The Chameleon (48 page)

She moved like a zombie to the door. If it was the Angel of Death come for her she would gladly usher him in.

She stepped back to let the crazy escapee from the flea market waddle into her rooms. In her exhaustion something close to a laugh tumbled out of her mouth. She let the portly lady hug her before she realized it was Lorenza underneath six layers of dresses and one taffeta petticoat heisted from Claire's closet.

“Oh, signóra. I took what I can. They are
tróppo
vulgar, that Duccio lot. They go barefoot and smoke bad smell cigars even at breakfast table. Holy Maria.”

Claire's Dior cocktail hat was balanced on top of her chiffon-and-straw Ascot boater, both plunked devil-may-care over Lorenza's long, dark tresses, the whole of her body padded two feet deep with Chanel, Fath, and Givenchy.

“How in the world did the Rite guards let you up to the suite?”

“I told them I was with my lady Signóra Duccio, and they took me right up.
Subito!
In the baggage elevator. My cousin is the assistant to the breadmaker chef in the kitchen so it wasn't a problem to find you. Everyone knows you are here!”

She tottered on Claire's purloined pumps as she looked around the rooms as if scouting for spies.

“Wait until signóra sees what I sew into the hem of my bottom dress.” She had been allowed one suitcase when she left Palazzo Duccio so she had piled as much as she could on herself like a packmule and joined her lady. Lorenza turned a dozen different shades as she shed layer after layer of colorful clothing. Claire looked on in amazement.

Finally, the one-woman fashion show stopped at Claire's favorite wasp-waisted black day dress. Lorenza waved a pair of manicure scissors from her purse and began to snip open the hem.

“Signóra, here. I did not know what was your favorite and all the Duccio sisters have got the
importante
things from the safes. I hope I did okay.” With almost human exuberance out tumbled a pair of Verdura's chandelier earrings and the godforsaken cross.

“Oh, Lorenza. This is the kindest thing anyone's ever done for me.” Although she would have preferred never to see these hated reminders of Duccio again, Claire was grateful for the girl's loyalty.

“More, signóra.” Lorenza's moistened eyes twinkled. She was glad to please her lady, who looked so haggard and sad. Claire's dead eyes sparkled too, for just an instant, when she saw the booty, wrapped in towels, that filled the entire suitcase. Lorenza had smuggled out all the framed photographs that had sat on Claire's dressing table. Six in his soccer uniform, Sara on horseback, the three of them holding hands, Claire and Harrison gazing adoringly at Six. The photographs gave her a reason to bathe, have a little supper, and live at least one more day to gaze at the memories that were her life.

Lorenza indulged her broken lady in every way. She applied old folk remedies to soothe her body: a warm poultice of rosemary herbs and chamomile leaves for her chest and a cold compress soaked in violet water for her forehead. To feed the ache in both their hearts, they shared stories of Six, even quietly laughing together when they remembered how at six o'clock one morning he had used his easy charms to convince Cook to make waffles with raspberries and homemade gelato for him and his entire soccer team. They never tired of retelling one another the funny things he had said or done, and never had enough reasons to look at her photographs and remember the pleasant moments right before the picture was snapped. The lady and her unpaid maid prayed together at the candles Lorenza lit at the little shrine she had arranged, and Claire read from the Bible as well as her Emily Dickinson. She invoked Protestant and Catholic rituals as well as some of Lorenza's country saints with their folklorish magic. But Claire's favorite pastime was making up pictures of Six in heaven, using their imaginations to decorate a room for him mere. First Claire put a leather armchair in his bedroom, with a cozy comforter to keep him warm, and then a table wide enough for his jigsaw puzzles. Lorenza added a bowl of fresh fruit, his favorite pears and sweet mangoes in an inexhaustible supply. They installed a wide picture window looking out onto all his favorite places: the oak tree outside his bedroom at Charlotte Hall, the soccer field in Rome, with his pony, GI Joe, saddled up and tethered to a tree. It was heaven, after all, so they could pick Six's favorite place for each season. Italy's seacoast in the summer, Rome in spring, Christmas at Charlotte Hall. For his shelves, they painstakingly selected his favorite books by Jack London and his baseball cards and of course his prize stamps. Finally, they inserted Six himself, bursting with energy and wearing his irrepressible smile. Now when Claire pictured her son, she could always find him in the “room” they had decorated for him Upstairs.

By the third week in Paris, Claire felt strong enough to take her first walk outside. Wearing sunglasses, scarves, and holding one another's arms, the two women crept along the still-asleep streets to a six
A.M
. service at Sacre Coeur, where they lit candles for Six. By the fourth week they discovered a tiny church near Chez Emilon where the priest welcomed them. Indeed, he greeted them each morning, expecting them when he opened the creaking iron doors. Claire always returned to the Ritz at the service entrance, walking the same path each day through the kitchen and to her room. It was a routine she welcomed. But time was running out, and so was money.

In early October, when Violet and her husband Mr. Zolla surprised her on their honeymoon visit, Claire nervously joined them at a belated wedding breakfast for three at L'Espadon in the Ritz. It was her first time out in public. Inevitably, Violet turned the conversation to pressing practical matters.

“Where do you go from here?” Violet asked. She and Mr. Zolla could live very comfortably on his retirement savings and Sante Fe pension, but Claire was living in a four-figure-a-day luxury suite that was only paid for through the month.

“Have you made a plan yet? Do you know where you want to live? Of course you're welcome to come stay with us.” Violet took a sip from the bubbly champagne her husband had ordered. She had grieved for Six and then tucked her sorrow away in a drawer with life's other disappointments.

“I think I'll stay here.” She eyed her mother's champagne glass, resenting her return to life. “I'll start looking for a place I can afford” The square set of Claire's jaw was determined, and the full mouth, just a quiver away from tears, resigned. It was obvious she wasn't ready to go home, wherever that was now.

“Here. I have a little something for you.” Violet pulled an envelope out of her pocketbook and pushed it across the table to her daughter.

“But it's I who should be giving you a wedding gift” A deep blush traveled up from her neck. For five years running she had been on the International Best Dressed List, the mistress of luxurious homes, a two-fisted philanthropist, and here she was, at age thirty-two, on the receiving end of a cash envelope from her hardworking mother.

Violet was glad to see some pink replacing Claire's pallor, even if it was just the flush of embarrassment. “No. No, dear. Your wedding gift already came and went, the way of the unwanted lamp shade or your least favorite cousin's brass candlesticks. Returned.”

“Quite the little businesslady.” Mr. Zolla gently ribbed his bride with his elbow. “Couldn't sell the hot Tiepolo, so she swapped.”

“Well, that's not exactly how it was, Max.” Violet scolded sweetly. “We didn't want to stir up a fuss, what with your late husband's estate laying claim to your underwear. And I checked with the Art Institute, but one can't just go around selling Italian masterpieces that have been shipped out of the country willy-nilly.”

“Swapped it to a Sante Fe art dealer for two genuine oil paintings and some cash. That's my Violet.” Max was clearly besotted with his resourceful wife.

“Yes. Two Georgia O'Keeffe paintings.
Blooms in the Desert.
One for you, the cow's skull with the white flower, and one for us.” She patted Mr. Zolla's sun-reddened hand. “So you've given us a magnificent wedding gift. Only this fits a lot nicer in our Santa Fe living room than Tiepolo's rather vast
Allegory of Love.
” She smiled, nudging Claire to smile back.

Claire couldn't help it. The tears streamed with a mind of their own, over her chiseled cheeks and into the frosting of her mille-feuille. Not until she examined the envelope and found in it enough for a year's rent in something a little more sensible than the Ritz did she realize the extent of her mother's love.

“Why don't you come out to us for a while? Or back to Chicago?”

“No, not yet.” She was pleased for her mother but couldn't help feeling resentful that she could find joy in a world without Six. She put a brave smile on her lips. “I'll come back when I'm more on my feet. It will be soon.” Her voice was full of false vibrato when she lifted her champagne flute and with a deep gulp toasted the kindly Mr. and Mrs. Zolla. A gossipy diner turned to observe the notorious Claire Duccio seated behind a leafy palm at a “Siberia” table in the hotel's dining room. Celebrating.

Eleanor House, Claire Duccio's personal charity for sending European orphans Stateside, is going belly-up. The foundling home and placement center for kiddies with accents was always funded big-time by two noble families that no longer speak to Madame Ex: the rich, rich Duccio clan of Italy and the quietly rich, distinguished, and close-knit Harrison family of Tuxedo Park, Washington, and Newport. They raise ambassadors like other families raise rabbits. Seems the questionable lady who once raised eyebrows for her Communist liberal-leaning tendencies won't foot the foundlings’ bills. Tsk, tsk, Claire. Is it because you were half a foundling yourself? Mrs. Duccio of the long lashes and longer gams has been seen celebrating around Paris while still in widow's weeds. Born in a department store—literally, folks—in Better Dresses and Lingerie, Claire could easily sell
one
earring and keep Eleanor House alive.

Léonide was swinging Anita's column in a wide port de bras, as befitted a dancer from the Ballets Russes.

“Of course Anita's column is accompanied by da picture of you in about two centimeters of rubies and emeralds like da czarina's. What did become of dat necklace?”

“I'm going to sell the damn cross. And keep Eleanor House going.” Infuriated by the columnist's words, Claire was stalking the room like a cornered tigress. The orphans’ placement center she had founded had grown into an important institution that had found homes for more than six thousand children. It was equipped with a legal department and a health center, and was a sterling role model for other foundations like it. And if it wasn't exactly a full-time career for Claire, it was her song to the world. If the critics were going to boo her off the stage, she at least had to make sure the music lived on. How dare they make hundreds of children suffer just because she had become notorious! She walked faster, remembering the agreement she had signed with the “help” of Tom. She had only just recently bothered to read the damn document Anything she still retained from the marriage that had a value of over five thousand dollars immediately reverted back to Duccio's estate. It was the “Cross Clause.” No one had been able to find it after Claire had been carted off to jail. Apparently, she had torn it off and flung it on the floor at the dead Duccio. Lorenza, resourceful even in a panic, had kicked the multimillion-dollar relic under Duccio's silk chair and retrieved it when everyone else's attention was on the corpse. For four frightened days and nights, the ladies’ maid had worn it under her uniform, along with a garlic clove to keep the devilishly curious away. Then she gave notice to her new employers, was given a week's salary without a letter of recommendation, and mule-packed herself off to join the beleaguered signóra once she knew where to find her.

“I'll give it to Eleanor House anonymously.
They
can be the ones to sell it. Let them think it came from Duccio, and he can get his posthumous honor in hell. And don't think I'm not going to fire off a letter to that lousy Grant character who owns this vicious columnist. Anita Lace, my foot. Arsenic and lace is more like it. And if she tries to dish up dirt on those little two-year-olds, I'll kill her!”

Léonide put his hands to his ears in horror. “No, no, Claire! Don't ever use dat word! If dey find her with da speargun in her heart, Léonide may be called to testify!”

Claire ignored him. “How do you suppose Sara feels when she reads trash like this? And how about my orphans? Where will they go? What now? Anita Arsenic Lace is destroying much more than me. If I'm supposed to be a crazy murderer, then let me at Lace and Fenwick Grant!”

Léonide hoped that Claire was only venting her rage, like a hot-blooded Russian
artiste.
But with the anger a light started to burn in her dull eyes.

“Ah, anger. It ees a very good sign. Ees part of da healing.”

If Claire thought that perhaps another woman might show her the way out of the tunnel, it wasn't going to be Pamela Churchill. The two women had been friends for years, but it was a friendship based on shallow reciprocity and not the depth of a true female bond.

“Well, why don't you just find some rich man? That's what I would do.” After several telephone calls, Pam had agreed to see her. “Just not in public. Why don't you come up for tea?”

They were seated on the perfectly proportioned Louis XVI divan, a gift from Baron Elie de Rothschild, in Pam's Paris apartment, which was paid for by Gianni Agnelli. Pam had targeted and chosen her lovers carefully. “And you mustn't go ‘round so mopey. That's how I got Elie. His wife kept grieving for her sister Theresa. Men
hate
grief.”

Claire bristled. But she reined in her feelings, for the good of her newly devised plan. She had come to ask the woman who had houseguested months at a time with her at Palazzo Duccio for the loan of her apartment until her own little place was ready in a few weeks.

“I'll be gone by the time you return from the south of France. You won't even know I was here.”

“Frankly, darling, it's not
that
I'm worried about. It's that you've become so infamous, and I have to guard my reputation.”