Miracle

by Deborah Smith

  “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.”

  Crying softly, the housekeeper fled to the doors. “He will not desert his poor, cursed family. Forgive me for upsetting you with my sorrows. Please don’t tell the doctor.”

  “Sssh. I understand. Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  Amy stood in the center of the magnificent room, a hollow spot growing inside her. Sebastien hated returning to a world that haunted him, but he had too much honor to desert his sister. She shivered. He would put his family first. She would be second. Ten years ago he had chosen his career and his pride over her. Now she might lose him to his family.

  She took a shower and changed into red-silk pajamas, then sat among the cushions of a recessed seat before the room’s enormous widow, staring blankly into a night mist that shrouded the villa’s formal garden. The light from the window caught splashes of color from a kaleidoscope of flowers. Spring in Paris was as moody and as beautiful as she’d always heard.

  Her nerves jumped as footsteps halted outside the suite’s doors. Sebastien knocked once, loudly, then stepped inside. His black suit looked as if it had had a long day, but it had not lost its handsomeness. He tossed his trench coat at a chair and crossed the room to her as she stood, holding out her hands, her throat too tight for words. I won’t put up with being second choice anymore.

  Inside his desperate embra
ce she absorbed his anger, his sense of futility, his grief. When he looked down at her, caressing her cheek with the backs of his fingers as he did, his eyes were dark and tired. “Forgive me for not meeting you at the airport.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “No. I can tell from your face, it’s not.”

  “Forget about the airport. Tell me what’s going on with your family.”

  She drew him to the window seat, and they sat down. He pulled her against him so that her back rested on his chest; wrapping his arms around her and pressing his face against her hair, he cursed wearily.

  “There are problems among my father’s executives—there have been for some time, I learned tonight—power struggles, charges of mismanagement, perhaps even embezzlement.”

  “Did your father know?”

  “No, I’m sure he didn’t. He would never have tolerated it. I’ve always thought of him as young and commanding. Tonight I realized just how old and careless he had become.”

  “Did your sister know?”

  “Probably. She has never discussed the businesses with me—a point of pride and jealousy to her. I imagine that she has been struggling to control matters from the weak position my father gave her.” He hesitated, and for a moment Amy heard only the harsh sound of his breath, the anger and defeat flowing in and out of him like a tide. “When he dies, my sister gets nothing, even though he has known for years that I will only turn the businesses over to her. He mocks me with his demands, even now.”

  Amy gripped his hands. “What are you going to do?”

  “Save what I can, for Annette’s sake.” He bent his head against her shoulder; they both knew what his words implied. Amy could feel the anger in his body; his arms tightened around her fiercely.

  “You have to stay,” she whispered, her voice strained.

  “Yes. Until my sister is capable of taking over.”

  “Months.”

  “Yes.”

  The word sank into her with chilling finality. She turned inside his arms, pulled her knees under her, and scrutinized his eyes, finding so much apology and unhappiness there that she made a guttural sound of pain, in response. “I’m trying real hard to understand,” she told him.

  “My God, do you think I’m choosing sides here? Do you think I’m forgetting about you?”

  “I’m not jealous of your family. I’m just afraid that you’ll decide that you belong here, In France. That you’ll forget why you wanted to change your life when you came to California.”

  “And you’re telling me that you can’t live here, if I ask you to?”

  She nodded woodenly. “I can’t give up everything I’ve worked for. I wouldn’t fit in here. That’s the real issue, and we both know it.”

  “There’s a part of you that will never accept your own worth. Nothing I can say will make any difference. I can’t conquer your insecurities right now. I can only say that I love you, that I will always love you and be proud to have you with me.”

  “In the States. Not here.” She bent her head to his chest. The fight left her. “I’m pretty good at waitin’ around for you to come back—I had ten years of practice. But I’m not so good at enjoying it. After I get through with the movie—”

  “The movie?”

  “Lord, I didn’t even tell you that I’d gotten the part. I guess I have jet lag. It seems like it happened in another century.” She glanced around the room. “And a different world.”

  He cupped her face in his hands and looked at her with tears in his eyes. “I’m so very proud of you.”

  “It’s a little piss-ant part, but—”

  “You’ll be a star someday, and I’ll be unbearably pompous about telling people that I always expected it.”

  Her defense broke apart, and she scrambled into his arms, tangling her legs between his. He lifted her onto his lap and held her tightly. “I spent a long time tryin’ to figure out what I ought to have, and what I deserve to have,” she told him. “I won’t let go of that. I won’t let go of you or my career. When I finish with the movie I’m goin’ on the road with my act.”

  “You mean you’ll tour the clubs across the country?”

  “Yes.” She drew back and looked at him sadly. “I’ll be working or traveling every day of the week.”

  He regarded her with a resigned expression no happier than her own. “It will be difficult for us to see each other.”

  “It’ll be just about impossible.”

  “I want you to marry me before you leave to go back. I’ll make the arrangements tomorrow.”

  “No.”

  There was a long stretch of silence. Finally he said, “Is this some form of punishment?”

  “No more for you than for me. I can’t believe I’m turning you down. But I am, until everything is settled here and you come back to California. I’m not gonna start our marriage with a separation. There’s been too much of that in our lives already.”

  “These are not the same kind of circumstances! What are you trying to do—prove to yourself that I will come back?”

  “That’s part of it.”

  “Goddamn.” He looked at her as if she were a stranger, then stood and jerked her to her knees, dragging her against his torso. “You know how to push me … you know what I respond to best.”

  “Do you think it’s easy for me to leave you? To think about waking up in the night reaching for you, and you not being there? To know I’ll only be able to hear your voice over a telephone? To know I won’t be able to look into your eyes, or see you smile? It makes a physical pain inside me. I’ll miss you every second.”

  “Then you’ll know what kind of hell you’re putting me through as well.” He stepped back and pulled her off balance then bent and scooped an arm under her legs. Lifting her, he walked to the bed that had been designed for his father and laid her down on the darkly patterned cover. His hands were rough on the pajamas, tearing buttons, ripping the material, but when they touched her skin they turned from violent to persuasive. She watched him with hypnotized silence, her hands on either side of her head, digging into the pillows.

  He held her gaze with unfaltering challenge while his other hand tore at the fastenings on his own clothes. “You’re mine, and you will always be mine, and you will wait forever if I tell you.”

  “On my terms, but … yes.” She admitted it with anger rather than surrender, and pulled him to her.

  “Tell me where we’re going,” she said between gritted teeth. “I mean it.”

  The hilly countryside flashed by, green-on-green with spring’s flowers splashed among the emerald. They passed a village and an abbey, and the road continued to rise toward the jagged, snow-capped Alps in the distance.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Sebastien asked, hands knotted on the steering wheel of yet another Ferrari. “We’re going to the mountains. I thought you liked to be whisked away like this. It’s become an intriguing game with us, don’t you think?”

  She hugged her arms over her coat and studied his face in profile. Roman gladiators must have had faces such as his—noble but scarred, and too harsh for prettiness. And the battle-ready tension in it … they must have had that, too. He should be dressed in armor, not a sweater and slacks.

  “This is not like the other times,” she said. “You weren’t angry at me then.”

  “I’m not angry at you now. Keep quiet, Miracle. You’ll understand sooner than you’d like.”

  Her apprehension increased. This had started at dawn, when the strained emotions from the night before had broken through their light sleep. Waking with the fresh pain of separation filling the unguarded moment, they had made love again in a savage, heartbroken way that hurt more than it helped. Afterward he had cursed bitterly at the world in general then told her to get dressed, that he had something to show her.

  So now, hours later, they were here, without having eaten much of anything or said much to each other since leaving his sister’s home in Paris. She was furious with him for be
ing mysterious and afraid that something terrible waited at their destination.

  The mountains towered over them with a grandeur that threatened her; she stared resolutely at the road and continued to worry. The road burst into a wide, flat valley that cupped a dark blue lake at its center. The valley overflowed with houses, shops, and hotels that seemed to be of relatively modern vintage, through they were country French in a deliberately quaint manner.

  “Garonne,” Sebastien said with obvious disgust. “A resort town. Thirty years ago it was charming. Now it is merely profitable.”

  “Thirty years ago?”

  “I came here often as a child. With the family.” His mouth flattened into a harsh line, and she knew that he had said all that he intended to say, at the moment.

  She traced the paths of ski lifts up the green mountain side. The lifts were in use even now, filled with people who just wanted to enjoy the scenery, she assumed. Apparently the town was popular even in the warmer months.

  Sebastien left it behind and sought a narrow road that began snaking up the mountain side. Her eardrums throbbed and popped; she clung to the sides of her seat and flinched as the Ferrari’s wheels squealed around sharp curves. She looked out at a dizzying panorama of the valley that was falling away beneath them. “Please slow down.”

  “You don’t trust me? Believe me, I know where this road is dangerous, and we haven’t reached that point, yet.”

  She stared at him in fear and bewilderment. She had never seen him like this before. Something ancient and ugly seemed to be at war inside him, maybe the thing that he had always fought. It was coming to the surface. It threatened everything between them.

  In a low, careful voice, she said, “If you’re going to kill us both, at least tell me why.”

  Abruptly he slid the Ferrari into the road’s inner shoulder. It halted inches from the sheer rock face of the mountain. The color had drained from his face. His hands shook. “Forgive me. I was tormenting myself, and I didn’t realize how it must look to you.”