Miracle (55 page)

“What about your father?”

“His back was broken. He’s paralyzed. And there are other injuries, as well. He’s in a coma. The doctors doubt he’ll survive.”

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

“I’m sorry for my sister.”

She shivered. “Be sorry for your father, too. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

Sebastien’s brutal laugh frightened her, and she drew back quickly to look at him. His eyes glittered. “That, dear Miracle, remains to be seen.”

She just wanted to get this over with. Sebastien had left for Paris two days before. He had insisted that she stay behind for this audition. Also, he didn’t want to inflict his brother-in-law’s funeral on her. Or so he said. Nagging self-doubt made her wonder if he was reluctant to have her meet his family’s friends and business acquaintances.

Oh, don’t be oversensitive. You’ve outgrown your insecurity, remember? He loves you. He’s proud of you. He’s going to marry you in two weeks. Right? Right
.

Hadley Rand looked friendly and bookish, like a hamster wearing glasses. He squinted at her across a desk that was more battered than stylish. “Amy?” Hadley said. “It’s a simple part. No need to meditate about it.”

She smiled quickly. “Sorry.”

“No problem. I’m Shirley’s grandmother; you’re Shirley. We’re in the laundromat. You’re confused. Shirley is perpetually confused. Start with the line, ‘Is that a piece of lint, or did Frankie leave his mouse in the clothes hamper again?’ ”

She dutifully went through the scene with him, but her attention was in France, worrying about Sebastien. She didn’t expect to get this movie role, even though it was a minor part that didn’t require great skill. Good Lord, she wasn’t even an actress.

When she and Hadley finished, he stared at her open mouthed. Everyone else in the room had strange expressions, half-smiling, half-stunned. Her heart sank. So she had been
that
bad. She was reminded of the terrible night during college, at the dinner theater auditions in Athens.
Oh, well, at least this time she hadn’t failed because of an anxiety attack.

“Guess that’s it,” she said awkwardly. “Thanks for givin’ me a chance.”

“We’ll call you.”

Don’t call us
. She shook Hadley’s paw and left the office.

At the hotel she began to pack. She had a dawn flight to New York, where she’d connect with a flight to Paris. Restless, she wandered around the suite, thinking about Sebastien.

His brother-in-law’s funeral would be held tomorrow, in the early morning hours by L.A. time, late afternoon by Paris time. Sebastien would be with his sister’s two small children. What kind of emotional support could he offer them in his dark, cold mood? His change of attitude made her distraught. He had been reserved and brusque since the phone call, and it was more than concern for his family. She sank her hands into the pockets of her slacks and paced, thinking about Sebastien and children, Sebastien and his family problems, Sebastien and her career.

The phone rang. It was her agent. “I didn’t do real well,” Amy said immediately.

Bev hooted. “That must be why Hadley Rand has just offered you the part.”

“You’re kidding! After I read for him he stared at me like I was a wart on a frog’s butt.”

“A talented wart. You intrigued everybody in the office, he said. They think you’re terrific.”

“I’m leaving for Paris tomorrow. I’ll give you my phone number there, so call me if Hadley was only kidding.”

“Try not to sound so excited,” Bev muttered. “It’s only ten thousand dollars for two weeks’ work and a part in a very respectable made-for-TV movie.”

“My man needs me in Paris.”

“This is no time to focus on your personal life. Come back soon. You’ve got to be on location in Florida in three weeks.”

“Oh, we’ll be back by then. No problem.”

“Make your agent happy. Become celibate until we’re both rich.”

She had expected Sebastien to meet her at the airport in Paris. Instead she found a very dignified chauffeur waiting for her. He was holding up a sign with her name written on it. “Doctor de Savin regrets that he cannot meet you himself,” the chauffeur said in heavily accented English. “He is spending the evening in meetings with officers of the family corporation.”

Amy was dismayed. It was past midnight. His brother-in-law’s funeral had been held in the afternoon. Did the family businesses require attention tonight, while Sebastien’s sister and father lay in the hospital and his sister’s children stayed with servants? She tried not to frown and forced a gentle shrug. “Okey dokey. Let’s hit the trail, then.”

“Pardon, mademoiselle?”

She felt herself blushing. “I mean, uhmmm … I’m ready to go whenever you are.”

The chauffeur arched a brow at the tattooed wrist showing below the cuff of her blue-cloth coat. She had thought she looked very chic in the flowing, shawl-collared garment, with the white collar of her dress turned up so that it peeked out a bit. Very Katharine Hepburn. Now she tried not to fidget.

“Very good,” the man said finally. “I’m to drive you to the home of the doctor’s sister. The doctor is staying there.”

She cleared her throat and said with great elegance, “
Bien. Merci.
”

He gave a wall-eyed glance to her canvas tote bag stuffed with paperback novels, the latest issues of
Rolling Stone
and
Variety
, and her bola bouncer. Then he bowed and held out a hand. She hung the tote’s handle over his palm. His nails, she noticed, had a much nicer manicure than her own.

She felt woefully out of place.

While the chauffeur carried her luggage up a wide staircase of silver marble, a matronly housekeeper in a crisp black dress stared at her politely. “The doctor called to say
he’ll be here soon. He has requested that a late supper be served in his suite. But in the meantime, can I have the cook bring you coffee, wine?”

Amy tried not to stare at the villa’s furnishings and said she’d wait for the doctor to arrive, first. Even her life among California’s wealthy glitterati had not prepared her to deal with this setting. From the chandelier-draped entrance hall she could see into a drawing room where luxury seeped from every wall. It was old-world luxury—eighteenth-century, ornate giltwork, rich tapestries and rugs, exquisite porcelain and terracotta—more appropriate to a museum of prerevolutionary France than to a private home.

“I will show you to the doctor’s suite, then, if you please,” the housekeeper said. The woman was gracious and unassuming, though formal, and as they ascended the long staircase she exclaimed gently as she looked up at the landing. “
Au dodo
!”

Two pajama-clad children looked distraught but curious, and took several hesitant steps back when the housekeeper ordered them to bed. Amy returned their scrutiny, searching her memory. Sebastien had said that his nephew was six years old; his niece, only four. They were handsome blond-haired children who stood silent, holding hands. The boy looked haggard, but his sister, too young to comprehend much about her father’s death, smiled at Amy immediately.

The housekeeper sighed. “May I present Jacques and Louise? They were sent to bed hours ago. Their nanny has the night off, and well, tonight my discipline is … oh, it’s not important, tonight.” She stroked a hand over Jacques’s disheveled hair; he pulled away, looking angry at the world.

Amy knelt in front of them. Her throat ached at the boy’s obvious grief and his sister’s innocence. “
Allô. Je m’appelle Amy.
”

“We speak English,” Jacques told her somberly. “Are you Uncle’s girlfriend?”

“Yes. Hmmm. Oh, my!” She flicked a hand out and brushed Louise’s ear. “A centime was hiding in your hair!” Slipping her hand across the pocket of Jacques’s pajama

Louise laughed merrily, but Jacques shook his head. “Not today. Our papa died. We went to his funeral today. Our
maman
is in the hospital, and she won’t be coming home for a long time. And
grand-père
is in the hospital, too. He may not wake up.”

“I know,” Amy said in a small voice. “Why don’t both of you come to my room and sit with me while I unpack my clothes? Who knows? I might find more magic.”

“Oh, yes,” Louise said.

The housekeeper intervened quickly, shaking her head at the children. “Your Uncle Sebastien will be very tired when he gets home. He needs to rest. And so do you.”

“He doesn’t want us around,” Jacques informed Amy, looking mad. “He doesn’t like us.”

Amy bit her lip. “That’s not true. He loves you very much.”

“No. He has never liked us. Good night.” He had the dignity of a stern little man. Tugging Louise’s hand, he led her away. She wandered along sadly, looking back over her shoulder at Amy and the housekeeper.

“Poor things,” the housekeeper said.

Amy stood up slowly, feeling exhausted and depressed. “The doctor has trouble dealing with children, I know.”

“Yes. I suppose he’s told you about his … his past marriage—”

“Yes.”

They walked down a hall hung with enormous gilt-framed mirrors and paintings, then turned down another hall equally impressive. The housekeeper exhaled wearily. “The doctor lost his own mother when he was only a few years older than Jacques. I worked for the family even then. I was around when the accident happened. The doctor was never the same little boy after it. He was not a little boy at all. Years passed before anyone saw him smile or heard him laugh.”

“Is there any more news about his sister or his father?”

“No, nothing.” The housekeeper opened massive double doors to a suite filled with a mixture of antiques and heavy, modern pieces. The walls and windows were done in muted gray-and-gold brocades; soft light spilled from gold
sconces. It was an elegantly masculine place, sensuous but also forbidding in its grandeur.

“Is this used as a guest room ordinarily?” Amy asked.

“In a sense. Madame had it decorated for her father. His home is not far from here, but madame wanted him to have his own suite.”

Amy looked at the oversized bed with its bronze silk coverlets and imposing frame. It didn’t appear to be antique, but the design was more grand than that of most modern furniture. It was heavily ornamented and made of some exotic black wood. Thick posts carved with vines and grapes rose almost to the ceiling. She didn’t want to sleep where Sebastien’s father had slept; she kept her bitterness toward
le comte
de Savin to herself, not wanting to encourage Sebastien’s hatred of him. But the stories Sebastien had told about his unrelenting manipulation both disgusted and frightened her.

“Has the
comte
stayed here often?” she asked.

The housekeeper sighed. “Never. Madame was so disappointed. I put the doctor in this suite because it seems appropriate … and because the bed was designed for a man with long legs. The doctor has his father’s height.”

Amy exhaled in relief. The housekeeper sighed again as she pointed Amy to the dressing alcove where her luggage had been placed. “The
comte
has not regained consciousness. No one expects him to. Poor madame, she is conscious, but so badly hurt! Her legs and pelvis were crushed. It will be months before she recovers. Ah, well, we will do the best we can. The doctor will be a dutiful brother and son. He won’t let the family down. There’s so little family left.”