by Jan Moran
If Danielle would not come to England, he could go to her. Letting his mind wander, he thought, we could marry, and I could set her up in a home in the safety of Los Angeles, take care of her. She’ll be there waiting for me when this war is over. I could work from our Long Beach offices.
He shook his head sharply. These are the rambling thoughts of a lonely man. This is what I tell the young men under my command.
His thoughts turned to those men, his friends, poor chaps who’d died leaving behind widows and babies, or family estates without heirs. He thought of those left behind, how they grieved and struggled.
And what if he didn’t make it through? Should he be so quick to turn Danielle into a widow again? Hadn’t she suffered enough? He wanted to comfort her, not cause her more grief. In her letters she wrote that her business was successful, and assured him that she and her family were very comfortable. Should he rock their boat? Of course not, he decided. The war couldn’t last forever, and when it was over, he would go to her.
A sudden spray slapped across his face, jolting him. Wiping water from his face, he tasted salt on his lips. His father’s words came to mind. We Newell-Greys have salt water in our veins. Jon knew that right now, his duty was to his country. His commitment to Crown and country and the cause for which they fought took precedence over all else in his life. The future would be sorted out in time.
But even now, he had a feeling about how his future would play out. His mother had written about a surprise planned for his next leave, whenever that might be, and he suspected that his mother and Victoria were still planning their marriage, even babies. He spat into the sea, expelling the taste of salt from his mouth. Again, it seemed his life was all about damned duty, and sometimes he hated everything and everyone for it.
Except Danielle.
Jon spun on his heel and strode inside. He still had a letter to write before turning in.
22
The months slipped from the calendar as winter gave way to spring and Danielle felt renewed invigoration for the business and life she was creating for her family.
She bathed quickly this morning, preparing for a very important day. Today she was scheduled to launch her line at the fashionable Bullock’s Wilshire department store. At last, she thought, I’ve worked so hard to get to this point. This is my big opportunity.
Though she had every confidence in her creations, Danielle was still most comfortable behind the scenes, crafting her perfumes and accessories and organizing the business. She loved working with people, but selling into a new store with new faces made her nervous. Marie had always handled that.
In preparation for this huge step, Danielle had kept a rigorous schedule. In fact, her only social outlet was correspondence she exchanged with Jon. He encouraged her efforts, and she liked to think she helped raise his battle-fatigued spirits. England was still under attack, but holding her own.
Danielle swept her hair into a chic roll, then pulled on her dependable black sheath dress. She had worn it so much the neckline had frayed. Frowning, she arranged a beautifully embroidered scarlet silk scarf, one of her own design prototypes, to mask the tattered edge.
She gazed idly at her reflection in the mirror, but her thoughts were consumed with business. At last, her tenacity had proved rewarding. Thanks to Clara, my first holiday season was successful. Money is still scarce, but someday, somehow, I will provide everything my family needs. And today is just the beginning.
She kissed her sleeping family good-bye. A half hour later, she stepped from the bus. Shielding her eyes from the spring sun, she gazed up at the grand Bullock’s Wilshire store.
Calming her jittery nerves, she swept inside, then rode the elevator to the executive offices. Her morning was jammed with meetings with the buyer, publicist, marketing director, and store manager. Rarely did a store of such stature place such a large opening order with a newcomer. However, the buyer made the terms quite clear: If the Bretancourt line didn’t sell, it would be returned to her. Danielle knew her success lay in training and motivating the sales clerks. Today was her moment of truth.
“We wish you luck,” the store manager said.
“Thank you, I’ll do my best,” Danielle replied. I cannot fail, she told herself. She walked to the elevator and pushed the call button. While waiting, she flipped open her burgeoning appointment book. Where did the days go? A lack of time was the bane of her existence. Danielle sighed, watching the movement of the shiny brass dial as the elevator ticked past each floor.
As she waited, her thoughts shifted from business to family matters. Jasmin had taken her first tentative steps, and Liliana was excited to begin school. Even Marie’s regressions occurred less often, though she was still a shadow of the sophisticated, self-assured woman she had been in Paris.
The elevator arrived, the doors slid open, and Danielle stepped into the empty elevator. She breathed a silent prayer as she rode the elevator down to the first floor cosmetic department. Nervously, she smoothed her hair, securing wayward tendrils.
The elevator slowed its descent and came to a halt. She stepped out, pausing to admire the soaring Art Deco architecture overhead, the finely detailed murals, the sparkling chandeliers. A tuxedoed pianist played at a black grand piano near the entrance, filling the air with a Vivaldi melody. Bullock’s Wilshire was one of the finest stores in California. She swallowed her fears and arranged a smile on her face.
I am ready.
She crossed the floor to her appointed counter, where her product line was already displayed against an artfully draped backdrop of scarlet satin. It’s breathtaking, she thought, immensely pleased. Chimère, by Danielle Bretancourt. The display was arranged exactly as she had instructed the in-house designer.
The cosmetic sales clerks greeted her laconically, with a mixture of apathy and boredom, then returned to their gossip, spurning her efforts to engage them. A difficult group, she sighed, her hopes sinking. Then she remembered what Jon had once said to her: Where’s your famous French courage? She thought about the challenges he faced every day. Just thinking about him gave her confidence. She set her jaw, stepped up to the perfume counter, and introduced herself to the floor manager.
Several customers passed but ignored her. A well-dressed woman in a navy hat and fitted suit approached the counter.
“Bonjour, madame. Would you like to try a new French perfume today?”
The woman hesitated, sniffing the perfume, then admired the crystal flacons and satin brocade pouches. She glanced at Danielle, then back to the name on the display. Suddenly, her face illuminated with recognition. “Are you Danielle Bretancourt?”
“Oui, madame.”
“I’ve heard of you,” she exclaimed, breaking into a wide smile. “I’ve read all about you in Hedda Hopper’s column.”
Danielle suppressed a laugh, recalling the scene at Clara’s boutique. “Hedda Hopper adores my perfume, too.” Clara had been right about the press. She must remember to thank Cameron, too. “Louella Parsons also wears it,” she added with a conspiratorial smile.
At the mention of the two Hollywood gossip queens, the sales clerks shifted their attention to Danielle.
The woman said, “I’ve heard all the movie stars wear it!”
“Oui, madame,” Danielle said coyly. “Many do.” She sprayed the perfume in the air, creating a theatre of scent for the woman to experience as they spoke.
“May I try your perfume?”
“Of course. I call it Chimère.” Danielle’s heart leapt, her mind raced. She remembered how Marie used to demonstrate the art of wearing perfume. “But first, allow me to help you discover the true heart of the perfume, madame.”
Danielle spritzed the fragrance on the back of the woman’s hand with a flourish, then placed her own hand over the spot, drawing strength from the connection. “You see, the warmth of my hand brings out the true nature of the perfume as it develops on your skin. This is why perfume seems different on each person. As it blends with your skin,
it becomes unique to you.”
“How fascinating,” the woman said, her face warming with a smile. She leaned in toward Danielle and said, “Tell me more.”
Danielle’s nervousness abated, and she pressed on, excited at the prospect. This is my moment, she thought, her heart pounding. She noticed the sales clerks were listening in rapt attention, too. “You see, a fine perfume usually passes through three phases, just as a symphony soars and glides through various movements. Yet, the phases are similar, like variations on a theme.”
Danielle continued to hold the woman’s hand, warming the perfume. “The initial phase, or opening accord, is evident on the first whiff from the flacon. It’s designed to be enticing and engaging. In French, this is the note de tête, the head note.”
“The floral heart,” she went on, “or the note de cœur, develops within a few minutes, followed by the base accord, the note de fond. In this finale are found rich, long lasting essential oils, including sandalwood, patchouli, and vanilla, which give the perfume staying power. These are superb fixatives. Naturally, the finer the oils, the longer perfume lasts on the skin, especially in perfume, or parfum, the richest, most concentrated version of fragrance.” She removed her hand with a graceful flourish. “Try it, madame.”
“Why, you’re right, it’s lovely.”
Danielle smiled at her.
Over the woman’s shoulder, Danielle could see the sales clerks hovering with interest. One spoke up, her tone edged with sarcasm. “It sounds like perfume is related to music, what with all those notes and chords you’re talking about. Are you sure you’re in the right department?” A titter of laughter erupted.
Danielle swung around to the gathering crowd. At last I have their attention, she thought, now I can teach them, help them learn. She smiled at the group of ladies. “How perceptive of you. Years ago in France, in attempt to bring order to the perfumer’s art, a master perfumer created a system whereby every essence was assigned a note, based on a tonal scale of six and one half octaves. So yes, music and perfume are related,” she finished, giving a dazzling smile.
Another woman spoke out. “How do you know all of this?”
“My family has been creating perfumes for generations in France.”
A wave of murmured approvals swept across the crowd.
“Then you must know what you’re talking about,” another sales woman said. Others nodded in agreement.
The woman in the navy hat opened her purse. “Chimère is utterly magical. I simply must have it.”
Excitement spiked the air, sending shivers down Danielle’s spine. She breathed a brief sigh of relief, then swung into action.
“Merveilleux,” Danielle declared, acting swiftly. “But for the most exquisite, surreal experience, you must use our perfumed soap and skin softening bath oil for your toilette, then dust your skin with our silky talc, and finish with our parfum, et voilà. A cloud of fragrance, layers of sensual scent, will surround you. It will last all day and into the evening. But never, never will it be overpowering. Mais non, it will be subtle, in the French tradition. Très chic. Your husband will adore you.”
The woman inhaled again, her eyelids fluttering. “I’ll take it all. One of everything. Put it on my house account.”
Danielle wrapped her purchase while a clerk prepared her bill. “Merci madame, I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”
After the woman left, Danielle turned to the sales clerks. “You see, that’s all there is to it,” she said earnestly. “Show your customers how perfume can touch their deepest desires. Be of service, teach them how to experience and enjoy the artistry of perfume. Share the magic, the art of living well with them.”
“But we can’t present it like you do.”
“Each one of you has your own distinct style. Trust your instinct and your customers will trust your judgment.” She smiled warmly at them. “I’ll teach you the technique I demonstrated. Most of all, pamper your customers.” She paused, searching for words of encouragement. “I believe in you, in your ability to make this a top selling perfume. I know you are the best in the business, because you are here at Bullock’s Wilshire. Here,” she added, giving each of them a brochure. “This is my family story, of how the House of Bretancourt came to be. I wore an early version of Chimère on my wedding day, it was my husband’s favorite perfume.”
Whispers fluttered through the crowd. “Was he really a German aristocrat?”
Danielle’s throat tightened at the thought of Max. “Yes, he was, God rest his soul. But like you, I’m an American now.” And as the words left her lips, she realized for the first time that she truly felt like an American in her heart. It was a place to begin life anew, to prove her worth, to build her future. And I will.
The sales clerks smiled their approval. Relief flooded Danielle. With their help, the line would be a success.
She spent the rest of the day getting to know every sales clerk and assisting sales efforts, thrilled with their new-found enthusiasm. As closing time drew near, she prepared to leave. After a quick mental calculation, she exhaled a breath of relief. She had barely exceeded her goal for the day. Just then, she heard a familiar male voice behind her, deep and mellow.
“So this is where you’ve disappeared to.”
Danielle whirled around.
“No phone number, no address, nothing but a postal box number. Who’re you hiding from, lass?” The handsome, dark-haired man lowered his sunglasses, and a wide grin spread across his face. Cameron Murphy looked every inch the glamorous star. He wore an evening suit that complemented his broad Adonis-like physique, complete with a sky blue silk ascot and diamond pinkie ring. Wavy black hair flowed from tanned temples, and his sparkling eyes were teasing.
“Cameron, of all people, what are you doing here?” Suddenly self conscious, she smoothed her hair and stood straighter.
“Had a few things to pick up before I went out this evening. Are you working here?”
“I launched my perfume line here today.”
“Why, congratulations! Did you have a good day?”
Danielle grinned. “Thanks to you and Hedda Hopper.” The gossip columnist had created quite the little story about her and Cameron. Untrue, of course, but people read the column, and publicity helped sales.
Cameron sniffed the air, glanced at the shimmering crystal bottles arranged on the counter. “Tell you what, I’ll take ten of your largest perfumes. It’s fine smelling stuff, sure and it ‘tis. Real quality.”
She laughed. “Really Cameron, ten bottles?”
“You think I don’t know ten beautiful ladies? Okay, here goes.” He ticked off his fingers as he spoke. “My secretary, mother, sister, sister, sister, sister, hair dresser, a couple of waitresses, my housekeeper, and Silverman’s secretary Gladys, oops, I’m out of fingers, that’s eleven. Give me a couple extra, say thirteen, a baker’s dozen.”
“You’re serious?” Danielle was amazed. What a dear man, she thought. This sale will cinch the line’s position at Bullock’s, especially after the columnists hear about it!
“Of course I’m serious,” he murmured. “Especially about you.”
Danielle spun around, ecstatic, and threw her hands in the air. “Who can ring up Mr. Murphy?”
The younger sales girls hung back, obviously overwhelmed by Cameron’s celebrity status. An impeccably attired, plump older woman stepped forward sprightly. “Aye, I will ma’am.” She smiled merrily, her cheeks like rosy apples. “I’m Mrs. Murphy.”
“Sure, and I’m thinking we might be related,” Cameron replied in a thick Irish brogue. He leaned across the glass counter and gave her a peck on the cheek.
Mrs. Murphy blushed and counted out thirteen bottles. “Would you be liking gift wrap too, sir?”
“Absolutely. And delivery. My secretary will ring you tomorrow with instructions. Thank you, Mrs. Murphy.” Grinning, he turned back to Danielle. “Say, there’s a party this evening at Lou Silverman’s. Are you busy?”
Startled
at the invitation, Danielle hesitated. It sounded like fun. But I couldn’t possibly, she thought, crestfallen. Every minute of her schedule was fastidiously planned. She had sewing to do, accounts to balance, bottles to fill. “No, I’m awfully busy, Cameron. I must prepare dinner, then more work.”
“Nonsense, no more work today. We’ll call for Chinese take-out for the family, and then we’ll head over to Silverman’s party.” He sidled close to her. “You’ll have a great time.”
“I simply can’t, Cameron.” She took a step back.
“Come on, Dani,” he whispered. “Say yes. I need a date tonight. Don’t ruin my reputation in front of all these ladies. Say yes, Dani. Just one little word,” he said, feigning desperation. “Me very career depends on it, nay, I dare say, me very life.”
She suppressed a smile. “You’re impossible. And my name is Danielle.” But then, how could she argue with him? After all, he had just made her first day at Bullock’s a resounding success. Perhaps I should go with him, she thought, just to express my appreciation. I’ll get up extra early tomorrow morning to finish my work. She nodded. “All right, you win.”
“Hallelujah, Dani,” he cried, obviously ignoring her correction. By now, he had drawn a crowd, and the sales clerks broke out in applause at his shenanigans. “Put an extra bottle on there for yourself, Mrs. Murphy. You’re the tops, you are.” He signed the sales slip, hooked his arm in Danielle’s, and marched her out the front door before she could change her mind.
Once outside, Danielle exploded into gales of laughter. She couldn’t remember the last time she had laughed so hard.
“Here’s my car.” An attendant pulled a white convertible Rolls-Royce to the curb.
“Oh no, you can’t drive this into my neighborhood.” This is crazy, she told herself. “Really Cameron, the fun’s over, I must get home.”
“Nay, that’s where you’re wrong, lass. The fun is just beginning.”
