She had rarely seen such an attractive man, Isabelle answered, then added that it still wouldn’t hurt to take things slowly. If she had followed properly what Stefano had said, then he had originally planned only to stay in Meersburg briefly. But then he had decided to establish his own business in the town. And now that plan had been filed away, too? For Isabelle, that all sounded a little strange. Erratic. Vague. What did the man really have in mind? Did he have anything in mind? Or was he all talk and no action?
Clara swallowed hard. Such skepticism from Isabelle, of all people? From the friend who risked everything for love?
“Stefano is not erratic!” Clara said. “He never had any love for the hair trade. It was only for his family’s sake that he had anything to do with it at all. Now he’s sold all the wigs, sent the money to Italy, and told his family that they should rely on his brother or someone else. He wants to stay here at Lake Constance.” With me, she added silently.
“Which is fine,” said Isabelle. “But what’s he going to do? How’s he going to live? And what’s he living on right now?”
“Am I supposed to interrogate him?” Clara said, knowing she sounded petulant. “If you think that Stefano is living out of my pocket, I can assure you he isn’t. He spoils me rotten, and he doesn’t seem to lack the money to do it. And for now, I’m enjoying his attention very much. He’s a great help to me with many things. But that’s as far as things have gone.” She sighed. “Though I should say that he has tried to bring up certain subjects. But whenever I’ve gotten the feeling that he’s steering the conversation to a point where he might propose, I’ve always changed the subject. I’m a chicken, I know! Being married again, sharing my life and my bed with a man—it’s something I do want, but I’m also terribly frightened of taking that huge step. Marriage and me—it’s come to grief once already.”
“Sometimes it takes a second start,” said Isabelle, and she smiled peaceably. “And speaking of spoiling, I can hardly wait to get my facial tomorrow morning. Thank you so much for fitting me in! Living out on the land like we do, I never get to enjoy anything like that.”
Clara was glad Isabelle had changed the direction of the conversation. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll open a beauty shop near you in Reims one day.” She pulled her legs up closer beneath her. “You know, there’s an idea that’s been buzzing around in my head for a while. Most of my customers only come to Lake Constance in summer. In spring, they go to the horse races in Baden-Baden, in autumn they go off to a spa somewhere, and the opera premieres in Verona are on most of their calendars, too. They’re like migratory birds. Perhaps I should migrate with them?”
Isabelle nodded thoughtfully. “It could make sense—and be very profitable—to have shops in towns that get a lot of visitors, especially when they are your devoted clients.” She looked at Clara in admiration. “You continue to surprise me. I honestly never suspected that such a smart and spirited businesswoman was hiding inside you.”
Clara laughed. “I’m just toying with the idea. But Countess Zuzanna, who was one of my first customers, asked me in her last letter whether I could visit her in Baden-Baden to give her facial treatments. She would pay for everything.” There was pride in Clara’s voice as she said it.
“Now that would be an exclusive house call! So? Are you going to do it?”
Clara shrugged. “If both my Bel Étages are running well and they can spare me, why not? I’ve never been to Baden-Baden. They say it’s a lovely town.” Maybe Stefano would go there with her. It could be a romantic trip for the two of them.
“Reims is also very lovely. If anywhere, you should think about opening a shop there,” said Isabelle. “The women of Champagne are well off, and you could earn good money with us. But until then, you still have to send me my creams regularly. Promise?”
“Promise!” Clara said happily. “Tomorrow, you can take your time and see what you like. I’ve got a new cream that has the most wonderful lavender scent.” She thought of something and suddenly frowned.
“If the new cream is so wonderful, why are you frowning?” Isabelle asked.
“It’s something that has been on my mind a lot lately.” Clara sighed. When she saw Isabelle’s expectant expression, she continued. “When it comes to my fragrances, I have to admit that I’ve been growing dissatisfied. All my creams smell of rose, lavender, citrus, or violet. Don’t misunderstand me—I only use the best ingredients. And just having a cream or a soap that smells good at all is new for a lot of my customers. Many of them only know the bitter smell of soft soap.” Clara raised both arms in a helpless gesture. “But I want something more lavish! Fragrances that develop little by little on the skin of the woman wearing it. Like a good perfume.”
“Then there’s only one place to go. Grasse, in France,” said Isabelle immediately. “The best parfumiers in the world are there.” She sat forward excitedly. “I’ve got an idea. What would you say if we went together? I could translate for you, maybe find out a few good addresses in advance. And it would be wonderful to go on a trip together. And exciting! What do you think? Although the trip would have to wait until after the harvest.”
Clara smiled. “Then we have that in common: you have to deal with the grape harvest and I have to get through the tourist season.” She chewed her lip for a moment. “Grasse . . . ,” she murmured, and she found that the name alone sounded promising. She wondered what Stefano would think of the idea, then she looked back to Isabelle and her face lit up. “Let’s do it! But next year. This year, I really do have to make sure that my Bel Étage–Residenzia is a success.”
“If the mother of Italian king has already graced you with a visit, I wouldn’t worry,” said Isabelle. “All right, then. Next year,” she added with a laugh, and they shook hands on it. “Clara, I hardly recognize you anymore, you know? You’re so energetic, so fearless, so . . . modern!” Isabelle said. “Maybe Stefano Santo has had a good influence on you after all? Or was it just getting out of Berlin?”
Is it Stefano’s influence that has made me so fearless and modern? Clara wondered as she lay in bed trying to sleep after Isabelle had gone to her room. His encouragement, advice, and help were good for her. And they certainly had a modern relationship. Most of the people around them would probably describe their relationship as ambiguous or socially unacceptable. But she didn’t care. The tentative, fearful Clara who was always worried about what other people thought of her was long gone. Starting with the move to Lake Constance, she had begun to strip off her old fear. She had freed herself like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon. What she had been through in Berlin—Gerhard’s abuse, the abyss after her divorce, and the loss of her children—was the worst that could happen to her. What did she have to fear now? Things could only get better.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Thirty pots of chamomile extract hand cream were finished, along with three dozen bottles of scented body oil. Now she had to prepare the next batch of face cream. And she must not forget the cleansing rosewater. Clara looked up at the calendar hanging on the wall. It was December 18, 1908. The calendar had served her well all year, reminding her of appointments, deliveries, and pay-by dates. Now it hung gray and limp from all the steam it had been subjected to. Gray and limp—Clara felt just the same. So few days until the end of the year, so much work still to do . . .
She stifled a yawn, then she gathered the ingredients she would need for the face cream. As tired as she was, she was happy for the work. The busier she was, the less she had to think about her children.
Christmas. She used to love this time of year. She had glued golden stars to the windows of her home in Berlin, baked Christmas cake, and knitted socks for everybody. But the days of Advent had become the hardest and loneliest for her. She had written letters to her children. She had bought small gifts and sent everything in one package to Josephine, though she was not sure that her friend would manage to get it all to Sophie and Matthias or if the new Mrs. Gropius would even allow the contact. Day af
ter day, Clara waited for news from Josephine, but so far she hadn’t received any. It would be Christmas Eve in a week . . . Maybe Josephine was planning to give them the gifts and letters then? Christmas Eve. And her birthday, too. Clara had always thought the holiday itself brought her such gifts. In the glow of the thousand candles on the Christmas tree, Sophie had always looked like a little blond angel. And Matthias singing “Silent Night.” Would his voice have broken already? Would he sing “Silent Night” or just croak the words?
Clara wiped away a tear. Someday, she was sure of it, she would be reunited with her children. But until then, she had to stay strong. Work would always be a useful distraction, and—
Laughter came from the front room, jolting Clara from her thoughts. A moment later, Therese and Stefano walked into the laboratory. Therese was wearing an elegant black outfit with a pretty brooch shaped like a Christmas tree and set with dozens of green stones. “You haven’t even dressed for the Christmas party!” Therese cried. “We are supposed to go to the yacht club.”
Clara put on an apologetic face. “I didn’t think the work would take this long.”
“The host has prepared a wonderful buffet. Are you really going to miss it?”
Stefano added, “There’s supposed to be an excellent band playing. In all the time we’ve known each other, we haven’t shared a single dance. Mia cara, are you really going to make me dance with other women?” Stefano looked disappointed. “You can’t do that to me. Besides, without you, the evening will only be half as good.”
For a moment, Clara was tempted to yank off her apron and go with them. But her good sense won out. “Go ahead, I’ll come a little later,” she said, and gave her two friends a reassuring smile.
“Uh-huh,” said Therese, entirely unconvinced. “I know you, and once you get your nose into your creations . . . You can take one night off. Isn’t it about time you just had some fun?”
“Why should I? You’ve been having enough fun for both of us for weeks,” Clara answered. It was supposed to sound funny, but Clara could hear the edge of reproach in her voice. Lately, Therese had only been showing up for an hour or two in the middle of the day. She spent the mornings sleeping and recovering from her partying the night before, and she needed the afternoons to get herself ready for the next party, dinner, or visit to the theater. “New man, new happiness,” she would say with a laugh whenever Clara asked what she was doing. “My own great love is just around the corner. And then I’ll put away my scissors once and for all. Doing other women’s hair has never been much fun.”
Clara could not subscribe to that attitude at all.
Stefano turned to Therese. “Go ahead. I’ll help Clara, and we’ll come a little later.”
The moment they were alone, he went to Clara and kissed her affectionately on the nose. At the tender gesture, a lump formed in Clara’s throat; in recent days, she’d been more sentimental than usual.
“Stefano . . . I don’t want you to help me right now,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “You do so much for me. Don’t give up the Christmas party on my account, too.” In truth, she wanted to have him close to her, and she wished that he would stay. But she did her best to push this feeling aside. In recent months, she had kept Stefano at arm’s length as best she could, not wanting to commit herself; she could hardly demand such sacrifices of him now.
He took her in his arms and whispered in her ear, “Bella Clara, I worry about you. Therese is right; you work too much. Can’t we forget the creams for today?” He nodded in the direction of her work area. “They will still be there tomorrow.”
“I would love to,” Clara said, taking pleasure in the warmth he radiated. “But tomorrow night I have to make a new batch of soap. And the day after that there will be something else. I would never have predicted that business would be so good this Christmas. But if I don’t produce anything tonight, I won’t have anything to sell tomorrow. It’s as simple as that.”
Stefano nodded. “Even so, things can’t go on like this. All this work is wearing you down. I’ll come up with some way to help!”
Clara smiled. “Why not call up a conjurer to secretly fill my shelves while I sleep like a baby? Or maybe Santa Claus can do that kind of thing?”
Stefano laughed at that, but was quickly serious again. “Speaking of Christmas . . . for me, this will be my first Christmas without my family. I would like very much to spend Christmas Eve with you. We could go to church together, then drink a glass of champagne under the stars. Wouldn’t that be a nice way to spend your birthday? But where would we celebrate? You live in the hotel, me in my guesthouse—neither of us has a homeland, or a home.”
“Well, I don’t think of myself as not having a homeland,” Clara replied with a laugh. Stefano was so dramatic sometimes. “On the contrary, actually. I feel quite at home in Lilo’s hotel. Right now, this is the best solution for me. And when the apartment above the shop is free next year, I’ll have a real home of my own.” She held her breath, as tense as ever when their talk turned to future plans. Did they have a future together? If yes, it was still somewhere off among the stars.
Stefano ran one hand through his hair, and his handsome face was transformed by a grimace. As if he could read her thoughts, he said, “Clara, so much between us is unresolved. I wish I could offer you more. A beautiful home, a ring on your finger, a future. But until I know where things are going for me professionally . . .” He shook his head. “I understand very well that you don’t want to accept my courtship. I’m a nobody, after all.”
Clara sighed. It was not the first time they had had this conversation. She reassured him, as she always did, that he was one of the most important people in her life, and that he was important to the customers, too. “And you do all the work for me without accepting a cent for any of it. I’d feel much better if you would at least let me pay you.” It was not the first time she had said that, either.
Stefano shook his head. “I’m would never let you pay me! The things I do for you, I do for love, Clara. And love is not something you pay for.” He looked past her defiantly.
Clara sighed helplessly. Somehow, every conversation they had ended on this. But I love you, too, she was on the verge of saying, but something held her back. She wasn’t ready. “Why don’t we celebrate with Lilo, in the hotel?” she said, to change the subject. “She’s planning a big party for her guests. I’m sure she’ll hold a table for us.”
“That’s a good idea,” he said, and his radiant smile returned. His lips drew close to hers, and his kiss was so heartfelt that it made Clara a little dizzy. Maybe she should have him stay?
But he was picking up his coat. “If you insist, I’ll go ahead to the yacht club, all right? You come along whenever you want. But don’t work too late, mia cara.” He turned around once more from the doorway. “By the way, don’t be surprised if the next delivery of almond oil comes from a new supplier.”
“What do you mean?”
Stefano waved one hand disdainfully. “If you ask me, it’s time you tried out some other supplier and forgot your pharmacist, Mr. Weingarten. Someone cheaper, who can deliver faster.”
“But you can’t just . . .” Clara swallowed. “It was Mr. Weingarten who gave me my first job here! If you ask me, that counts for more than the fact that it sometimes takes a day or two longer for him to get what I need. You really should have asked me before making a decision like that.”
“Clara, Mr. Weingarten will always be your friend. And he’ll still be the one supplying you with beeswax and other products. This is just to try out, va bene? Sometimes it’s just good to try something new. You know that better than anyone,” said Stefano. “If you don’t like the quality of the oil my new supplier delivers, you can always go back to Mr. Weingarten for it.”
As Christmas approached, the work only increased, and with every passing day, there was more for Clara and her assistants to do. To meet the demand for beauty treatments, they had even stopped taking a lunch bre
ak. Face massages, foot baths, warm baths for relaxation—the women of Meersburg, suffering from all the travails that Christmas brought with it, could not get enough of the relief that Clara offered. For the first time since Clara had opened her shop, the men of Meersburg started coming in. The mayor bought face creams, soap, and rosewater, four of each, for his wife and three daughters. Mr. Weingarten came in to buy a nice soap for his Sabine. “When I see everything the Meersburg men are buying, there probably isn’t a Christmas tree in Meersburg that doesn’t have one of your soaps or creams beneath it,” Stefano said, and laughed.
It was Christmas Eve, and Clara was massaging the face of her last customer of the day. She was doing the treatment at Bel Étage–Residenzia so that she could get to her room faster and get ready for the evening.
“Ow! You pulled my ear!”
“Sorry,” said Clara. She hadn’t even touched the woman’s ear. Why did I even agree to this? she asked herself in annoyance. It was two in the afternoon, and a nap would do her a world of good. Or a stroll by the lake. Or attending the mayor’s Christmas reception with Stefano. But the woman was one of her regular customers, so Clara didn’t want to say no even though she didn’t like the woman much: she was one of those people always looking for the hair in the soup—and finding it.
“Just make sure that none of that cream gets in my hair. I’ve just had it done,” the woman said. “I want to look my very best this evening.”
“Oh, you will,” said Clara patiently. She looked longingly toward the door. The mayor’s champagne reception for the town’s most esteemed citizens was just down the hallway, in the hotel’s ballroom. Clara had been proud to receive an invitation, but she had given the invitation to Stefano so that at least he could take part. She felt like nothing more than sitting and drinking a glass of wine with him, leaning against his shoulder, feeling his warmth . . .
The Queen of Beauty (The Century Trilogy Book 3) Page 26
