A Tangled Web

by Judith Michael

  “I beg your pardon?” He finished his martini, waved to the waiter for another, and picked up his soup spoon, absently tapping it on the table. “You tend to talk in riddles, dear Stephanie; many of us find it disconcerting—even, on occasion, unpleasant.”

  My God, Sabrina thought, is that the best he can do to try to make me afraid of him? “If that’s true, I regret it,” she said evenly. “I’ve not heard that from anyone, but of course you deal with rumors far more frequently than I do.” She watched several expressions flit across his face. “I’m concerned about our reputation, Nicholas. I’ve been thinking of expanding from our three shops, adding two more, in New York and Paris”—she had not been thinking of any such thing, but as she said it, she thought, Why not?—” and I will not tolerate anything that might tarnish our good name. There are only two things we have to offer our clients: expertise and trust—you know that as well as I do—and it takes a long time to establish both of them. I worked too hard to create that for Ambassadors to allow anyone—”

  “Well, but my dear Stephanie, surely you mean your sister did.”

  Abruptly, Sabrina struck the table with her hand. “It’s the same thing!” She stopped, astounded at her lack of control. Nicholas was staring at her in amazement. And, in fact, she had never before raised her voice in a business discussion, nor had she done anything as untoward as striking the table in a discreet restaurant. It’s being back here for the first time in months, but not really being back, because I have another life now.

  “Stephanie?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was uncalled for. Of course my sister built Ambassadors, but I often find myself speaking for both of us, especially when it comes to business. As you know, we were very close. My point remains, Nicholas: I will not tolerate anyone making the slightest attempt to undermine my reputation or that of the shop.”

  “Of course, of course.” His head tilted, Nicholas looked at her through narrowed eyes. “Forgive me for getting a trifle personal, Stephanie, but you seem to be under a strain; I think you’re trying to do too much. Why don’t you go back to your husband and children—you’re obviously a fine housewife and mother—and let me manage Ambassadors? I’ll continue to report to you at regular intervals, and I assure you, you will be quite satisfied.”

  “What satisfies me,” Sabrina said softly, “is working with the three shops we have now, and any others we decide to purchase, and being kept informed on all major purchases and sales at Ambassadors and Blackford’s. What satisfies me, Nicholas, is trust.”

  “Yes, yes, of course, but really, Stephanie, you cannot run a business from across the ocean. There are major decisions that must be made every day involving hundreds of thousands of pounds—millions, on occasion. These are not small dealings such as you handle from your little shop in Chicago—”

  “Evanston.”

  “Evanston, yes, of course.” The waiter placed another martini in front of him and refilled Sabrina’s wineglass from the bottle on the table. “The point remains—”

  “And I intend to keep doing it, Nicholas, with help and cooperation from you and Brian. I do own Ambassadors, as I hope you remember. I think there’s nothing more to be said about that.”

  “Nothing more to be said? My dear Stephanie, that is not for you to decide.” He took a long swallow of his martini. “The fact is, I am bringing new clients to Ambassadors far more prominent than those Sabrina dealt with before her death. I am commissioned to locate and purchase pieces of furniture, jewelry and paintings that are among the most precious in the world.”

  “I thought business was down. The economy and so forth.”

  “Even in a slow season, I am finding the best clients. And you are in no position to deal with them. Sabrina might have been able to, but beyond the physical resemblance you are nothing like her. You are quite out of your depth here; London is really no place for you. You’re far better off in Evanston with your family and friends. I promise you, at regular intervals, your share of the profits—”

  “Excuse me, Nicholas,” Sabrina said as the waiter approached again, “may we order now?”

  His face was flushed. “I haven’t decided . . . well, what are you having?”

  “Scallops and then the duck.”

  He nodded. “Fine. The same.”

  The sommelier had joined them. “And perhaps a red wine to accompany the duck?”

  “Châteauneuf-du-Pape,” said Sabrina. “Do you still have any of the ’fifty-eight?”

  “Ah,” he said approvingly. “We have a few bottles, madame.”

  As he left, Nicholas spread his hands. “Did she tell you everything?”

  “Yes. Now, if I heard you correctly, you were talking about profits. You alone would send my checks? With no one else looking at the account books?”

  “A ship has one captain, Stephanie. I will take care of you, I promise.”

  Sabrina laughed. “Oh, Nicholas, a Fabergé egg isn’t enough.”

  His face reddened again. “Don’t play games with me. You’re a very pleasant woman, Stephanie, but—I regret having to repeat this, but it is important—you do not have your sister’s class and sophistication. You’re a housewife and a mother, both admirable occupations, but they do not prepare you for dealing with wealth and royalty. You can wear Sabrina’s clothes and live in her house, you can even order wine that she told you about, but you’re still a poor imitation of Sabrina Longworth. You’re not as experienced as she was, not as socially adept, and because of that, I am the one who should be concerned about our reputation, and I cannot allow you to continue to interfere in the workings of these shops, putting everything at risk. Too much is at stake.”

  Sabrina had leaned forward so that their faces were a few inches apart. “A poor imitation?” she echoed seriously. “Everyone else has trouble believing I’m not really Sabrina.” She held his gaze for a long moment, then slowly shook her head. “Poor Nicholas, to be so desperate. I won’t ask you what is at stake; you’ll have to deal with whatever you’ve done that has made you so anxious to be rid of me. But I will tell you what I’ve decided. I’m going to write letters to all our clients and to others—those prominent people you mentioned—assuring them that our services are as complete as ever and that we act on their behalf from the moment an item is purchased to the time it is delivered. That means we will not allow any item, however small or large, to be shipped to a customer without a thorough inspection of its condition and a search of its provenance in our shop. Any sale at auction is contingent on the item’s condition being as stated in the catalogue—you know that, Nicholas, but many clients do not—and one of our most important duties is to fulfill that part of the sale. Those letters will go out this week over my signature. It would be appropriate, if we are to remain partners, for your signature to be there as well.”

  His face had darkened; his eyes were bulging. “You can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “It undermines my integrity; it makes me look a fool.”

  “How does it do that if your signature is on the letter?”

  “You must not write it; it would be a mistake.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t have to explain yourself to clients who already know what you can do for them.”

  “I think perhaps I do.”

  “You are absolutely determined to do this?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He sat frozen, then abruptly shoved back his chair. “We have nothing to talk about.” And with only the slightest hesitation as he realized he was deserting a woman in the middle of his favorite restaurant, he turned and walked out.

  Sabrina sat alone. The sommelier brought the red wine and held the bottle for her to read the label. She nodded and he uncorked it. The minutes passed. The waiter put a dish of scallops before her and set another at Nicholas’s place. “You may remove that,” she said. “Mr. Blackford has been taken ill and has gone home.”

  The waiter�
��s brows went up. In a moment, the maitre d’ sped to her table. “If madame is uncomfortable and wishes to leave, we would understand . . . there would be no charge . . .”

  Sabrina smiled at him. “I’m not at all uncomfortable. But I am very hungry.”

  He stood looking at her, wondering why a beautiful woman forced to eat alone in a fine restaurant was not uncomfortable. But she continued to smile at him, and so, after a moment, he bowed. “If there is anything I can do . . .”

  “Not at the moment.” She watched him walk away. In fact, she was very uncomfortable, but not for the reason he thought. Nicholas’s hostility had shaken her; it wound itself around her and made London seem unpleasant, even treacherous. She sipped the superb red wine and felt depressed. She didn’t really love being back in the fray, fencing with people who had hidden motives; it was a terrible waste of energy and she resented having to do it when she could be concentrating on making a marriage, building a home, bringing up children, spending her time loving instead of parrying thrusts from greedy or frightened people.

  The waiter brought a plate of duck and wild rice and she contemplated it. She had no appetite but she would eat some of it, to prove to Nicholas and Denton and the waiters at the Savoy that she could eat alone anywhere. But she missed her family. She missed her home. She missed Garth. She wanted to look up and meet his eyes down the length of the dinner table. She wanted to hear her children chatter and even squabble over the things of their day. She wanted her house to creak about her and know that the windows were tight and the doors secure. I don’t want two lives, she thought. I only want one.

  But she would not let Nicholas win. She would find someone to buy Ambassadors and she would withdraw from her participation in Blackford’s. She had known the time would come to do this; now that it had come, she realized how anxious she was to cut these ties. But she would not rush: now that she knew what she wanted, she would do it properly, even if it took a few months. I’ll sell the house, too, she thought. Maybe by September I’ll have sold them both.

  September. My birthday. And I’ll be home for good.

  CHAPTER 12

  Stephanie and Léon met on the sidewalk on the cours Gambetta as she was wheeling her bicycle from the shop and he was striding toward her.

  “I was watching for you,” he said as they shook hands. “Perhaps you will let me join you on your ride.”

  Her heart had lifted when she saw him and she was smiling. “But you have no bicycle.”

  “Behind you, in the shop. We use the same repairman; it’s a good sign, I think. May I join you?”

  “Yes, I’d like that.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  In a moment he was wheeling his bicycle from the shop, unhooking his helmet from the handlebars as he stopped beside her. “Have you a destination?”

  “No. I thought perhaps some of the hill towns. I’ve only ridden to three of them.”

  “Have you been to Fontaine-de-Vaucluse?”

  “No. I haven’t even heard of it.”

  “Then that is where we go. No, I’m sorry; that was high-handed. I’d like to show you one of my favorite spots, but since what I want most is to spend the afternoon with you, I’ll go wherever you choose.”

  “Fontaine. Is it really a fountain?”

  “An underground one, a spring that is the source of the river Sorgue. A beautiful spot; magical, I think.”

  “Then that is where we go.”

  He chuckled and they put on their helmets and began to walk the bicycles to the corner. “I saw you leave your shop; have you had lunch?”

  “No, I didn’t want to take the time. I brought an apple.”

  “Have you the time when we get to Fontaine-de-Vaucluse? I’d like to show you Cafe Philip; another of my special places.”

  Stephanie thought about it only a moment. “Yes. Not all afternoon, but for a little while.”

  “Good.” They parted to allow a woman with a baby buggy to pass between them. “Where have you ridden around here?”

  “Mainly around the vineyards, but last week I rode to Maubec and Robion and up to Oppède-le-Vieux.”

  “A steep hill; you’re very strong. But isn’t it a wonderful ride? And beyond, to Ménerbes and Bonnieux as well.”

  “How do you ride so much, and paint?”

  “I almost always ride in the morning, seven, six, even five o’clock. I recommend it; perhaps we’ll do it together. The traffic is light; the air is cool. By now, the end of June, it really is too hot to—” He stopped. “I just realized. Have you recently come to Cavaillon?”

  “Yes, a few months ago. Doesn’t the traffic seem worse than usual today?” They had reached the corner and stood on the curb, waiting for the light to change.

  “It is bad, but I try to ignore it when I’m riding. My theory is that since no driver is anxious to hit me, nor I him, we’ll manage to take appropriate action to avoid each other. So far that’s been the case. When we cross, we’ll ride straight ahead and turn at the first cross street; it will be quieter then. I’ll go first if you’d like.”

  Stephanie nodded. She was feeling young and free and very happy. She had not seen Léon since the day they had met six weeks ago. He had not come again to Jacqueline en Provence; his new paintings were delivered by his friend who owned a large van. As she and Jacqueline had unwrapped them, Stephanie had asked casually if Léon would come to see how they were displayed in the shop, or if he would be bringing new ones.

  “Oh, one cannot be sure,” Jacqueline replied. “He is totally unpredictable. But aren’t these fine? So different from the landscapes, but with that same power, as if he could cut with his brush through all pretense . . .”

  That was the last time Stephanie mentioned him. And after a while she stopped thinking about him; she was ashamed of feeling she could be adventurous with him. I’m married, she told herself; how did I plan to be adventurous with Léon? Just what did I have in mind?

  But I shouldn’t use Léon or anyone else to break away from Max; I have to do that by myself. I have to learn to do everything by myself; I can’t always let other people clear a path for me.

  “Green light,” Léon said, smiling at her, knowing her thoughts were far away.

  They rode across the highway, then stayed close to the edge of the road as cars and trucks whizzed past. Stephanie gritted her teeth, her eyes on Léon’s back, willing herself to ignore the noise and the rumble of the pavement as trucks barreled down upon her from behind. Her muscles were knotted and she cringed as she rode, certain every moment that the next truck would fling her aside like a piece of debris. But nothing happened; she and Léon pedaled furiously and it was only a few moments before he turned, and she followed, onto a narrow road that cut a straight line between high solid walls of cypress trees.

  The sounds of the highway stopped as if a door had slammed; the air was still and hushed. Stephanie heard the swish of their tires, the slow drone of bees, the distant call of a rooster, the descending scales of birds silhouetted against the silvery blue sky. She relaxed and caught up to Léon, who had slowed for her.

  “Better?” he asked.

  “Much. This is lovely.”

  They rode in silence to the end of the cypresses, then between vineyards whose rows of vines, sprouting new leaves, seemed to radiate in perfectly straight lines from the farmhouse in the center. The sun blazed upon them and Stephanie wiped her forehead with the back of her bicycle glove, then reached down for her water bottle and drank from it as they rode. She liked Léon’s silence and his smile when their eyes met; she liked letting her thoughts float, absorbing all that surrounded her: sprinklers spraying high arcs of water that glittered in the sun, wild thyme lining the road with tiny pale purple flowers, and rosemary bushes blossoming with pink flowers amid their pinelike needles, men walking on the road wearing undershirts and black pants that fell in folds over the tops of their boots and calling out an amiable bonjour as they passed, cherry trees with lush bunches of fruit
peering through the dense foliage, the small postal wagon scooting along back roads like a child’s toy. She felt strong and healthy, part of the earth, propelling herself through a landscape so serene and timeless that she could believe nothing existed beyond it, and she and Léon were the only two people in the world.

  Oh, how happy I am, she thought, and she knew that whatever else she had felt, with Max and Robert, with Madame Besset and with Jacqueline, she had not said those words to herself in that way before.

  The road widened, became busier; soon it was bordered by a low stone wall and there were power lines, light poles, signs of a town. Stephanie and Léon rode around a curve and saw just ahead an enormous stone bridge of tall arches, and they flew beneath it and then past high dark gray cliffs pocked with deep caves that led directly into Fontaine-de-Vaucluse.

  “We can leave the bicycles in the square,” Léon said, and asked a policeman where they could lock them. “Now we walk.” They skirted the crowded square shaded by ancient trees and strolled up a long inclined promenade with the river on one side and booths on the other filled with souvenirs to catch unwary tourists. When they reached a row of cafes, Léon stopped at the one with a sign that said Café Philip. “One moment.” He ran down a small stone stairway and quickly returned. “We have a reservation for lunch in half an hour.”

  As they came to the top of the promenade, Stephanie caught her breath and moved ahead, forgetting Léon. She stood beside a pond as still as a mirror, reflecting a giant curved cliff behind it. But the stillness was only in the pond; at the edge, where the earth fell away, the water plunged straight down in a thunderous fall, flinging spray high in the air, churning foam over huge boulders and spinning in whirlpools and eddies as it roared down the steep grade. Then, as the land leveled, the river widened, moving in rapid currents, and then widened still more, tossing up little waves that caught the sun. Small waterfalls like silver ribbons lined its banks and it grew steadily calmer as it flowed: one of the mighty rivers of Provence, the Sorgue River.