Leonie (79 page)

“Sebastião, I have an idea. I want you to tell me what you think of it.”

She looked so earnest that Sebastião wondered what it could be now. Was she planning a fifty room extension? Or adding extra tennis courts and a polo field? He wouldn’t put anything past her imagination, or her flair, she seemed to have a real sense for what would succeed.

“All right, tell me,” he said, thinking how pretty she looked in the white lace blouse.

“The war in France is finally over. I want to take the children to see their grandmother.”

The only thing that would have surprised him more would have been if she’d said she was retiring and leaving the hotel for someone else to manage. He knew that Amélie wrote to Léonie, though she rarely mentioned her, yet obviously this had been brewing in her mind for some time.

“It sounds like a good idea,” he said carefully, “as long as Léonie agrees.” He remembered their flight from France the last time when Léonie had been convinced that Amélie was in some sort of danger.

“I’m not going to tell her,” she announced. “I shall just go there and find her.”

“Like the last time?” Sebastião raised his eyebrows.

“Not like the last time. This time I won’t run away. Whatever trouble there was when I was a child must surely be over now, Sebastião. I’m twenty-four years old—and a widow with two children of my own.” Amélie shrugged. “There’s no danger except in Léonie’s head, and I think my children have the right to know their grandmother.”

Sebastião took her hand. “You’re right, it’s a good idea, good for you and for Lais and Leonore. And for Léonie.”

Amélie smiled her relief; Sebastião was so level-headed, if he’d tried to dissuade her she would have been forced to reconsider her decision—or at least to listen to his arguments against it. “Oh, good,” she breathed, “I’m glad you approve. It’ll make it easier when I tell Edouard.” The old animation lit her face and for a
moment he had a glimpse of the vivid, eager young girl she used to be. “Oh, Sebastião, I’m so excited!”

Sebastião’s eyes met hers. “Amélie, why go alone? Can’t I go with you?”

“You don’t want to be dragging around Europe with a widow and her brood! You have that architectural practice in New York to think of—and no doubt a dozen beautiful and maddeningly smart girlfriends!”

Amélie dismissed the idea lightly, as she could with an old friend, but Sebastião wasn’t to be put off.

“Amélie, I didn’t mean it like that.… I’d like you to be my wife.” Her long, dark-tipped lashes fluttered to her cheeks. He continued, “I’ve always loved you—we could be happy together, like we are now. The best days of my life are when I’m here with you and the children.”

He was her dearest friend in the world, he’d always been that—and it was true they were happy when they were together. Marriage to Sebastião would be calm and reasonable and always comfortably loving. Memories of Roberto flitted through her head; it had been full of youth and gentle and wonderful. But now she was different. She was a woman, and she wanted to feel like a woman. Maybe somewhere, someday there would be someone who aroused the passion in her that she felt sure existed.

“Sebastião.” Amélie’s amber eyes met his, pleadingly. “I can’t—not now anyway. I’m not ready for marriage, but I do love you, too, really I do.” Her hands squeezed his anxiously. “It’s just that I have to go to France alone. I need more time to sort out my feelings.”

Maybe he acted too hastily; it had only been three years, after all. “I’ll be here, when you get back then,” he said with a smile, “if you need me.”

Amélie breathed a sigh of relief. “I’ll always need you, in fact, I need you right now. I want to take the children to Paris for a few days before we go down to the Côte d’Azur. Don’t you have some friends there? I’d like to know there was someone I could turn to in case anything went wrong.”

Sebastião thought of Gérard de Courmont—here was a chance for him at last to meet Amélie. “Of course, a
very good
friend. I’ll
write to him at once and let him know you’re coming. He’d be more than happy to show you Paris.”

“Wonderful,” said Amélie as the waiter arrived bearing their supper. “I can’t wait to meet him.”

–
• 71 •

Gérard drove the big dark blue car through the night; every mile that clicked onto the gauge on the dashboard in front of him put more distance between him and his father in Monte Carlo. It was never easy spending time with him, though now that Gilles was able to speak again, the terrible sense of isolation Gérard had felt around his father had lessened. Give him his due, Gérard thought as the dawn light filtered across the outskirts of Paris, the old man’s a fighter and he’s got courage. He needed it to get through what he did. The bitterest blow was his inability to walk. Gilles de Courmont did not take to the life of a cripple easily, he despised his wheelchair, hated his useless legs. For the second time in his life he battled with daily exercises that would have defeated a man half his age, and the greatest triumph of the past years had been the day he had stood unaided by the side of his chair—upright on his own two feet for the first time in five years. At sixty-four he was still a handsome man, thought Gérard critically. Normally a man of his looks and position would have been enjoying life with some pretty woman on his arm, though probably not his father; he’d probably still be clinging to the past and to the one love of his life: Léonie. Nothing was ever mentioned about her—there were no intimate conversations between father and son—but he suspected that she was still there, in his father’s convoluted mind.

He swung the car across the bridge and along the Quai d’Orléans to the big house. Since his father had taken to living permanently in Monte Carlo, Marie-France had taken over the family townhouse, throwing open its windows to the fresh air and livening its dimmed surfaces with fresh paint, new upholstery, and beautiful new curtains. For the first time in years and despite its size and grandeur, the place felt like a home.

It was just six-thirty as Gérard strode into the hall. There was time for some breakfast and about a half gallon of coffee before he went to the office. The plans for that new extension to the art gallery presented some fascinating problems as far as lighting.

A pile of letters awaited on his desk and he leafed through them quickly. There was one from Sebastião—good, it had been a long time. What could he be up to? Well, well, so little Amélie d’Aureville was coming to Paris. He remembered the letters Sebastião used to show him with the funny drawings: Amélie with the round face and the curly hair, the big upturned grin when she was happy and the downturned mouth when she wasn’t.

Gérard tossed the letter onto the desk. He wondered how happy she could be now, a young widow with two small children. Well, he was going to be pretty busy, but he’d make time to see her, for Sebastião’s sake.

Paris was unfolding itself for them like a flower, thought Amélie, as they sailed sedately along the river Seine, dipping under ancient bridges and floating through the city, marveling that it had placed so many glorious buildings by its river to be admired by visitors like herself. Lais and Leonore hung over the side of the barge with their nurse keeping a firm grip on them—just in case they leaned too far.

Amélie relaxed against the wooden seat. It was pleasant just gliding along like this, listening to the monotone discourse of the guide as he named names and recounted dates, and it was pleasant being in Paris again. This time she really wanted to get to know it, the last visit had been so quick. It was odd really, she thought, that now she was here in France there seemed no great urgency to rush down to the south, it felt good just being with the children, and they loved having her to themselves. In fact, they blossomed under her attention and maybe they were becoming just a little bit spoiled? And why not, she thought indulgently, though they really should take a nap this afternoon or they’d never last through supper.

The pretty barge nudged its way back to the pier and the children leapt out, darting up the gray stone steps with their nurse in pursuit. Yes, it was definitely time for a quiet lunch and then bed for those little girls!

*   *   *

The suite at the Hôtel Crillon was sunlit and quiet as Amélie reread the note from Gérard de Courmont. This was the friend Sebastião had told her about—his
“very good”
friend, he’d said. She had been enjoying her solitude and her daughters so much that for a moment she almost regretted that Gérard had asked her to lunch the next day, but still, she supposed it would do her good to get away from the children for an hour or two. And, after all, mightn’t it be fun to have lunch with a Frenchman in Paris?

Amélie went to her closet and glanced through the array of dresses hanging there. Why was it that Paris always managed to make her feel dowdy and out of style? She didn’t have a thing to wear for a lunch engagement with a man. A little shopping was definitely called for. And perhaps she should also have her hair done, try something new, something a little more stylish?

Gérard looked at the tall blond woman in the summery yellow dress walking toward him across the lobby of the Crillon with a jolt of recognition. Sebastião’s words from years before flashed into his head: Amélie looks like Léonie, he had said,
exactly
like her. And she did! Hadn’t Sebastião said she must be some long-lost relative?

“Madame do Santos?”

Amélie smiled at him, a wide-curving coral smile that sparkled her tawny eyes and seemed to Gérard to light the Hotel Crillon better than any of its multilustered chandeliers.

“You must be Gérard de Courmont,” this vision said to him in perfectly accented French. “I would have recognized you anywhere from Sebastião’s description—and it was a flattering one, Monsieur de Courmont. He said you would be the handsomest man in sight.” Amélie’s laugh rang through the muted hallways of the Crillon as Gérard took her hand.

“And, of course, you could only be Amélie,” he said, a smile lighting his own face. “I would have known you anywhere.”

“Then I’m glad Sebastião didn’t let either of us down. It could have been very embarrassing if there had been two handsome men in this lobby being importuned by a strange foreign female!”

Gérard felt his spirits rise as they eyed each other with mutual appreciation. Taking Amélie’s arm, he walked with her to the door, mentally canceling the plans he had had for the elegant formal restaurant. He was with a beautiful and intriguing woman
on a wonderful summer’s day and there was only one place to take her: the Bois.

Lemony beams of sunlight filtered through the trees as they drove through the park, dappling Amélie’s champagne hair with greenish lights and shading her clear peach-skinned face like tiny clouds. Her mouth was curved in an expression of delight as she gazed around her, and the yellow dress reflected its color beneath her delicately boned chin like the petals of a buttercup.

She was, thought Gérard, the most beautiful, the most desirable woman he had ever met. Sebastião had always claimed to be in love with her and now he knew why.

The restaurant’s tables were set beneath the shade of a vast sweeping chestnut tree and surrounded by flowers. “It’s quite the most perfect place for lunch on a beautiful day,” remarked Amélie, feeling suddenly a little shy now that they were sitting opposite each other. He really was very good-looking, tall and broad-shouldered, and his face, though he was smiling at her, was that of a serious man. His eyes were an indigo blue, deep like the darkest part of the ocean, and his black hair was swept back, waving slightly, from a broad intelligent brow. There was a sort of intensity about him, a feeling of leashed power that made her a little uneasy, but it was very attractive.

“Sebastião told me that you were recently widowed,” he said, the words dropping shockingly into the soft afternoon air. “I wanted to offer my sympathy.”

Amélie was startled—it wasn’t anything she had expected him to say. Why wasn’t he just making trivial lunchtime conversation with her? “Thank you,” she replied stiffly. “It has been three years now.”

“Amélie, if we are to get to know each other, it had to be said. Otherwise we would just have a pleasant lunch. We could chat about Paris and about your journey and that would be that, but I would like to know you better.”

For once in her life Amélie was at a loss for words and she stared at this forceful stranger who wanted to know her better, her eyes round with surprise.

“Though,” Gérard went on, “I feel that I already know you. Sebastião used to show me your letters—the ones with the little drawings.”

“I remember, I used to draw maps of the rides we’d been on, or pictures of my cats.”

“And there were pictures of you—a little round face and a mass of frizzy hair—not all that accurate judging by what I see now.”

His face lit up as Amélie laughed. “There, that’s better, now you’re relaxed and we can talk like old friends instead of new acquaintances.” He held her gaze for a long moment.

“You’re very direct, Gérard de Courmont,” said Amélie, turning her gaze down to the menu in front of her.

“I simply felt we could be friends, you and I. Paris can be a lonely city for a visitor—I’d like to show it to you, if you’d let me.”

Their eyes met again, and Amélie’s heart skipped a beat as a blush of happiness colored her cheeks. “I think I’d like that,” she murmured.

For a man she thought so serious-looking when she had walked across the lobby of the Crillon to meet him, Gérard proved highly entertaining, recounting stories of his student days with Sebastião so that she suddenly saw both of them in a whole new light, as carefree architectural students involved in the silly escapades of youth. And Gérard was so
easy
to talk to that stories just spilled from her, childhood memories of the Villa d’Aureville on Copacabana with Sebastião, Roberto, Edouard, and Grandmère. She found herself remembering things they had done that must have been buried in the recesses of her mind, and her laughter rang out as she shared them with Gérard de Courmont.