by Jan Moran
Measuring out drops from several vials, she blended another variation, leaning heavily on her keen intuition. Inhaling, she let her mind wander, visualizing the aromatic impression. An ethereal freshness with subtle spiciness, like the voluptuous scent of orange blossoms on a sunny spring morning. The hair on her arms bristled with anticipation.
She inhaled again, going farther, detecting the bouquet of jasmine and rose, rich and silky, entwined with a spicy note of carnation, adding verve and vitality, robust brilliance. It needs a splash of complexity here, a sprig of basil there, an accent of clove. Images of lovers danced in her mind, a soaring sonata thrilled in her soul.
Another breath and her mind delved deeper into the essence, regaling her from the depths of her spirit. The mystery of amber to balance the soul; the smoothness of sandalwood like the richest of silk; vanilla blended, sweetened, like a lover’s midnight embrace. An ache grew within the core of her being. And in her mind’s eye, veiled visions of a moonlit night, a couple dancing barefoot on the beach, swirling silks of scarlet and gold, the touch of skin, the whisper of breath warm on the neck, so real to her that she trailed her fingers along the nape of her own neck. Seductive, sensual, the essence of amour.
And yet, something was missing.
The deepest satisfaction of the soul, the complete connection to the spirit, the psyche. Almost, but not quite.
Danielle opened her eyes. Needs a little more work, she told herself, and made a note in her journal.
She put her pencil down and stretched, she’d been sitting for four hours. Philippe opened the door and walked in. She smiled and held out a bottle. “Would you like to try what I have for Chimère so far?”
He closed his eyes and inhaled, then opened them. “Excellent progress, with a unique, clear motif. Entirely new, radically different from anything else on the market today. So, why do you call it Chimère?”
“It’s a lovely word, don’t you think?” A mischievous grin tugged at her mouth and she took the sample back. “It’s full of imagery; it’s my fanciful folly, that’s what Max thinks of my work. But this will be a grand perfume, once it’s complete. It is my future,” she added with sudden resolve. “Of that I am certain.”
Philippe crinkled his brow. “Doesn’t Max admire your work?”
“I thought so when we first met. Only now, he’d rather I tend to our children.” She bit her lip at the sudden thought of Nicky. Why haven’t I heard anything from Max? She shook her head.
“Still, you must not deny your art.” Philippe stroked his grey-stubbled chin. “Why can’t you do both? Marie always has.”
“I’ve decided that I will again someday.” Danielle put the vial away. “But Max is sensitive and prideful. He wants to be the one to provide for our family. I understand, and I respect that about him.” After mentioning his name, she grew quiet.
“You haven’t heard from him?”
Her throat tightened. “No.”
“I see.” Philippe shook his head. “You may have your differences, Danielle, but Max is an honorable man.” His voice sounded thick. “And brave. To go back into occupied Poland, well, you know how dangerous it is. Many men would not have done what he is doing.”
“I know, but I have a terrible feeling, Philippe. What if he can’t find our family?”
“He will do his best.”
Danielle grew cold inside; she quickly squashed the sudden fear that flared within her. “But what if he is discovered? What if he pushes too far, too hard?”
6
Despite the unrest in Europe, Parisians flocked to the venerable Hôtel Ritz on New Year’s Eve to celebrate the birth of a new year: 1940.
Upstairs, Marie tidied their airy suite and awaited the arrival of her son, Jean-Claude, and his wife, Hélène, along with their daughter. Marie had a special evening planned for her first grandchild. She arranged a silver tray of petit-fours and canapés from room service on the inlaid table in the richly brocaded salon.
“Oh, Edouard.” Marie called to her husband, conscious of making her musical voice lively. “They’ll soon be here.”
From the bedroom, he merely grunted in reply.
Exasperation swiftly darkened her mood like a rain cloud. The argument between Edouard and Jean-Claude last week on Christmas day still rang in her ears. She hoped they wouldn’t have a repeat performance today.
In recent months, her son had grown flagrantly antagonistic toward his father, blaming him in part for Hitler’s advancement. Marie paused, her hand over a crystal figurine. Could Jean-Claude be right in his assessment? The thought sickened her.
Edouard was a partner in one of the foremost banks in Paris. For years the bank had lent money to European businesses, many of which were based in Germany. As it turned out, some were involved in munitions manufacturing, and an ugly scandal ensued.
The bank also lent funds to governments for infrastructure development. Just before Christmas the press revealed that Hitler’s regime—one of the bank’s clients—had used the money for aggressive military expansion.
Infuriated, Jean-Claude had unleashed an angry tirade against his father during Marie’s carefully planned Christmas dinner.
Edouard roared his defense. “As commercial bankers, it is not our place to dictate politics.”
“The Nazi party and its members are prospering,” Jean-Claude argued, “and at the expense of everyone else, especially the Jews, a category which includes your own wife, if you recall, as well as your children, even if we were baptized.”
“A man does not have to justify his business to his family. You’ve profited, too. How else could you afford to complete your medical studies, with a wife and child?”
“I could manage,” Jean-Claude sneered.
Edouard snorted, then went on to cite a welcome flourish in business after years of economic depression. “This prosperity benefits all Europeans. Besides, what could I do? I’m outnumbered on the board.”
“Then you must stand alone for what is right.”
“You’re an idealistic idiot. I refuse to continue this discussion.”
Heartsick over their argument, Marie tried to mediate, but to no avail.
Now, she feared another quarrel, and another ruined holiday.
At Christmas, Marie had surprised Hélène and Jean-Claude with a special treat for New Year’s Eve. “Edouard and I have seen in many new years. Why don’t we keep Liliana while the two of you ring in the New Year with dinner, dancing, and a beautiful suite here at the Hôtel Ritz?”
“How wonderful,” Hélène responded in delight. “Jean-Claude’s schedule has been terribly oppressive. Seven nights a week he’s studying, or at the laboratory, or visiting patients, or something...until long after midnight. Thankfully, only one more year until graduation.”
Marie hoped her son’s marriage could stand the strain of his commitment to medicine. But why was he out every night of the week? Marie pressed her fingers to her lips. She hoped Jean-Claude hadn’t succumbed to the thralls of another woman. She adored Hélène.
She moved several crystal figurines and perfume bottles Danielle had given her to a higher shelf on an étagère beyond Liliana’s reach, and as she did, she thought of Danielle.
On her recent trip to Grasse, Marie had been amazed at the work Danielle had accomplished. Though she missed her daughter, she knew work kept Danielle’s worries at bay.
Her heart swelled with pride for Danielle. When she had visited her home in Poland last spring, she admired how well Danielle made the transition to motherhood and married life. She knew it hadn’t been easy for her. Max was a forceful husband set in his ways. Marie lifted a brow. How well she understood.
She had marveled at Danielle’s domestic handiwork: her lavender-scented linens and bath oils; the flower garden from which Danielle made fragrant potpourri; and her fine crocheted coverlets. Danielle even sewed her own clothes, designed in the latest Parisienne fashions. Of course, Marie had taught her most of these things, but not every you
ng girl listened to her mother.
Marie sighed and plumped a pillow on the sofa. Danielle’s plight saddened her. Her poor grandson. Now, more than ever, Edouard berated Danielle for her choice in a husband. Still, Marie supported her children’s choice of mates. Marie liked Max; she thought him stable and persevering, if a bit stubborn. But at least he had high standards. Of course, Edouard had never liked him, he thought Max far too old for Danielle, but Marie disagreed.
She plucked a petit four from the tray, nibbling the dainty treat, then glanced at a photo of her son and his wife on the table. She thought Hélène an excellent match for Jean-Claude. A pretty, well-mannered blond, Hélène proved a marvelous homemaker and wife to her son, and mother to Liliana. And Marie genuinely liked Hélène, even if she was a little naïve. In time, she’d learn. Perhaps this holiday would bring a spark back into their marriage. Marie licked dark chocolate from her fingers. After all, she wouldn’t mind another grandchild.
There, she thought, happily surveying the room. All is ready. New Year’s Eve will be perfect, as long as the men behave themselves.
In the lobby downstairs, Christmas decorations of golden swags and brilliant red poinsettias adorned the foyer with fairy tale festivity. Strains of orchestral holiday music beckoned from the ballroom. Jean-Claude and Hélène crossed to the elevator with four-year-old Liliana dancing between them.
Liliana wore her red velvet holiday dress, while her mother wore a long, creamy satin dress that accentuated her blond hair. Liliana gazed up at her mother. “You look like a princess in my story book.”
Hélène smiled down at her daughter.
Handsome men in French military uniforms were at every turn, and on their arms were perfumed ladies in cascading evening dresses. The elegant women swished past them, with their lush furs and sparkling jewels and gay laughter.
“Come along, Liliana.” Hélène gently reprimanded her daughter, who stared saucer-eyed, her wide green eyes fixed on a grand lady. Hélène herded her daughter into the elevator and they began their ascent.
The elevator attendant opened the ornate bronze doors.
“This way, my little princess.” Jean-Claude exited, then hoisted his daughter to his broad shoulders.
Liliana screamed with glee. “But Papa, Maman’s the princess tonight.”
“No, my love, Maman is the queen, and you’re my little princess.” Jean-Claude kissed Hélène on the cheek.
When he knocked on the door to his parents’ suite, Marie opened it. They hugged and exchanged kisses on both cheeks.
“Marie, you look marvelous,” Hélène said. “You certainly don’t look like a grandmother.”
“But I am, and I love it. How are you, my little one?” Marie took Liliana from her son, laughing and cooing over the child who so favored her aunt Danielle. “We’re going to have such fun this evening.”
“May I play with your perfumes?”
Marie knew that Liliana loved the family business. “But of course.” She turned to Jean-Claude. “I hope you and Hélène have a marvelous time tonight. You deserve a relaxing evening.” She noted the fatigue that clouded her son’s dark eyes like a dull haze. “Won’t you come in for a moment? Perhaps you’d like a canapé. And you can say a friendly hello to your father.”
Jean-Claude threw a glance at Hélène. “No, we haven’t time, Maman.”
Hélène shot him a reprimanding look.
“Maybe when we pick up Liliana tomorrow,” he muttered.
Just then, Edouard’s voice boomed from the next room. “Jean-Claude, is that you and Hélène?”
Hélène quickly answered, “Yes, Papa Edouard, we’re here with your granddaughter.”
Marie pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows in warning to her son. “Be nice to him,” she whispered.
Edouard entered the room, his frame filling the doorway. Tall and commanding, he moved with the assurance of a general. He hugged Hélène and Liliana, then turned to his son. “Jean-Claude.” He reached for his son’s hand and leaned toward him to kiss him on the cheeks.
Jean-Claude shoved his hands in his pockets and acknowledged him with a curt nod. “Papa.” He held his head high, his contempt evident.
Hélène hissed in his ear, “For your mother’s sake, be civil.”
“No, not for my benefit. For your father’s.”
Sullen-faced, Jean-Claude jutted out his chin, but made no reply.
Marie rolled her eyes and disappointment settled heavily on her shoulders. There goes a lovely evening.
“I’ve heard you’ve been busy, son,” Edouard said evenly. “I’d like to speak with you.” He turned to Marie and Hélène. “Will you excuse us for a moment?”
Hélène took Liliana into the bedroom and Marie followed, but left the door cracked open. She wanted to hear what Edouard had to say.
Edouard cleared his throat. “Jean-Claude, I’ve heard that some of your friends are underground activists, supplying false papers and passports to Jews and ‘undesirables’ in Germany and her new territories, smuggling out citizens, undermining the reigning government. Is this true?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
A chill ran down Marie’s spine like a serpent’s tongue, while Hélène looked terror stricken. Marie touched her hand.
“Jean-Claude, why would you become so entangled, what with your family responsibilities and a bright future before you? These are dangerous, irresponsible activities.”
Jean-Claude’s voice rose in resentment. “My responsibility is to humanity, Papa, and I am not alone in my beliefs. You, too, could make a difference. You could use your position and power at the bank to benefit mankind. Call the loans, turn off the financial spigot.”
“No, I will not,” Edouard replied firmly. “It is not the way we conduct business.”
“But Papa, if men like you were to take a stand, we could halt the progression of Hitler’s war.”
Marie strained to listen, motioning to Liliana with one finger to be quiet. A long silence ensued. Edouard had survived childhood poverty, the Great War, and near financial ruin during the depression. She knew he would not endanger his family’s financial stability. But concern gripped her chest. After listening to Jean-Claude, she began to wonder about her husband’s business activities.
Something slammed, startling Marie. Probably Jean-Claude’s fist on the desk, she surmised.
“Then think of your family, Papa. For God’s sake, look what’s happening to Danielle.”
“She should never have left France,” Edouard stormed. “I never approved of her marriage to Maximillian von Hoffman. But this I can promise, Jews in France will never be harmed.”
“If you believe that,” Jean-Claude roared, “you’re delusional! Paris is the prize that Nazis covet above all others.”
Marie flung open the door, incensed. “Keep your voices down. You’re scaring Liliana.”
“It’s all right, Maman. I have nothing left to say to him.” Jean-Claude pivoted hard on his heel and called to his wife. “Hélène, let’s go. We’re late for dinner.”
Hélène emerged, murmured her apologies to Marie and Edouard, kissed Liliana, and followed her husband out the door.
Marie folded her arms. “Well, I’m glad the two of you tried to make up.”
Edouard huffed from the room.
Marie held Liliana and the little girl clung to her, her sweet face saddened by the angry exchange between her father and grandfather. “They mean no harm,” Marie whispered, rocking her granddaughter. And that, she knew, was the tragedy of it all.
7
Danielle glanced outside the laboratory window. Beyond the bougainvillea’s ruby flush, she could see the season’s first wisteria, which had bloomed early this year, and was laden with violet-hued blossoms. Like the wisteria, she had also grown heavy with the springtime promise of new life. According to her calculations, the baby was due in four weeks.
The farm was in full operation and Philippe rose early eve
ry morning to oversee work. Danielle had accompanied her uncle until her seventh month, intent on learning every aspect of the business. By keeping busy, she had something other than her omnipresent thoughts of Max and Nicky and Sofia—and sometimes, even Jon—on her mind. But now, she preferred to spend her time in the lab.
Her work on her own new perfume had progressed well. On this sunny morning, with birds chirping outside the open window, she was particularly excited. She sat at her perfumer’s workbench and scribbled furiously in her journal, checking numbers. Waving a strip of blotter paper under her nose, she reveled in its magical aroma, hardly daring to believe she’d done it.
She’d finally found it—an incredible, intoxicating blend of rose, tuberose, and jasmine, sandalwood and an amber blend. She inhaled, shivers dancing down her back. The romantic scent conjured feelings of deep joy and remembrance, and a physical sensation that was alarmingly akin to orgasmic pleasure.
The final connection had come to her in a dream, the melding of sandalwood and patchouli with amber notes of vanillin and labdanum absolute in a manner that was nothing short of exquisite. The essence spoke to her soul and grounded her in a spiritual acceptance of all that was graceful and loving and pure.
Her masterpiece, Chimère, was complete.
And it was just as she’d imagined it to be. Once again, her intuitive knowledge had guided her.
Danielle had gone on to create several perfumes, each of which shared similar notes with Chimère. In her heart, she knew they were all destined for success, and would be loved by many perfume aficionados.
“I’ve deconstructed the formula,” she explained excitedly to Philippe when he checked on her. “By changing just a few ingredients, I’ve developed seasonal variations on the main theme, rearranging the formula like a cubist painting. This one reminds me of Christmas, while this one is as light as spring. And here, what do you think of this one?”
“Autumn, of course. Oui, you’ve progressed remarkably well,” he responded, then left Danielle to work.
Danielle put her pen down, rubbed her eyes, and stretched. As she did, her baby turned and kicked. She smiled and traced a circle on her stomach. Won’t Max be thrilled with the new baby? But her smile faded as doubt crept into her mind. She hadn’t heard from Max lately. Not a single letter from him. Jon wrote to reassure her when he had news of Max, but his letters had become infrequent. Jean-Claude had assured her that she had nothing to worry about, that Nicky and Sofia would soon be joining her. How she hoped it was true.
