See You In My Dreams

by Marie-Nicole Ryan

  “Salaud. Your manner is aloof and boorish. No wonder your wife fell in love with another man.” She folded her arms across her chest and thrust her chin at him in defiance.

  He regarded her coldly. “Think whatever you wish.” He turned and walked away. He scanned the room, looking for Gilbèrt or his wife Madeline. He would make his excuses to his hosts, but the surroundings suffocated him.

  “Maxim? Maxim Devereaux?"

  He turned and saw his mother's dearest friend, Florimel Dambasle. “Madame Dambasle. How wonderful to see you again,” he said, genuinely pleased to see the lovely woman before him. Indeed, the years had been kind.

  “I could not believe my eyes when I saw you come in from the balcony. I have not seen you since Renée's memorial. Such a sad a day.” The older woman's hands fluttered gracefully as she spoke. “None of us could believe it. Suddenly she was gone ... much too young. I miss her so much."

  “She always treasured your friendship, Madame.” Max took her graceful hands in his own and brushed his lips across the back of them. “I will always treasure your kindness that day. Renée would have been pleased you came to bid her farewell."

  “Pierre and I were so pleased that you brought her home to Paris. I do not think she would have rested in American soil, no?"

  “Probably not, Madame.” Over his old friend's shoulder, he spied the Balladur woman heading toward him. “I was about to leave. May I drop you somewhere?"

  “Maxim, it's early,” Mme. Dombasle protested. “Surely you're not leaving?"

  “Oui, I fear I am not in the mood."

  She noted his distraction and turned to see what had caught his attention. “Well, your lovely companion looks as if she won't mind leaving early,” Mme. Dombasle paused, then raising a finely-arched brow.

  He frowned, then confided, “I never met her before tonight, but she makes me uneasy, Madame."

  “Perhaps, you knew her in another life,” she suggested, her manner serious.

  “Another life, Madame? Do you believe in such things?"

  “Why not, Maxim? It explains the unexplainable. Now, I've monopolized you far too long. If you have time, you must visit Pierre and me at Belle Rêves, and we will talk more. Au revoir." Madame Dombasle waved a fluttery hand, then wandered away to talk to someone else, leaving Max alone ... with the Balladur woman bearing down on him.

  “M. Devereaux, I have decided to forgive your incivility. You may call me Emilie.” She placed her hand on his forearm and smiled up at him."

  A flash of light caught Max by surprise.

  “I hope you were smiling for the camera, mon chèr.” she smiled—a satisfied expression that reminded Max of a cat's licking cream from its paws.

  “You must forgive me. I am about to leave. I have an early appointment."

  “The evening is young, and surely you were not going to leave without me,” she said, giving him a simpering smile ... and still clutching his elbow.

  Max resisted the impulse to shake her off and stalk away. Her cloying persistence irritated him beyond belief. “My driver will drop you anywhere you wish, but as I said, I have an early meeting. And I am leaving now."

  “Well, if you insist, we can make an early night of it, this once. Of course, you will want to stop at my place for a drink or espresso."

  Max scowled and took a deep breath before answering. “I'm afraid not. My business commitments take precedence over personal engagements.” Max turned and started walking toward his host and hostess along with Emilie who stuck to him like an annoying wad of gum.

  Once his good-byes had been said to Gilbèrt and Madeline, he ushered Emilie Balladur down the grand marble staircase to the foyer of the eighteenth century house. She made a great show of their togetherness. Rather than humiliate her in front of her acquaintances, he allowed it; but her touch sent an unpleasant chill down his spine. Something was not right about her, something beyond her aggressive and clinging behavior.

  After leaving the stately mansion and walking into the balmy Parisian night, they stood at the top of another set of stairs. Max nodded to two previous business associates, neither of whom seemed anxious to renew their old acquaintance. Apparently they hadn't forgotten the cloud over his head either. She chattered away, but he barely heard her. He merely wanted the night to end. As his car and driver pulled up, he nudged her. “Ready?"

  “Mais oui, Maxim."

  “Fine."

  Together they descended the exterior steps. As they reached the bottom, the woman stumbled. Max caught her ... And it was duly recorded for posterity by more annoying flashes from cameras of the ever-present paparazzi. No doubt there would be photos of the clumsy witch in his arms, gracing the morning tabloids. The paparazzi—the plague on civilization—had hounded him unmercifully after Solange's death. How fitting.

  “Are you all right, Madame?"

  “Oui, Maxim,” she replied, slanting her eyes at him. He ushered her into the limousine and instructed the driver before he settled back into the comfort of the soft leather seats, patently rejecting her attempts at closeness.

  Angry that he had allowed her to maneuver him into the uncomfortable position of escorting her home, he determined that was as far as he would permit her machinations to ruin his evening. Her desperate attentions repulsed him. It was a given that he'd been pursued by determined women before. In fact, he'd even responded favorably, if briefly, to some of them, but he felt no attraction to this woman—quite the opposite. Some men might be taken in by her sensual allure, but he had pressing memories of a more delicate beauty in mind. Beautiful, warm memories that were confused with an inexplicable foreboding.

  “You are so cold. It's difficult to believe you are a Frenchman,” she huffed in a fit of pique, when he removed his arm from her possessive grasp, for the second time.

  Perhaps another tactic would work with her. “I'm involved with someone in the States,” he declared. It wasn't a lie. Even if he and Nikki were at odds, they were certainly involved.

  “And you are faithful to her?” Emilie asked, raising a questioning brow.

  “I am.” Max looked out the window, hoping his blatant disinterest would ... frankly, shut her up.

  “How quaint and American,” she replied, with a sneer, then added, “I knew your wife's lover too."

  His back stiffened. His breath caught in his throat. “You knew Destael?” he managed to croak.

  “Oui, quite well. In fact, I knew him better than Solange."

  Max took a slow deep breath. He might as well listen to her. He doubted it could hurt any more than it had the night of Solange's death. “So?"

  “Well it seems that even as your wife was unfaithful to you, he was unfaithful to her. He cut quite a swath among his students.” She paused before adding, “I should know, I was one of them."

  Still unsure of the reasons for her revelations, Max kept silent. He could easily believe the woman had had an affair with Destael ... and countless others, if her overtures toward him were any indication of her normal behavior.

  “Well?” Emilie raised her chin a notch. “Don't you have anything to say? Don't you care your wife was a fool?"

  Anger flashed through Max. He wanted to wring the stupid woman's neck. He choked back his rage and forced a quiet and deliberate response. “I don't see that my feelings in the matter are of any concern to you. My wife and her lover have been dead for twelve years. They are beyond feeling."

  “I just thought you should know.” Emilie said with a sniff and a toss of her head. “So your lover in America? Tell me about her. Is she a model? She must be very beautiful. You are surrounded by beautiful women, n'est-ce pas?"

  Another change in her direction of attack. He guarded his response, well aware she had no sense of what was appropriate. “What about you?” he asked, taking the offensive. “Why aren't you involved with someone?"

  Emilie's eyes narrowed. “Perhaps because the only man I ever loved died twelve years ago."

  “I see. Then you kno
w something about pain and disappointment."

  “Far too much, mon chèr,” she replied, her tone brittle.

  Max drummed his fingers against the expensive leather of the window ledge, while he willed the driver to hurry.

  The remainder of the ride passed in stiff silence, punctuated by her intermittent sighs. Finally, the limousine stopped in front of a tall apartment building. “Are you sure you won't change your mind, Maxim? I'm afraid we've gotten off to a bad start."

  “As I said, I have an early morning appointment. It's quite late."

  The chauffeur opened the door for Emilie. She turned to Max and huffed. “Fine. You'll be sorry, Maxim."

  “Pardon?"

  "Pardon?" Emilie grabbed her evening bag and jumped out of the limo. “Damn your pardon!"

  “Are all women crazy?” Max asked the chauffeur.

  “So it would seem, sir. So it would seem."

  Thirty-five

  Nikki hit the play button and listened to Geoff's message for the third time, in an attempt to determine whether he was pleased with her efforts or not. Some suggestions? Good grief. She'd revised her work until she thought it was ready for publication. Guess not. Well, that's what an editor is supposed to do, make suggestions, but do I have to take them?

  Then add Geoff's concerns about the book to the depressing morning she and Alexa had at St. Anne's and it equaled a bad day. A fifteen-year-old girl had shown up at the clinic, homeless and pregnant. She'd refused to tell them anything about the father or her family, except that they'd thrown her out whey they learned she was pregnant and HIV positive. How could a family treat a child like that? Nikki would admit that her childhood had been no picnic, but her mother had been a paragon of maternal virtue compared to one or two she'd seen at the clinic.

  The misery she'd witnessed at St. Anne's compelled her to write the book quickly. Her easy life had given her an artificial form of amnesia. Saddened, she realized she'd forgotten more of the pain and despair than she'd thought. Any royalties she received would only be a band-aid on the problems of the world, but she could do something concrete for the shelter.

  Encouragement never put food in anyone's belly. A positive attitude only went so far when you could feel your stomach rubbing your backbone. Delays in editing her book would delay the funding St. Anne's needed so badly. She picked up the phone and punched in Geoff's number, ready to do battle. “It's Nikki. What kind of suggestions? Is it going to take much time? I really want this thing published and off my hands.” Might as well come right out and tell him the truth.

  “Hold on. Hold on. I'd rather go over them with the manuscript in hand."

  Over the phone she heard the rustle of paper.

  “Okay, what about this afternoon or evening? I'll free up a block of time. Then we can get down to it."

  “Not this afternoon. I have to take Alexa for a school uniform fitting, but I'm free this evening. Why don't you come by then? I'll order in something."

  “Are you sure that will be okay with your—uh, employer?"

  “He's in Paris. Besides, I don't answer to him for my free time,” she replied, with a distinct huff.

  Geoff chuckled. “All right. Seven, okay?"

  “Seven's fine. I'll see you then.” She put the phone down on the counter and took a deep breath. She hoped she wasn't making a mistake, inviting Geoff to the house again. His comment told her he'd picked up on some of the vibes between Max and her.

  ~ * ~

  “I hate fittings.” Alexa exclaimed, stomping along the hot sidewalk.

  “Really? I never would've guessed,” was Nikki's best attempt at good humor. She was hot and tired, and Alexa had been a real pill all afternoon.

  The teenager rolled her eyes at Nikki's remark. “I guess you must've gotten used to fittings and stuff like that."

  “Yeah. You're right, they're pretty boring.

  “May we stop by the deli? I'm dying of thirst."

  “Sure."

  “Are you mad at me?"

  “No, just my usual funk after being at the shelter. And I'm worried about my meeting tonight with my editor."

  “I wish I could be there. He's cute, isn't he?"

  “Cute enough, but you're still going to Bitsy's."

  “I know. Is he as handsome as Daddy?"

  “Lexa!” Exasperated, Nikki continued, “You have to drop the idea that your father and I are going to be together. It's not gonna happen."

  Alexa pouted. “Don't be mean. I love you both."

  Nikki came to an abrupt halt and turned to Alexa. “Hon, your father and I are just friends."

  “He does love you, Nikki. I know he does. I've seen—"

  “That's enough. “Okay?"

  Alexa heaved a big sigh. “Okay."

  They walked along in silence for another five minutes. The deli was only a short distance from the townhouse. Together they entered Armand's d'Eli. Nikki waved at Gisele, the owner. “Bonjour, Madame."

  “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Nikki,” Gisele replied, looking up from her ubiquitous New York Times crossword.

  Nikki strode down the aisles of the store. Armand's was a small tony delicatessen with a coffee bar. The store was lined with shelf after shelf of exotic—read that imported—comestibles, from the finest truffles to wonderful nut-flavored bhasmati rice from India.

  “I'm going to check out the spices.” Nikki indicated her direction with a nod. “I won't be long."

  “Okay, I'm gonna get some bottled water,” Alexa said, heading toward the rear of the store.

  Nikki headed toward the spices, but the aroma of fresh roasted coffee drew her in the other direction. There weren't as many choices as there would've been at Starbucks, but there were quite a few.

  No, no, she decided, it's too hot outside to drink coffee. She turned away from the shiny self-service area and stumbled into a man standing directly behind her.

  “Sorry,” Nikki said.

  He drew himself up, but fell short of being able to meet Nikki eye to eye. “That's all right. Say, aren't you that model?” He mopped perspiration from his brow with a handkerchief.

  “Yes,” she replied, wishing she could ignore him. She stood on tip-toe and looked about the store, hoping to spy Alexa. The girl stood at the front counter, watching and grinning widely.

  “You're a real babe, y'know."

  “Uh, thank you.” She clutched her large linen bag close to her chest.

  “Say how'dja like to have a cup of coffee with me?” he asked, pulling at his collar and stretching his neck.

  She smiled. “No, I'm afraid not, I'm with my little sister, and we have another appointment."

  “Too bad. Does she look anything like you?"

  “Sorry.” She tried to walk around him, but he blocked her. “I have to go."

  “Listen, if you'd like to go out sometime, give me a call.” He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a business card and thrust it at her.

  Rather than make a scene, Nikki took his card and shoved it in her bag. “Now, you'll have to excuse me.” She pushed her way around him and headed toward the front of the store. Alexa stood waiting, her earlier grin replaced by a peculiar expression. “What's wrong?"

  “Nothing."

  Over Alexa's shoulder, Nikki spied the tabloid rack. A full-color photograph of Max was displayed on the front page ... and he had a very attractive woman in his arms. She mentally counted to ten, but it didn't help. Her mouth grew dry, and tears stung her eyes. She had to get out of the store before she lost it.

  She swallowed, then finally trusting herself to speak, she said quietly, “It's none of my concern.”

  All business, she pulled out her coin purse and paid for Alexa's bottled water. “Let's go,” she said to her young charge, then attempted to smile at Gisele. “Au revoir, Madame."

  “Au revoir, Mademoiselle, Nikki."

  Nikki hurried out of the store, striding along in fury, leaving Alexa to catch up with her.

  “Nikki, wait. I'm s
ure it wasn't like it seemed. You know those rags do all sorts of computer things with pictures. Daddy probably hasn't been within ten miles of that woman."

  The very idea that Max's daughter found it necessary to comfort her—humiliating. Again, the unshed tears stung her eyes. She blinked them back before they could spill down her cheeks. “Never mind, It doesn't matter."

  “Okay, but..."

  Alexa's tone was so pitiful, Nikki relented and slowed her pace. “Look, I do care about your father, but he doesn't feel the same way. It just happens that way sometimes. Life isn't a romance novel."

  “But..."

  Nikki placed a finger on Alexa's lips, interrupting her protest. “There's no happy ending here, hon. I'm sorry. I know you want us together, but—” Nikki shrugged.

  Damn Max for hurting both of them. He had a lot to answer for ... if and when he decided to bring his sorry butt back to New York. She took a deep breath. Time to stop feeling sorry for herself. “Come on. Let's go home and get you ready for your overnight at Bitsy's."

  “Okay.” Alexa's expression brightened, then faded again.

  “Are you taking your new CD's?” Nikki asked, hoping to divert the girl's attention.

  “Sure."

  “Well, let's get a move on. The sooner you get packed up, the sooner you can have some fun. At least one of us ought to have some."

  “What about your editor?” Alexa asked, her mischievous air returning. “You said he was cute."

  “He is, but he's my editor. It's business. Come on here, give me a break. You're not missing out on anything, but some stuffy talk about my book.” Nikki patted Alexa on the shoulder and was relieved to see the girl's expression brighten.

  Thirty-six

  Geoff McHugh made it a point to arrive at Nikki's exactly at seven. Attention to detail was part of his compulsive nature, part of what made him a good editor. Wearing a pale gray silk suit and a slightly darker gray Egyptian cotton shirt, only his colorful Mickey Mouse tie gave away he might take life less than seriously. Normally, he dressed much more casually, but a command performance at a board meeting had induced him to wear a suit. All the same, he'd enjoyed the raised eyebrows of his grandfather's hand-picked men when they'd noticed his tie.