by JoAnn Ross
"The first thing you must learn, Alexandra, is that husbands want their women to look like ladies. Especially American husbands, who have a habit of marrying younger and younger brides without really knowing their pedigree."
He ignored Alex's sharp intake of breath. "Since the husbands are the ones paying the bills, a wise couturier designs with them in mind."
"That's incredibly chauvinistic."
"Perhaps. It is also true. The British have a saying," Debord continued. "Mutton dressed as lamb. Never forget, Mademoiselle Lyons, that is precisely what we are paid to do."
"But what about celebrating the female form—" Alex couldn't help argue "—instead of focusing on androgynous, sexless women?" When he physically bristled, Alex realized she'd hit uncomfortably close to home with that one. After all, Debord's disastrous new line had carried androgyny to new extremes.
His stony expression would have encouraged a prudent woman to back away. Unfortunately caution had never been Alex's forte.
"You say we must design for the husbands," she said, leaning forward. "I can't believe any man really wants his woman looking like a malnourished twelve-year-old boy."
"Not all men do," Debord acknowledged, his steady gaze taking in the softly feminine curves her stark black dress and scarlet jacket could not entirely conceal. "But the fact remains, Alexandra, wives should look like ladies. Not sirens."
In Alex's mind, there was absolutely nothing wrong with looking like a lady in the daytime and a siren at night. After all, this was a new age. Having proven they could do men's work, Alex believed it was time women started looking like women again.
"May I ask a question?" she said quietly.
"Certainement."
"How can you consider me talented when you hate everything about my designs?"
"On the contrary, I don't hate everything about them. I love the energy, the verve. I think your use of color, while overdone, is magnifique."
"Well," Alex decided on a rippling little sigh, "I suppose that's something."
"It's important." He stood and smiled down at her. "It is time we found a proper outlet for your talents."
"Do you mean—"
"I'm promoting you to assistant designer," Debord confirmed. "I shall inform Marie Hélène that you will be moving upstairs. Immediately."
Joy bubbled up in Alex. It was all she could do to keep from jumping up and flinging her arms around Debord's neck. She knew the broad grin splitting her face must look horrendously gauche, but couldn't keep herself from smiling.
"I don't know how to thank you, monsieur."
"Just do your best. That is all I expect." Debord walked her to the door.
Feigning indifference to Marie Hélène's cold stare, Alex moved her colored pencils and sketch pads into the design office located above the showroom floor.
She was hard at work at her slanted drawing table later that afternoon when Debord entered the office. He made his way slowly around the room, offering a comment on each designer's work. Some were less than flattering, but all were encouraging. Until he got to Alex.
"A zipper is inappropriate," he declared loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. His finger jabbed at the back of her evening gown design. "This gown lacks spirit."
He plucked the slate pencil from her suddenly damp hand and with a few deft flourishes, sketched in a row of satin-covered buttons. "There. Now we have passion."
The buttons running from neckline to hem were admittedly lovely. They were also highly impractical. Alex wondered how a woman would be able to wear such a dress without a maid to fasten her up. And then there was the little matter of getting out of the gown at the end of the evening.
"It would seem to me," she countered mildly, "that trying to deal with fifty tiny, slippery satin buttons running down the back of a dress would tend to stifle passion."
There was a gasp from neighboring tables as the others in the room realized that this newcomer had dared argue with the master. Debord shot her a warning look.
"The way couture differs from ready-to-wear is in the decorating," he said shortly. "Specialness comes from the shape, the cut, the workmanship.
"Embellishing. Some fringe here." He ran his hand over her shoulder. Down the notched black velvet lapel of her scarlet hunting blazer. "A bit of beading here.
"We all must eat, Alexandra. Yet who among us wouldn't prefer a steak tartare to one of your American hot dogs? A glass of wine to water? A crème brûlée to some diet gelatin mold?"
"Are you comparing the designs of Debord to fine French cuisine?" Alex dared ask with a smile.
"Bien sûr." He rewarded her with an approving smile of his own. Alex could have spent the remainder of the day basking in its warmth. "I knew you would be an adept pupil, Alexandra."
As he leaned forward, his arm casually brushed against her breast. "Now, let us review your interpretation of a Debord dinner suit."
Chapter Four
Santa Barbara, California
June 1982
The house, perched dramatically atop a hill, was draped in fog. Inside, candles flickered in Wedgwood holders. A fire blazed in the high, stone library fireplace.
Beside the fireplace, two women sat at opposite sides of a small mahogany table. Eleanor Lord wore an ivory silk blouse and linen slacks from Lord's Galleria department.
Across the table, theatrically clad in a lavender turban and a billowy caftan of rainbow chiffon, Clara Kowalski reached into a flowered tapestry bag and pulled out a small amethyst globe.
"The crystal is radiating amazing amounts of positive energy today," Clara said.
"Do you really believe Jarlath can locate Anna?"
Clara clucked her tongue. "Jarlath is merely a guide, Eleanor. Aiding you to evolve to a higher dimension."
"I'd rather he skip the evolution stuff and find my granddaughter," Eleanor muttered.
Eleanor considered herself a logical woman. She had always scoffed at those tales of farmers being kidnapped by aliens. Nor did she believe in the Bermuda Triangle, Big-foot or the Loch Ness Monster. From the beginning of her marriage, Eleanor had been an equal partner in The Lord's Group, the department store chain established by her husband. When James Lord had died of a heart attack nearly thirty years ago, she took over the business without missing a step.
Despite her advanced years, despite the fact she now preferred doing business from her Santa Barbara home rather than trek down the coast to the chain's Los Angeles headquarters, Eleanor remained vigorous and continued her quest to keep Lord's the most successful department store in the world.
That same single-mindedness that had made Lord's a leader in fashion merchandising contributed to another, even more unrelenting obsession.
Eleanor had vowed to find her granddaughter, whatever it took. And although twenty-four years had passed, she had not stopped trying.
Each year, on the anniversary of Anna's disappearance, she'd place an advertisement offering a generous reward for information regarding her granddaughter's abduction in numerous metropolitan and small-town newspapers.
Thus far, once again, the advertisement had yielded nothing.
A less stubborn woman would have given up what everyone kept telling her was a futile search. But tenacity ran deep in Eleanor's veins. Besides, some inner sense told her she'd know if her granddaughter had been killed. Anna was alive. Of that, Eleanor had absolutely no doubt.
"As a businesswoman, you utilize your left brain, your logical side," Clara was saying. Eleanor returned her thoughts to the séance. "Jarlath will help you get in touch with your intuitive side. Once that doorway is open, you will have your answer."
Eleanor admitted to herself that the medium sounded uncomfortably like one of those frauds Mike Wallace was always unmasking on "60 Minutes." But, not wanting to leave any stone unturned, she was willing to try anything. Even this dabbling in the occult, which undoubtedly had all her Presbyterian ancestors spinning in their graves.
"Well," she said bris
kly, "let's get started."
Clara placed an Ouija board between them, took a chunk of quartz from her bag and placed it in the center of the board.
"Rock quartz is allied to the energies of the moon," she said. "I've found it makes a more sensitive channel than the usual pointer. The amethyst shade is exceptionally powerful."
Eleanor nodded and wondered, not for the first time, what had made her agree to this farfetched idea.
"Now," Clara said as she lit a stick of incense, "you must clear your mind. Banish all doubts. All cynicism."
Just get on with it, an impatient voice in Eleanor's cynical mind insisted. She shifted restlessly in her seat.
"I'm sensing negative energy," Clara chided. She began to sway. "Jarlath will not come if he is not welcome. Write your negative thoughts on a mental blackboard. Then erase them."
Immensely grateful that no one she knew was witnessing this outlandish scene, Eleanor took a deep breath and tried again.
"Ahhh." Clara nodded. "That's better. Relax your body, Eleanor. Feel yourself growing serene. Open your mind. Allow your physical and spiritual states to become harmonized and aligned," she intoned. She placed her fingers on the chunk of quartz. "Jarlath. Are you there?"
Eleanor watched as the violet stone slowly slid across the board, stopping on Yes.
"Welcome, Jarlath. This is my dear friend, Eleanor Lord. She needs your help, Jarlath. Desperately. She is trying to locate her granddaughter, Anna."
Although she knew it to be impossible, with the fire blazing nearby, Eleanor thought the air in the room suddenly felt cooler.
She leaned forward. "Ask him if he's seen Anna."
"Patience," Clara counseled. "Jarlath reveals in his own time." Nevertheless, her next words were, "Is Anna with you?"
No.
"I knew it!" Eleanor crowed triumphantly. Clara's guide was saying what she'd always known herself. Anna was alive!
There was a long pause. Then the gleaming rock moved to A. Then N. Then O. It moved slowly at first, then faster and faster until it had spelled out, Another wishes to speak. The flames of the candles suddenly shifted dramatically to the right, as if a wind had caught them. Caught up in the drama of the moment, Eleanor forgot to disbelieve.
"Who is with you?" Clara questioned. "Who wishes to speak with Eleanor Lord?"
This time the amethyst stone raced across the board. Candlelight reflected off its crystalline surface. Dead.
"Dear Lord, perhaps it's James. Or Robbie." Eleanor's voice trembled at the thought of her son. "Or Melanie." Her son's beautiful, tragically unhappy wife. Anna's mother.
No.
Clara frowned across the table as if to remind Eleanor just who was in charge of this séance. "Who, then?"
Silence.
"Place your fingers on the stone with mine," Clara advised. "It will increase the energy flow."
Eleanor did as instructed. Haltingly, the quartz began to move. R. O. Heat seemed to emanate from the amethyst. Eleanor's fingertips grew warm. S.
"Rosa," Eleanor gasped. Anna's nanny.
Confirming her thoughts, the crystal stopped on A. Eleanor felt light-headed. Spots danced in front of her eyes. The fire flared. Though there was no wind outdoors, the glass panes in the windows began to rattle. Then everything went dark.
* * *
"You're overreacting," Eleanor insisted an hour later. She was still in the library. And she was a very long way from being in a good mood. "It was merely a little heart flutter. Nothing more."
Dr. Averill Brandford frowned as he took the seventy-one-year-old woman's pulse. "That's your opinion. I hadn't realized you'd gotten your medical degree."
Having been called here from the yacht harbor where he moored his ketch, Averill was casually clad in a blue polo shirt, white duck slacks and navy Top-Siders. His face was tanned and his hair was sunstreaked from sailing excursions off the coast.
"You always did have a smart mouth, Averill," Eleanor returned. "I remember the summer you boys turned seven and you taught Robbie to curse. Although I'll admit to finding the episode moderately amusing, James did not share my feelings. It was a week before Robbie could sit down."
"It was winter. And we were nine." A tape recorder on a nearby table was playing Indian flute music. He turned it off. "And for the record, it was Robbie who taught me." He went over to the desk. "I'm checking you into the hospital for tests."
"That's ridiculous. I'm fine."
"Let's just make certain, shall we?"
"Do they teach all you doctors to be such sons-of-bitches in medical school?"
"The very first semester. Along with how to pad our medicare bills."
"Smart mouth." Eleanor shook her head in disgust.
Her hair, like her attitude, had steadfastly refused to give in to age. It was as richly auburn as it had been when she was a girl, save for a streak of silver at her temple, which had occurred overnight, after the tragic double murder and kidnapping.
"I think you should listen to Averill, Eleanor," the other man in the room, Zachary Deveraux, counseled with quiet authority.
"This isn't fair. You're ganging up on me."
"Whatever it takes," the tall, dark-haired man returned easily, appearing unfazed by her blistering glare.
Zachary was leaning against a leather wall, arms crossed over his chest, his legs crossed at the ankles. Unlike the doctor's recreational attire, Zach was wearing a conservative dark suit, white shirt and navy tie. His shoes, remarkably staid for even this Republican stronghold, were wing tips.
"As president of The Lord's Group, it's my responsibility to do everything I can to keep the company strong. You're more than a vital asset, Eleanor," he said with a slight French-patois accent that hinted at his Louisiana Cajun roots. "You're the lifeblood of the chain. We need you."
His dark eyes, more black than brown, warmed. His harshly cut masculine lips curved in a coaxing smile. "I need you."
Although she might be in her eighth decade, Eleanor was a long way from dead. Was there a woman with blood still stirring in her veins who could resist that blatantly seductive smile?
Before she could accuse him of pulling out all the stops to win his way, the library door opened and Clara burst into the room. An overpowering scent of orrisroot and clove emanated from the silver pomme d'ambre she wore around her neck.
"Eleanor, dear." Moving with the force of a bulldozer, she practically knocked both men over as she rushed to the side of the sofa. "I've been absolutely frantic ever since your two bodyguards banished me from the room."
She shot a blistering glare first at Averill, then another directly at Zach, who merely stared back. The only sign of his annoyance were his lips, which tightened into a grim line.
Eleanor's slender hand disappeared between the woman's two pink pudgy ones. "I'm fine, Clara. Really," she insisted. "It was merely a flutter. Nothing to be concerned about."
"Of course not," Clara Kowalski agreed heartily. "Don't you worry, dear. I have just the tonic you need in the greenhouse."
She smiled reassuringly. "A little extract of hawthorn, followed by some pipsissewa tea. That will definitely do the trick."
"I believe you've done enough tricks for today, Mrs. Kowalski," Averill said.
Crimson flooded the elderly woman's face, clashing with her lavender turban. "I am not a magician, Doctor. I do not do tricks."
"Oh, no?" Zach countered, scowling at the Ouija board. "Looks like just another fun evening at home with Hecate."
"Zachary," Eleanor murmured her disapproval. "You mustn't talk that way. Clara's my friend. And she's been very helpful. We almost had a breakthrough."
"A breakthrough?" He didn't conceal his scorn concerning Clara Kowalski's alleged psychic powers.
"We nearly made contact with Rosa, Anna's departed nanny." Clara's eyes, nearly hidden by folds of pink fat, dared him to challenge her claim.
"Clara's guide said Rosa was willing to talk to us," Eleanor said.
"Ah, yes, t
he infamous guide," Zach agreed. "What was the guy's name again? Jaws?"
"Jarlath!" Clara snapped.
"That's right." Zach nodded. "Summer sales could be stronger this season. How about asking old Jarlath to see what he can do about bringing more shoppers into the stores?"
"Jarlath does not control things," Clara replied waspishly. "He is a spiritual guide, not a fortune-teller."
"Sounds a helluva lot like voodoo to me." Zach turned back to Eleanor, his exasperation obvious. "Dammit, Eleanor—"
"Don't you see, Zachary," she interrupted earnestly, "Rosa can tell us what happened to Anna."
The two men exchanged weary, resigned looks. Zach raked his hand through his jet hair and cursed softly in the Acadian French, that during his childhood years, had been the only language spoken in his bayou home.
"Eleanor," Averill said softly. Gently. "It's been twenty-four years since Robbie and Melanie were…" He paused, selecting his words carefully. "Since Anna disappeared," he said, instead. "Don't you think it's time you gave it up?"
"I promised Robbie I'd find Anna. Since I never broke a promise to my son while he was alive, I'll be damned if I start with this one."
"I'm only suggesting a few days in the hospital," Averill said. "For tests. And some well-deserved rest. After all, you need to be in tip-top shape to keep up your search. If that's what you insist on doing."
"It is." But Eleanor's determined expression wavered. Her gaze went to the table, where they'd been so close to contacting the nanny.
"It won't hurt to have a checkup before we leave for the Paris shows next month," Zachary pointed out with the unwavering logic she'd always admired.
In so many ways Zach reminded Eleanor of her dear James. Granted, their backgrounds were vastly different. But even discounting her late husband's family wealth, both James Lord and Zachary Deveraux were quintessential self-made men.
Zachary had been her personal discovery. Eleanor had watched his meteoric progress with a certain secret pride. And although he didn't yet know it, she was grooming him to take over the reins of the Lord's chain when she retired.
Upon her death, this man she'd come to think of as a son would receive enough of the family stock to ensure control of The Lord's Group. But included in her will was a provision for Anna to receive the bulk of Eleanor's personal estate.
