by Jan Moran
“Jonathan, my boy.” She stepped back to admire him. “How handsome you look. Have you had tea?”
He grinned at her. “I thought you’d never ask.”
She took his hand and led him into the atrium room.
They passed a crystal vase of luscious yellow roses, which burst from tight salmon buds into golden, creamy yellow blossoms tinged with delicate strokes of subtle peach. Libby waved her hand. “My roses were voted Best of Show this year,” she announced with obvious pride. Their intoxicating aroma filled the atrium and reminded Jon of his visit to Grasse, and of Danielle.
Danielle.
A pang of loneliness tore at him. He remembered visiting her here in this room, with Max.
Jon glanced around. He loved this room, and it hadn’t changed since he was a boy. Dark polished wood floors gleamed in the sunlight, filtered through high atrium windows overhead. Aubusson rugs of rich blues and corals anchored the room, and a pair of yellow and coral chintz sofas flanked a soaring window. The only additions he could ascertain were heavy blackout drapes that hung at every window. When dusk gathered, Jon knew the drapes would be drawn to block light that might attract German bombers.
“So good of you to visit,” Libby said as they sat down. She motioned to Hadley for tea service. “Tell me, how are you? Really?”
“It’s been a tough tour.” Jon blew a breath out. “I fear this war might last longer than we’d originally anticipated.”
“I’m glad we have men like you to defend us.” Her face darkened, and she looked down at her hands, neatly folded in her lap. “My sister wasn’t so lucky. She was killed when Holland was invaded. Carted off like cattle, and murdered.”
He placed his hand gently over Libby’s. “I know, Mother wrote me. I’m awfully sorry. Listen, we don’t have talk about this whole mess if you don’t want.”
Libby nodded. “Of course, you’re not here for long are you?” She brightened a little. “Tell me, how is Abigail? I haven’t heard from her since she left for the States.”
“Busy with her Red Cross work in Los Angeles.” He elaborated on his sister’s activities and their mutual friends. “She wrote that she’s raising funds to start a new charity for war orphans.”
“Good for her, I like the sound of that. Your mother must be proud of her. And happy to see you, I daresay.”
Jon grimaced. “Mother is up to her usual tricks.” He told her about Harriet and Victoria.
“Really?” she exclaimed. “Victoria’s a fine girl, of course, but she is a bit, well, how should I put it?”
“Spirited?”
“That’s right. Forgive me if I’m speaking out of turn, but I simply don’t see the two of you together.”
He shook his head. “She’s very charming, and quite popular. Then there’s the family alliance. We’ve been friends forever, and I like her well enough, but—”
“Nice,” she interrupted, “but hardly reason enough to marry. I imagine the pressure from your family is immense.” She cocked her head. “It’s about love, Jonathan. Never forget that. After all these years, I love my husband more today than the day we met. You must decide if that’s what you want. Or do you want to have children, and then live separate lives with lovers on the side, coming together only for social events and holidays?”
Hadley knocked softly and entered, carrying a silver tea service with an assortment of biscuits and sandwiches. He placed it on the table before them. “Sorry, madam, no sugar.”
“These rations.” Libby sighed. “But it’s a small price for freedom, and much better for my waistline.”
“Shall I serve you now?” Hadley asked.
“No, thank you, Hadley. I’ll serve Jon.”
Hadley turned and left, closing the door behind him.
Libby turned to Jon and took his hands. “You must listen to your heart, my son. With the war underway, many young people feel an urgency to get married.” With her small hand she traced Jon’s scarred knuckles. “Have the courage you show in battle, to make such a decision at home.”
“You’re right, of course, but our families would be delighted.” He grew quiet, thinking of his devotion to his family. Someday he hoped to have a son to follow him in the business his father had built. His conscience gnawed at him. Was there some truth in his mother’s words? Jon glanced at Libby. “In time, Victoria might change for the better.”
Libby regarded him for a moment. She lifted the teapot, poured two cups of tea, and passed one to Jon. “But it wouldn’t be fair of you to marry Victoria if you’re in love with another woman.”
Jon sloshed his tea over the thin china rim. “But, I’m not,” he sputtered. He reached for a napkin.
A smile flitted across Libby’s face. “Aren’t you? As I recall, you were quite enamored with Danielle. Even went to Grasse and helped her give birth. Quite commendable, Jon.”
“But she was a married woman.”
“Not anymore, God rest Max’s soul.”
Jon picked up a cucumber sandwich and wolfed it down.
“It’s Danielle, isn’t it?”
He stopped eating and heaved a great sigh. Was he that transparent? True, Danielle was everything Victoria was not. In Grasse he had felt himself falling in love with her. “I don’t know, the timing is all wrong. And I don’t know if it will ever be right.”
“She’s a fine woman.”
He nodded. “I should be so honored.”
“Have you heard from her recently?”
“We write, but mail is slow to reach me,” Jon said. “The last letter I received she posted from Portugal, just before she left Europe.”
“What a tragic turn of events.” Libby frowned and clicked her tongue. “I received a letter yesterday from her. She’s returned to Los Angeles with her mother and niece and baby, and she’s working in a boutique. Danielle is a woman of immense character. She sounded quite burdened, but determined.”
Jon nodded and pushed his plate away, his hunger suddenly dissipated. “Max was a swell fellow. Like any couple, they had their problems, I suppose, but they were in love. For Danielle to lose him, her son, and most of her family, why, it’s unfathomable. How can someone possibly survive so much loss?” He swept his hand across his face in despair. “How could I possibly understand the depth of her pain? How could I ever help her overcome it?”
Libby sipped her tea thoughtfully. “I remember how devastated I was after I lost my parents in the Great War. At times, I thought I would never recover. Some people didn’t. Survival guilt, it’s called. But life goes on, and I came to be grateful for that which others had lost. Life. How precious it is. And now, my sister....” She shook her head, put her tea down, and faced him. “Life is too short, Jon. Given time, Danielle will overcome her grief. She has an inexorable will to survive. And the war can’t last forever.”
“I hope not. But I’m in England, she’s in America, and she has no idea what I feel for her. I’m not even sure of it myself. Is it love? Or is it just these crazy times?” His expression fell. Though he was a man not easily intimidated, a feeling of helplessness washed over him. “It just seems too complicated. Furthermore, I don’t think I could compete with her husband. The consummate gentleman, he was. Then there are the children. I honestly don’t know if I could do it.”
“Does she have any idea how you feel?”
“I don’t think so.” He hesitated, remembering their embrace, their kiss. Had she thought it was only his desire to comfort her? He had held her in his arms for but a moment, yet he had relived that moment a thousand times as he lay in his bunk at sea. Had she suspected his true feelings? He was careful in his letters to her.
“I see.” Libby nodded sagely. “I’ll grant you, it’s a difficult situation, but I believe you and Danielle are well-suited.” She thought for a moment. “She’ll be busy enough with her poor mother and the two girls. At least Abigail and Cameron are near enough to look after her.”
Jon scowled with disdain. “Right. Cameron.”
>
Libby appeared not to notice. “You should continue to write to her.”
“And what shall I do about Victoria?”
“Be honest with her.”
“Won’t be easy. She can be quite convincing. And you know how insistent Mother can be.”
Libby smiled. “You asked for my opinion. But it’s up to you to decide. You must stand up to the opposing forces, if that’s what you really want.”
“I’ll do my best.” He rose, kissed her cheek and promised he’d write, then took his leave, feeling substantially better than when he’d arrived.
He paused on the front step, thinking. Still, the continuation of their family line depended on him, and it weighed heavily on his conscience. Even Libby didn’t know about Abigail’s physical impairment.
Then, knowing what awaited him at home, he turned away from his home and headed to his club in the city.
18
Clara breezed into her office. She was a startling vision in a shocking pink suit, her platinum hair swinging about her shoulders. With a deft motion she tugged off her kid gloves and tossed them onto her inlaid marquetry desk. “What’s this?” she blurted, waving at the perfume bottles that sat next to her speech outline.
Danielle heard the annoyance in Clara’s voice and sensed she’d picked the wrong time to show Clara her creations. “It’s my new perfume,” she began quickly, springing from a chair. “I call it Chimère, which means—”
“Well, it’s lovely, I’m sure, but I don’t have time to look at anything today. The fashion show starts in less than an hour, and we have more than a hundred ladies and members of the press arriving. Even Lou Silverman, head of Silverman Studios, is coming to personally scout designs for the new Erica Evans film.”
“Exactly. That’s why I thought today would be a perfect time to introduce it. All your best customers will be here.” Danielle had stayed up all night preparing for this opportunity, filling crystal bottles and sewing golden brocade pouches by a dim light as her family slept.
“Danielle, we’ve discussed this. I told you I don’t sell perfume here at Clara’s. This is not open for discussion, especially today.”
“But Clara—”
Clara raised a finely arched brow. “I’m running very late, Danielle.” She kicked off her flat shoes. “Now where did I put my platform pumps? And where is Esmeralda?”
“But why not?”
Clara turned to rummage through an armoire behind her desk. “Why not what?”
Danielle paced the length of the office, her face burning. She needed this opportunity. “But why won’t you sell perfume here?”
Clara emerged from the armoire with the missing platform shoes and a pink and violet scarf. “Esmeralda,” she shrieked. “I need you!”
Danielle frowned. Today is the perfect opportunity. “I can set up in the foyer and demonstrate after the show,” she persisted.
Clara scowled at her. “Danielle, I’ve got my hands full here. I need to know if my models are ready, if the champagne is on ice, if the valet attendants and photographers are here. I haven’t time to discuss your perfume. Esmeralda!”
“Everything is ready, Clara, relax. Here, won’t you at least try it?” Danielle picked up a crystal bottle and spritzed the air with its gold-tasseled bulb atomizer.
Clara put her hands on her hips, her silver bracelets clinking sharply. “We might love perfume, Danielle, but American woman don’t understand it yet, they don’t pamper themselves the way French women do. They won’t buy it, they wait for their husbands or lovers to buy it for them. I tried it once; it didn’t sell. This isn’t Paris.”
Esmeralda appeared at the door. “You called?”
“Where in the world were you?” Clara huffed. “Oh, never mind, fix this hem. I stepped on it when I put my skirt on this morning.”
Danielle pressed on. “But if you can make a good profit—”
“Your perfume is not a known brand. Drop it, dear. I have work to do. And so do you,” she added with a piercing glare.
Disappointed, Danielle gathered her perfumes and withdrew from Clara’s office. Today is the day, I just know it. But how can I convince Clara? She chewed her lip, thought about fellow perfumer François Coty and his creative marketing decades ago. As she made her way down the sweeping staircase, her eyes fell on the marble foyer floor, and suddenly, she had a wild idea.
She thought of the red leather traveling case that Max had knocked from the dresser in their stateroom, before everything went down with the ship. How the fragrance had filled the air! Her lips curved in a mischievous smile.
While the other sales clerks busied themselves with the fashion show, Danielle commandeered a round display table by the front door in the foyer and quickly arranged her crystal bottles and brocade pouches.
She stepped back to admire her work, then glanced outside. Through the beveled glass door she could see Cameron Murphy and Abigail Newell-Grey, and behind them, a woman in a wide-brimmed, extravagant hat, whom Danielle recognized as Hedda Hopper, the Hollywood gossip columnist.
Perfect! She smoothed her simple black sheath, straightened her shoulders, and drew a nervous breath. She glanced around to make sure no one was watching her, then picked up one of her crystal perfume bottles and smashed it onto the marble floor behind her.
In an instant, the scent of Chimère exploded, bathing the boutique with its intoxicating aroma.
Cameron opened the door for Abigail and Hedda Hopper. When he caught sight of Danielle, his dark eyes sparkled. “Why, it’s the beautiful Danielle. It’s been a long time since London,” he added. His deep voice was rich and silky, and seemed to imply much more than Danielle recalled. But that’s what had made Cameron an international singing sensation, Danielle reminded herself. That voice, and his charm. She smiled. When he had heard of Max’s death, he had been so kind to write to her and offer his assistance.
Abigail greeted Danielle with a kiss on the cheek. “Danielle, darling, you look lovely.” She shot a reprimanding look at Cameron. “Don’t mind him, he’s in rare form today. I’d like you to meet Hedda Hopper. May I present Danielle von Hoffman.”
“Danielle Bretancourt, please, my family name.” Danielle took Hedda’s proffered hand. In the present political climate, she had decided to use her family name. “I’m pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise,” replied Hedda. She sniffed the air and her face lit with pleasure. “What is that marvelous aroma?”
Danielle could hardly contain herself. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry, I knocked over a bottle of perfume. I really must see to it. Please excuse me, and watch your step here.”
Hedda held onto her hand. “But, what is it? I can’t quite place it.”
“No?” Danielle smiled. “Well, I suppose not. After all, it is exclusive to Clara’s.”
“Really?” Hedda still held her hand. “Well, what is it?”
Danielle could see Abigail standing behind Hedda, a smile playing on her lips. “It’s called Chimère, madame.”
“Chimère? You say it so beautifully.” Hedda finally released her hand. “You’re French, aren’t you?”
“Mais oui.” Danielle picked up a bottle and sprayed a veil of scent across Hedda’s eagerly offered wrist.
Abigail leaned over to whisper in Hedda’s ear. “I happen to know it’s one of Lana Turner’s favorites.”
Hedda’s face flushed. “Really?”
“Really,” Cameron said. “Ginger Rogers, too,” he added with a wink. He stooped to pick up a shard of crystal. Danielle reached out to take it from him, and as she did, he caught her wrist with his other hand. He gazed deeply into her eyes as he spoke, his smoky voice mellowing every word. “You know, it’s a fragrance to make love by.”
Hedda waved her wrist under her nose. “A fragrance to make love by,” she intoned, her eyes fluttering. “Oh yes, it is. And how would you know, Cameron?”
Cameron pulled Danielle close, encircling her with one arm. “I know the creator, Hedda. And
I think I know exactly what this woman is capable of.”
Danielle gave him a coy smile. “Do you now?” she said, gracefully extricating herself.
Hedda shot Abigail a knowing look. “I suppose there’s no better judge of aphrodisiacs than Cameron Murphy. Or so I’ve heard.” She gave Cameron a long, appraising look, then turned back to Danielle, and patted her arm. “I’ll take a bottle of this, and I want to talk to you after the show. I want to know all about you, my dear.” Then she waved to a distinguished man in a fine Savile Row suit entering the store. “Why, there’s Louis Silverman. Lou, darling.” She sailed away, leaving a fragrant wake behind her.
Danielle breathed a sigh of relief and Abigail nudged her in the ribs. “I suppose this concoction is yours, Danielle?”
“That’s right.”
“I thought so. It’s really lovely.” Abigail gave Cameron a playful punch in the arm. “And you! What a line: A fragrance to make love by. I can already see it in Hedda’s column tomorrow.”
Cameron shrugged. “Why not? That’s how the game is played, Abby.”
“And what game are you playing, Cam?”
“Game?” He glanced at Danielle. “No games. Just dinner. How about it, Danielle? I’m free tonight.”
“Well, I’m not, not if Hedda Hopper is going to write about my perfume.” Her head was spinning, and it wasn’t from Cameron Murphy’s advances. Danielle was already making a list in her mind of things to do. I’ve got to buy more bottles, sew more pouches, tend to the children and my mother, shop for groceries, make dinner, wash clothes.... She sighed. Her list was endless. And she was already exhausted from her lack of sleep the night before. Still, she smiled to herself with a sudden surge of satisfaction as she thought of Hedda and Cameron, and their response.
After they moved on, Danielle cleaned up the broken crystal, but the magical aroma lingered in the air, drawing people to her table.
