrating on the music, already remote from him. He’d seen her do it a thousand times, change from the Léonie he knew to the exotic stranger on stage, and the metamorphosis happened right here. She’d wait, quietly, head drooping as she listened to the music, and then when the moment came, she’d stretch herself tall, throw back her head, and stride onto the stage, pacing it arrogantly as she conjured with the lyric of her first song. It was a moment of pure magic and as the orchestra played the first bars he almost regretted that this was the last time he would see it.

The applause was rapturous as she strode onto the stage, cheers rang through the theater and Léonie paused for a moment, surprised.
And then she raised her arms in acceptance and bowed to them, smiling.

Amélie bit her lip, trying to stop the tears from coming. She stared at the stage, at the golden, magical being smiling at the welcoming crowd. They were cheering her, calling bravo, and she hadn’t even sung yet. They wanted to show her that they loved her. The hand that gripped Roberto’s felt damp with sweat, she could hardly bear to look.