“I have someone I’d like you to meet,” she said to Alex.
Alex’s hands remained on the piano. He wouldn’t look at her. “Your son,” he said in a voice so expressionless she knew it held more feeling than any sob ever could.
“No,” she said quietly. “Your son. Yours and Lena’s.”
“What?” A whisper, so soft, like a tear in the fabric of the air around them.
“You have a son. Lena fell pregnant after you were together. I’ve been keeping him for you; I knew you wouldn’t want him to grow up alone.”
“What?” he said again and Estella almost wished he would revert back to the expressionless tone of before because his voice was now so loaded with emotion, so close to the brink of breaking that she wondered if she could bear to hear him speak like this and not hold him in her arms.
“This is Xander,” she said, willing Alex to lift his gaze to meet hers. “Your son.”
Xander was watching Estella, slightly fearful, able to tell that something wasn’t right with the adults in the room. “Maman?” he said.
Estella blushed. “He just calls me that,” she said. “Because I’ve been looking after him. He’s too young to explain anything to just yet.”
Alex lifted his hands from the piano, stood, and took one step toward them. He stopped as Xander pressed himself into Estella’s side, wary.
Alex crouched down, halfway across the room, so he was at the child’s eye level. “Hi, Xander,” he said. “We have the same name, sort of. I’m Alex, short for Alexander.”
Estella bent down too. “Alex is my…friend. I told you we were coming to meet my friend.”
Xander smiled shyly at his father and Estella saw Alex’s eyes—so like his son’s—bloom with tears, saw his jaw working as hard as it could to keep his face still, untroubled, so he wouldn’t frighten the child.
Alex held out his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Xander.”
Xander looked at Estella and she nodded. Then he walked over to Alex and slipped his hand inside his father’s.
“Can I give you a hug too?” Alex asked. “I’m a bit sad, you see, and a hug would make me feel much better, I think.”
And Xander, lovely, sweet child that he was slid his arms around Alex’s neck and gave him the softest and most gentle hug. It destroyed Estella. Her sob was so loud that Xander turned back to her, a troubled look on his face, as if he thought he’d done something wrong when of course he’d done the one perfect thing.
Estella saw that the dam had broken in Alex, that the tears were now flowing freely down his cheeks. That a child, a small and tiny child, could have so much power.
“Thank you,” Alex said, voice raw, to Xander. “That’s better.”
Xander reached out a hand to touch one of Alex’s tears, to pat it away. Then he grinned at Estella, as if to say, See, I helped.
“Good boy, Xander,” she managed to say.
“You did this?” Alex asked. “You’ve been looking after my son. For how long?”
“Three years,” she said. “I tried to tell you I had him. That’s why I wanted to see you in Gramercy Park. But you left before I had a chance. And since then I haven’t known how to find you.”
“I thought…” Alex paused, drew in a shaky breath. “I thought Xander was your child. Yours and Sam’s. That you’d married Sam.”
“If you’d hung around to ask,” she chided gently. “But I was so awful to you…” She couldn’t continue; the memory of her telling Alex she couldn’t marry him hurt too much.
“After I saw you and Sam and the child I thought you didn’t want to be with me because you’d fallen in love with Sam.”
Estella shook her head. “No. I found out that…Harry Thaw is my father.” She managed, just, to not look away as she spoke.
Alex stood up then and so did she, straightening slowly, eyes fixed on one another. “I know,” he said. “Your mother asked me to read her letter to you. I think she wanted us to understand that it doesn’t matter who your father is. Or where you come from. What matters is what we make of it. And we’ve both made so much of everything. Except for one thing.”
“What?” Estella breathed the word out quietly in case what she hoped he would say and what he actually said were two different things.
“This.” He slid his arms around her waist and up her back, drawing her to him. “Us.” Then he turned to Xander who was gazing up at this strange performance with wonder. “Xander, would you mind if I kissed your Maman?”
Xander shook his head. No, he didn’t mind at all.
And nor did Estella.
Later, after they’d shared a riotous dinner with Xander, after they’d bathed him together, dressed him together, after Alex had told him a story about a young boy who grew up in a land far away and who had to battle pirates and thieves, after they’d tucked him into bed and they’d both kissed him goodnight, Xander’s arms snaking around Alex’s neck the same way they did around Estella’s, Alex led her to the room with the piano. Actually, led is not an accurate description. He shut the door to Xander’s room and they stumbled, arms wrapped around each other, mouths locked tight, hands raking desperately at clothes until they found the sanctuary of the bed in the music room.
Once there, Alex took his mouth away from hers. “I need to see you. So I can believe you’re really here.”
“I’m here forever,” she vowed.
He didn’t kiss her again, even though he wanted to so much it hurt. Instead he kept his lips a breath away from hers, because watching her was bliss. It meant he could see the moment her breath came faster when he undid the buttons on her shirt, could see the way her eyes darkened as his fingers grazed the nape of her neck, could see her cheeks flush as he slipped her skirt off, could see her mouth open when he traced a slow and sensual line along her collarbone, down the center of her chest, across to one breast and then the other. It meant he could see the desire written in the most discernible of languages on her face as his hands came to rest at the top of her hipbones.
“I love you, Estella,” he said.
“I love you too,” she said. Four words he’d never thought she’d say to him again. Four words he now believed he would hear every day for the rest of his life.
They shared three months of bliss. Later, that’s how Estella would think of that time. Even though it was February, they opened the windows of the house on the Rue de Sévigné to let in the air and the sunlight. They had men, wounded soldiers who could no longer fight out the dying weeks of the war and who had moved across from Germany, eager for work, come in to paint and repair and restore. They watched the house unfurling, which was like watching a rose blooming, the petals of beauty finally released from the tight bud they’d been trapped in for so long.
Alex had to fly back and forth to London. Estella and Xander went with him and, when they were in Paris, he had meetings there too and Estella had appointments with Printemps and La Samaritaine to show them her samples and to organize for the grandes dames of the Parisian stores to stock the Stella brand.
In between all of that, there was the simple joy of sitting in the Place des Vosges and watching Xander run, of playing the piano together, Alex and Estella in perfect harmony, Xander hitting the keys whenever he felt like it, keeping everything new and unexpected. And then there were the nights when Huette would come to watch Xander and Estella and Alex would go to the Théâtre du Palais-Royal.
Estella would wear the gold dress, which hadn’t dated a bit, for the sake of nostalgia and something more: to see the pulse in Alex’s throat beat faster when he saw her, to feel him draw her in as close as she could possibly be, to have him whisper in her ear, “God I love you”; to have to resist the temptation just to stay inside, in bed, naked together, but to feel that same intensity passing between them at the theater; to feel the impossibility of even looking at him or the almost unbearable sensation of his hand on her leg, or his fingers caressing her wrist, knowing what would come later when they were at home
together.
Until the day Alex came to her with a frown on his face and she reached up to smooth it away.
“I have to go away for a few days,” he said. “Tonight. To Germany. I can’t take you with me.”
“We can survive a few days apart, I’m sure,” she said lightly, knowing that, sometime soon, they would have to return to New York and resume a more orthodox life where they didn’t see one another quite so much.
“I handed in my notice,” he said. “This is my last trip. I’m going to be a boring Manhattan attorney and we’re going to have summers in France and…” He stopped and looked at her so intently, with so much love, that her breath caught. “The life we’ll have, Estella,” he said.
“The life we’ll have,” she repeated. And she believed it, believed their life together would be extraordinary, unforgettable.
Until the next morning when Xander climbed into bed next to her and she heard something clinking.
“What’s that?” she asked sleepily.
Xander opened his pajama shirt and there, resting against his chest, far too long for him, was Alex’s medallion. “Daddy gave it to me yesterday,” he mumbled as he snuggled in to her. “Said it would keep us safe while he was away.”
And Estella felt it, felt the explosion, the moment Alex ceased to exist, felt his soul kiss her forehead—oh, too lightly—as it flew past and all she could do was clutch the medallion in her hand, draw Xander closer, and scream: No, no, no, no, no.
Part Twelve
Fabienne
Chapter Thirty-seven
August 2015
A fortnight after the piece in the New York Times, Fabienne came into the office early, as was her habit, and smiled at Rebecca who was already at her desk, studying something intently.
“What’s that?” Fabienne asked, setting down a coffee for Rebecca.
Rebecca pushed a robin egg blue magazine over to Fabienne. “The Blue Book,” Rebecca said. “The Tiffany catalog. I’ve been sent one every year since my mother bought me a Tiffany key for my twenty-first birthday. Look at this. It’s so beautiful. And it has your name.”
Fabienne read the title on the page: “The New Tiffany Collection: The Women I Have Loved.” And then, underneath in smaller font, the words: Dedicated to the women who have made an unforgettable impression on him, our Head of Design Will Ogilvie defies you not to find something in our latest catalog that is worthy of celebrating the uniqueness of the women you love.
A magnificent pendant, made of polished white stone, the skeleton of a seahorse suspended in the center, sparkled on the page. Just as a fossil survives for millions of years, its story caught in the bones it leaves behind, so too can the love of a lifetime survive beyond time. Fabienne pendant, $110,000.
“What’s wrong?” Rebecca called, puzzlement plain in her voice as Fabienne tore her eyes away from the page and raced into her office.
She slammed the door shut and picked up the telephone. What a fool she’d been. Yes, she wanted her collection to be a success. To put everything she had into a business that was one of the loves of her life. There was nothing wrong with that. But there was another love in her life.
She’d been so busy wanting to please Estella’s ghost, her father’s ghost, the newspapers, everyone, that she’d forgotten the only person she had the power to make happy was herself. And she wanted to do that with both Stella Designs, and with Will.
She dialed Will’s number.
“Hello?” His secretary answered. Fabienne asked for Will but was told he was in a meeting. She left a message.
Then she paced for ten minutes before picking up her phone and sending him a text. Can you meet me at Momofuku Ssäm Bar at 8? I need to talk to you.
Then she walked, with a newfound confidence in herself, down to the salon for the final fittings and spent the day watching models don her samples, tweaking, perfecting, having resolutely left her phone on her desk so she couldn’t check it every five minutes. When at last the final model was done, Fabienne returned to her office, picked up her phone, and thanked God that Will’s message, brief and impersonal as it was, had at least contained the word yes.
She dashed home to shower and change but, finding nothing in her own wardrobe to suit her mood, she opened the closet in the spare room in which her grandmother had kept, in defiance of proper curatorial practices, several Stella Designs gowns that she couldn’t bear to part with. One was a brilliant green dress, probably too much for Momofuku; it was the dress Estella had worn the night she won her first Fashion Award and Fabienne felt that she could do with some of the bravado that the dress must still hold in its seams.
She slipped it on, thankful that she and her grandmother had always been about the same size. Then she made up her face and stepped out into the night.
Momofuku wasn’t far from Gramercy Park so she walked, nerves increasing with her pace, as she drew closer to Second Avenue. She pushed open the door and saw that Will was already sitting at a table, the tiniest frown on his face, and she hoped it wasn’t because he was about to say something that would hurt her.
“Hi,” she said. She pulled out her chair and sat down.
“Hi.” He looked up from the menu. The restaurant was so dark it was difficult to see if he was still frowning but he certainly hadn’t smiled.
It would be best to launch straight in, Fabienne thought, before she lost her courage. “I’m sorry,” she blurted. “I’m sorry I’ve been so busy. I had to do it though, to learn something about myself. I’ve realized I need to design the collection for me, not for the media or the skeptics or to preserve the legacy of Stella Designs. I have no idea how you feel anymore after Melissa, after being away, after me burying myself in work but I’m going to say this anyway because, if I don’t, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life. And too many people live lives of regret, or don’t live long at all.”
She took a deep breath. He hadn’t shifted his eyes from her face but neither had his inscrutable expression altered. “I love you, Will. I want to be with you. I want you.”
A waiter appeared, smiling brightly, asking if they were ready to order. “We’ve changed our minds,” Will said abruptly and stood up.
Fabienne stood too, even though her legs didn’t want to. In fact her whole body would rather just stay in the chair and order a warm sake, anything other than step out onto the street with Will, have him shake her hand or, worse still, kiss her politely on the cheek, thank her for her sentiments and say he didn’t feel the same way. She could feel her jaw tense as she followed him through the door and along the footpath a little, where he finally turned.
This is it, she thought. Grit your teeth, nod, say that you understand and do not cry. Not until he’s walked away.
But instead he reached for her hand. “Your place is closer.”
Fabienne shook her head. “What do you mean?”
He drew her in to him and whispered in her ear. “I love you, Fabienne. And I want you too. So much.”
As the desire kindled by his words tore through her, she understood.
Later, in her bed in Gramercy Park, Will kissed her gently and she smiled up at him. “I have no words to describe how good that was,” she said.
“I don’t either,” he said, kissing her again. He rolled off her onto his back, gathering her in his arms, resting her head on his chest, stroking her hair.
“It’s not exactly how I thought the night would turn out,” she admitted.
“Why?” he asked. “You don’t regret…”
“No!” she exclaimed, interrupting him. “No regrets at all. In fact,” she grinned wickedly, “I’d quite like to do it again very soon.”
He laughed. “I think we can arrange that. How did you think the night would turn out? I suppose you thought we might actually eat dinner. Sorry about that.”
This time she laughed. “I’d take this over dinner any time. No, I just didn’t know how you felt anymore. But then I saw the Tiffany catalog today…”
&n
bsp; He leaned over the side of the bed, searching around on the floor for something, locating his trousers and removing a box from the pocket. A Tiffany box. “For you,” he said.
She tugged at the ribbon. Inside the box sat the Fabienne pendant, the fossil within its smooth whiteness seeming to suggest that there were always layers of beauty, even inside something long dead, that wonder and awe would always survive.
“It’s the most stunning thing I’ve ever seen,” she said.
Will took the pendant out of the box and she lifted her hair while he placed it around her neck. She turned around to show him and he smiled. “It’s very distracting that you’re naked right now,” he said. “I hadn’t really thought about how it might look on you without clothes.”
“I can always put my clothes on,” she teased.
He took her hand. “You’re perfect just the way you are.”
Later, as Fabienne walked back into the room with the omelet she’d made for their dinner, she saw him looking at her grandmother’s box, which was opened on the bedside table, the piles of paper she’d already read sitting beside it.
“What’s all this?” he asked, propping pillows up for them to lean against.
“The answers to the mysteries of the past,” she said, filling him in on what she’d learned so far about her grandmother. “I think there’s one more letter in there. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to read it but now I think I do. Do you mind?”
“No. Let’s see what it is.”
So Fabienne put her hand into the box and withdrew the last piece of paper, a letter written in her grandmother’s elegant hand. Then she began to read aloud.
The Paris Seamstress Page 39
