Scent of Triumph (8 page)

* * *

The next evening Libby insisted Hadley take Max and Danielle to Abigail’s home in the motor car. She and Herb had a prior official engagement. “It’s good to get out,” Libby said to Max. “We must go on with life. Just take heed. If you hear an air siren, run for cover.”

Now, as Danielle emerged from the bath in her robe, she saw Max sitting in a chair waiting for her. He had already dressed, and now he sat cradling his new pipe in his hand, its ember glowing. She saw him gazing into space.

“What’s on your mind, darling?”

He swung his eyes back to her. “Just thinking about my meetings. I have much to study and memorize before my mission.”

His voice sounded odd. She put a hand on her hip. “You’re not telling me everything.”

“You’re right.” He lifted a corner of his mouth in a clear expression of disgust. “There’s a report that Heinrich has joined the Nazis. The thought of it makes me sick.”

Danielle felt a knowing shiver course through her.

Max continued. “Before we left, Heinrich and I had an argument about Hitler. He thinks Hitler holds the key to economic prosperity and renewed national pride.” He paused, and the ember in his pipe glowed red as he drew on it. “One of my assignments is to find Heinrich and extract military information from him.”

Danielle felt a sense of terror growing within her, but after their last disagreement, she had committed herself to supporting Max in his quest.
We are in this together.
Determined to be calm now, she sat before the mirrored vanity, slipped off her robe and dusted her shoulders with powder. “I trust you’ll do the right thing, Max.”

He blew a ring of smoke through his lips, and as he did, his eyes met hers in the mirror. A flash of understanding passed between them. “Tonight is our last night together for a long time,” he said softly.

“Maybe not that long,” she said with a wistful smile. She stood and retrieved an outfit from the closet. She stepped into a violet wool skirt and fastened it, then slipped on the matching dinner jacket with rhinestone buttons that Libby had given her. It was another cast-off, but it was still attractive.

“You look beautiful, Danielle.” Max cocked his head. “You did an excellent alteration on that suit. My darling wife, you have an exquisite sense of style.”

She laughed lightly. “I enjoy designing and sewing.”

He puffed on his pipe. “Your triple strand of pearls would have looked nice with the outfit,” he said, a note of guilt in his voice. “I’m sorry now that we sold them.”

She crossed to him and touched his face, and angled his chin up with her finger. She saw sadness in his eyes. “It’s nothing, darling. Let’s just be glad that I was wearing them the day the ship went down. We needed the money for my travel back to France.”

“And soon, for your maternity clothes and medical attention. Perhaps I should have asked your father to wire funds.”

She kissed him lightly, tasting the vanilla-scented tobacco on his lips. “Don’t worry,” she said with a deliberate shrug. “Besides,” she added with a bright smile, holding out her left hand, “we kept the ring.”

“Yes, we did. My mother’s emerald ring. It’s been in our family for many years.” He kissed her again.

Danielle returned to the vanity. The sweet sultry smoke from Max’s pipe curled around the room as she wound her long hair into a sleek chignon and secured it with hairpins.

He stood behind her, his hands caressing her shoulders as he had last night when they’d made love, slowly and tenderly, due to the baby. “You are the only woman I’ve ever loved,” he said, his voice thick with emotion, “and I will love you forever.”

She smiled up at him in the mirror, feeling very close to him now. She reached for her perfume and applied the scent between her breasts and on her wrists. She trailed the stopper behind her knees and at her ankles, and finally, applied another dab on the nape of her neck and touched her upswept hair. Even as a young girl, she’d always loved applying perfume, it made her feel feminine, complete, and chic.

Max nuzzled her neck. “That’s my favorite.”

“It’s the one I created for our wedding day.”

“It was kind of your uncle to send your perfumes when we arrived here. Danielle, I must admit now, I might have been a little jealous of your talent.”

Suddenly, the windows rattled. “What was that?” she cried, her hand at her throat.

“I think a door slammed downstairs.”

“I thought for a moment—”

“I know. So did I.” She rotated her neck against the sudden tension she felt. As Max massaged her shoulders, she realized how little time they had left together, and for all their differences and disagreements, how much she would miss him.

Danielle turned back to the mirror and, with a resolute flick of her finger, brushed on a wine-colored lip rouge. She snapped the lid shut and turned to face Max.

“You look exquisite.” He put his pipe down. “May I help you with the cape?”

“Please.”

Max draped Libby’s black mink cape across Danielle’s shoulders.

She whirled around, the scarlet-lined mink cape flaring about her, and stopped in his embrace.
This is the man I have loved for so long, the father of my children. How I will miss him.
She felt him stroke her cheek with the back of his fingers.

“You grow more beautiful every day, Danielle. I loved you from the first moment I saw you.”

As he kissed her again, she felt his hands caressing the silky fur and her blossoming body beneath it, and knew they would make love again for the last time tonight.

“This is like old times,” he said.

“I’d give anything for those old times again,” she murmured.

“Soon, my love, we’ll be together.”

She managed a wistful smile, took a step back and tilted her head. “Jon’s old suit fits you well. Libby’s tailor did a fine job. And I agree with him, you do look like the Duke of Wales.”

“Nonsense,” he said, though he seemed pleased at her compliment. He held the door for her, then Hadley helped them into the car. They rode in silence, gazing out the windows as they snaked through the dimly lit streets.

Libby had once described the Newell-Grey’s Art Nouveau-styled home as an ocean liner. It loomed ahead on a corner, sleek and curvaceous, with long lines and rounded corners. Round porthole windows framed the front door and a shiny brass railing lined the second-floor balcony. High above them on the darkened balcony two figures stood waving at them.

Danielle waved back. “It’s Jon and Cameron.” She’d missed Jon, and looked forward to talking with him again. Max helped her from the car and hurried her to the door. She shivered and drew into her cape.

The front door flew open and light flooded the stoop like a beacon. “Come in, darlings,” Abigail said, smiling and laughing. “I’ll take your coats. Though Max, you might want to keep yours if you plan to join the two renegades on the balcony.”

Danielle rubbed her arms. “Thanks, but I’ll keep my cape a little longer. What are they doing?”

“Watching for enemy aircraft. It was Cameron’s idea. What a maniac he is. No matter what the press says, I don’t believe London will ever be bombed.” A shadow crossed her face. “The Nazis can find better targets, like His Majesty’s armed forces, poor boys.”

Max kept his coat on. “I believe I’ll join them upstairs. Perhaps I can coax them down.”

Abigail laughed. “Do your best. We’ll sit by the fireplace until dinner is served.”

As Danielle followed Abigail to the sitting room, she sniffed the air. “Dinner smells delicious. I love nutmeg, it always reminds me of home.”

Abigail looked surprised. “You
are
good. That’s the secret ingredient in my pheasant recipe. You’d make a great chef.”

Danielle laughed. “I prefer perfumery, it’s the language of love.”

“So is cooking,” Abigail replied with a wink.

Danielle laughed again with her, then the two friends made themselves comfortable near the brightly burning blaze.

“This is wonderful.” Danielle sank into a black leather club chair and glanced about the room, impressed at the quality and creativeness of her surroundings. The curved beam ceiling soared overhead and the entire room was decorated with teakwood paneling and brass fixtures. She spied a Turner seascape above the fireplace, with the artist’s signature light reflected on a turbulent sea. She shuddered at the remembrance of her last ill-fated Atlantic crossing, the scent of kelp and salt rushing in her head. The Turner painting was eerily realistic.

Abigail followed her gaze. “Feel like you’re back at sea? Father loves his work.”

They went on to talk about their families, and Danielle asked her how long she would be staying in London.

“Not long, I need to go back to Los Angeles for a Red Cross fundraiser. Do you know what you’re going to do?”

Her stomach tightened. “Our priority is to find our family. Until then, I’ll stay with my family in France.”

Abigail leaned forward. “Daddy told me about Max’s mission. He’s a brave man.”

“I wish I could join him.”

“I know how you feel. Listen, Danielle, people are fleeing Europe in droves, many are sailing to New York. If the Germans reach France, what will you do?”

“I hope it never comes to that.”
France?
She shivered at the thought. The Maginot Line insured protection; everyone knew that. France was virtually impenetrable. She shivered again.

Abigail looked concerned. “You and Max should come to the States as you’d once planned. Have you ever thought about Los Angeles? I could help you get settled. The weather is marvelous, and it’s a growing city.”

“We can’t consider anything until our family is reunited. Now that Max has joined the war effort, our plan to relocate our business is on hold.” Danielle gazed into the fire, saddened by the plight of their family, friends, and employees in Poland. “We were simply too late with our plan.”

“This must be a nightmare for you.” Abigail clucked her tongue. “But you should consider Los Angeles. I happen to love America, it’s fabulous.”

Danielle forced a smile. “So I’ve heard. Gold in the streets, or so they say.”

“Not quite. But look at Cameron Murphy.” Abigail brightened. “Imagine, he was one of eleven children in a family from County Cork, Ireland. Had a terrible childhood, from what he’s told me, poor as beggars. He said his father beat him so badly once that, when he could manage, he ran away and worked his way to America, then to Los Angeles. Why, he was only fifteen at the time.”

“How did he become such a success?” Danielle rubbed her hands in front of the fire and her circulation began to return.

“He worked at our Long Beach shipping dock, that’s where he and Jon met, until he found a job as a bartender in a private club. Whilst he tended bar, he also sang a little, and that was when one of the record producers heard him. After a vocal test, the rest, as they say, is history.”

Abigail rose from her chair and crossed to an inlaid table bearing crystal-decanted liqueurs. “Sherry to warm you?”

Danielle pressed a hand to her belly. “Just soda,
merci
.”

“Oh, forgive me. You’re a smart mother.” She poured a soda. “Anyway, you can’t believe everything you hear. Sure, Cameron’s a rascal sometimes, but he always helps the Red Cross, brings out other stars, too. He’s never said no to me.”

“Why, that’s admirable.” The rascal she had met, but she’d never imagined such a generous, hard-working side to Cameron Murphy. She took the soda Abigail offered.

“He’s a good man in that regard, despite the gossip. Of course, he and Jon don’t always see eye to eye.”

“Why not?”

“Cameron always gets the girl, I suppose. It’s an old rivalry.” Abigail inched her chair near the fire and cradled her glass of sherry. “The Cameron Murphy I know is sweet and kind, though he seems rather lost. I’d like to see him marry again.”

Danielle lifted a brow. “Do I detect some interest on your part?”

Abigail laughed. “He’s fun, but hardly my type. And my parents would simply die. No, I’m resigned to being an old maid, Danielle. I’ll probably never have children, and a virile man like that, well, I’m sure he wants scads of children.”

Danielle heard a twinge of sadness in Abigail’s voice. Jon had confided to her that Abigail had recently broken an engagement with an old family friend, Sir Rutherford Morton. She decided to keep the conversation light. “Why did he divorce that actress, Erica Evans?”

“I’m not sure. They were so young when they married. Cam says they’re super friends now, which is unusual, especially for Hollywood. But I’ve heard Erica is still crazy about him.”

* * *

Jon glanced up when Max appeared at the door to the balcony, glad to see his friend, but embarrassed by Cameron’s drunken state. He’d been trying to get Cameron to leave before Max and Danielle arrived.

Max shook Jon’s hand in a warm greeting. “Abigail told me you two are on the lookout for enemy airplanes.”

“Ah, nary a one tonight,” Cameron slurred, his Irish brogue evident. “Scared they are, of havin’ to contend w’me, I’m sure.”

Jon winced at Cameron’s reply. He shot a reassuring look at Max. “We shouldn’t have to worry about Nazi air attacks in the city, Max. Not at this point, anyway,” he added hastily. “There are other more attractive hits. Our shipyards and air strips, for example. No, London should be peaceful tonight.”

Cameron wavered over the brass railing, his black dinner jacket flapping in the breeze, his starched white shirt open at the collar. “An’ a fine night ‘tis, too. Fit for the saints in heaven, it ‘tis. All the world should be at peace.”

Max raised his eyebrows.

Jon jerked his head toward a whiskey bottle in Cameron’s hand. “There’s your answer.” He knew Cameron sometimes got out of hand with the booze, but usually he managed to cut him off early. Unfortunately, he hadn’t realized Cameron had brought his own bottle tonight. “Let’s get him inside.”

Max placed his hand on Cameron’s shoulder. “Cameron, we should join the ladies downstairs. I know Danielle would love to say hello.”

Cameron glared at Max’s hand, then gave him a sarcastic grin. “The fair Danielle, the beauty with the cinnamon hair. What a lucky man y’are, Max. Far too lucky fer y’own good, I’d say.” As he spoke, he refilled his tumbler, pouring Irish whiskey to the brim.