Leonie (75 page)

It was perfect, she decided, turning to inspect the bottles of rosé wine waiting in the silver coolers, a perfect table for a midsummer evening dinner with old friends, and a dual celebration: her fifth wedding anniversary and the birth of her twin granddaughters—Lais and Leonore do Santos.

“Lais and Leonore,” she said the names out loud with satisfaction. Leonore had been born half an hour after Lais, and Amélie had said in her letter that there had been something about her expression that had reminded her of Léonie. It was then that she had decided on the name, Leonore.

Maybe she was just being kind, thought Léonie with a smile, but if she was, it was a double kindness to name one child after the mother she hardly knew. Amélie had begun to write to her in the last months of her pregnancy and Léonie had found herself unable either to resist the pleasure it brought her, or to deny the reassurance it seemed to bring Amélie. Surely after all these years it was safe to correspond. At first they were just short notes, telling of her progress and how much she liked being in Florida, but gradually, as she received Léonie’s replies, unburdened with excess emotion, their correspondence developed into that of two friends, with
Léonie as a sounding board for Amélie’s new feelings about her life in America and approaching motherhood.

She had definitely grown up, thought Léonie, remembering the volatile young girl who had appeared in her dressing room that memorable night, and there was something else, an undertone of something that bothered her. It wasn’t sadness, it was more an awareness that life wasn’t all roses and happiness and effortless love.

She heard the sound of a car on the road above the villa and hurried to the door. As always it stood wide open to the summer air, its flanking pots of geraniums providing a splash of color against the white walls.

“Léonie, there you are. It’s been ages.” Caro looked delicious in a nubby raw-silk yellow skirt and wide-necked blouse, with her hair for once flowing loose, pinned at the sides with pearl and tortoise combs.

“You look wonderful,” they exclaimed simultaneously, examining each other for new marks of time.

“Not a day older,” said Léonie firmly.

“Nor you,” agreed Caro. They laughed at their foolishness. “Anyone would think we were seventy,” said Caro, “and anyway, you look exactly the same as you did fifteen years ago. Except you look happier.”

Léonie’s mouth widened into a grin. “That’s a very astute observation, and it’s probably because that’s what I am—happy.”

“And Jim?”

“Oh, Jim would be even happier if I allowed him to work eighteen hours a day. Now he’s buying land along the coast that he’s convinced is going to be valuable some day. He spends all his time planning how to develop it—or else he’s dashing off to New York or San Francisco. Sometimes I go with him, more often I stay here and look after my garden. I’m getting lazy, Caro, I’m too attached to this place ever to want to leave.”

“That was what you always wanted, though, wasn’t it?” said Caro. “You needed the security of owning land. He’s buying it for you, Léonie, he knows it means more to you than diamonds.”

Léonie considered this. “Yes, I suppose he is … in a way. Except now I have Jim, I don’t need anything else. With him I feel secure.”

Their eyes met in a smile. “I’m glad,” said Caro.

Alphonse and Maroc had paused with Jim to admire the view
of the bay from the path, shading their eyes against the setting sun to take in the sweep of the headland and the chalky paths that led across the Point.

“Oh, I can’t wait,” cried Léonie, running up the path to meet them and throwing her arms around Maroc. “You deserter,” she laughed, kissing him soundly. “I haven’t seen you in almost six months.”

Her face was just as eager as when he had first seen her lurking nervously in the alley behind Serrat, thought Maroc, and just as beautiful. “I’m a working man,” he apologized, handing her an enormous box of her favorite truffles from Tanrades in Paris. “Hotel life is a busy one—all consuming, in fact. I never seem to have time for myself.”

“You should run one of the hotels down here,” Léonie said firmly, “then at least we would see more of you. And if you can’t do that then I shall have to visit Zurich more often.” Maroc’s return to the hotel business had been successful but the distances were no good for close friendship.

“I hear we have a double celebration.” He took Léonie’s arm as they strolled down the path to the house. “Are we permitted to know what it is?”

“Not until after dinner,” she said firmly, “then I’ll tell you.” She led the way to the terrace, where Jim was distributing tall glasses of the local vermouth laced with sprigs of fresh thyme from the hillside and delicious berry-flavored cassis.

“This is heaven!” exclaimed Caro. “Why does anyone live anywhere else but right here?”

“Exactly what I was thinking,” agreed Alphonse.

“Tell me,” said Caro, sniffing the air, “what’s for dinner? It smells wonderful.”

“Stuffed eggplant, baked lamb … and before that, shrimp fresh from the bay to eat with your fingers in Madame Frenard’s fresh mayonnaise, and asparagus. And later all the raspberries and strawberries you can eat.” Léonie laughed at their dazzled anticipating faces.

“I’ll drink to that,” said Maroc cheerfully. “And here’s a toast to you two. Happy anniversary.”

“Happy anniversary,” echoed Caro and Alphonse.

Jim put his arm around Léonie’s shoulders. “You wouldn’t believe how I had to pursue her,” he said with a grin, “but I told her I was the only man for her.”

They were so obviously completely happy that their guests basked in their reflected glow. Who would have imagined that Léonie would
ever
be this happy, thought Caro, remembering Monsieur. Léonie rarely mentioned him now—not since it was announced that he had suffered such a crippling stroke, and it was even rumored that it had affected his vocal cords and that he was unable to speak. Knowing Monsieur’s vital energy and forceful personality, the rumors were hard to believe, but it seemed to be true. Most of the year he was living in an enormous apartment in the Hôtel de Paris in Monte Carlo, venturing out on his yacht occasionally, though it was said that he left the hotel only in the middle of the night so that no one would see him in his wheelchair. Caro shuddered and took a sip of her drink. If only his passion for Léonie had been a sane one, it might have been him standing here tonight with his arm around her, celebrating their anniversary.

“Come on everyone,” called Léonie, “dinner is served. Maroc, you sit here on my right, and Alphonse on my left. That leaves Jim for you, Caro.”

“Good,” said Jim, “I’ve been trying to get her alone for years.”

“You see! We’re married five years and he’s already chasing my best friend,” she cried as they arranged themselves at the table. Then Léonie lifted her glass. “I can’t wait any longer to tell you,” she said, her face lit with a smile. “I want you to drink a toast to Lais and Leonore do Santos—Amélie’s twin daughters. My grandchildren.”

“Léonie,” gasped Caro. “Oh, Léonie. How wonderful! How
exciting!
”

Maroc and Alphonse smiled at her obvious happiness.

“What’s more,” said Léonie, “I may have been deprived of my own daughter, but she’s promised that I will see my grandchildren. When they are old enough, she’ll bring them to visit me.”

Caro thought of all the normal happy grandmothers with their daily or weekly contact with their children and their offspring. It’s amazing, she thought, lifting her glass to toast the health of the new babies, how Léonie has learned to be happy with so little: a tenuous promise of a visit in the future is enough to fill her cup to the brim.

*   *   *

Dinner had been leisurely, filled with a mixture of discussion and gossip, and they lounged on the terrace once more, sipping coffee and thinking of making their way home to bed.

“I don’t know why you won’t stay here at the villa,” complained Léonie as Caro finally made a move to leave.

“You don’t have a closet big enough to hold her clothes,” said Alphonse dryly. “As it is, we have to take a suite with two bedrooms so that she can get everything in. And we’re only here for four days!”

Léonie hugged her. “It’s good to hear you haven’t changed since the day I met you,” she said, remembering the armoires full of silks and satins, and the boxes of jewels.

“What’s a woman without her adornments?” cried Caro airily as they walked up the path. “We’ll see you tomorrow then, and I’m planning on a little gambling in the evening.”

Alphonse groaned. “She’ll ruin me yet,” he said, helping her into the car.

“Never,” teased Caro. “I always win.”

Maroc was to take the wheel. “Thank you for a very happy evening,” he said quietly. “I miss you, Léonie.” His eyes were tender.

“And I miss you, my old friend.” Léonie’s arms were warm around his neck.

Jim took her hand and they strolled back in the moonlight down the little paved path whose stones she had laid herself, years ago. “I haven’t given you your present yet,” he said. “I wanted to wait until I could show you, but now it’s almost too late.” He looked at the sky; the moon was high, illuminating the landscape in a whitish glow. The Point looked like a painted backdrop to the silently rippling sea.

“Wait here,” he said, placing Léonie on a chair on the terrace, “I’ll be right back.”

She sank back against the cushions, gazing out at the magical scene. In all the time she’d lived there, no two nights had ever been the same—the sea and sky were always different. She sighed with pleasure. Her home was the most wonderful place in the world.

“Close your eyes,” commanded Jim, “and see what you’ll get.”

Léonie closed her eyes obediently, feeling the crisp rustle of
paper as he thrust a packet into her hands. She fingered it wonderingly. “Can I open my eyes now?” she asked.

“Open them,” he said.

She had seen papers like these before, the long legal documents with the pink tape and scarlet sealing wax. Title Deeds, she read with a sense of déjà vu. Monsieur had given her a present just like this once—the title deeds to this very house. She took a deep breath and read on. They were the deeds to all the land on the east of the villa as far as the Point, the land in the back up to the brow of the hill beyond the road, and several hectares to the west. Her eyes met Jim’s in amazement.

“You are mistress of all you survey, Léonie Jamieson,” he said with a cocky grin. “It’s all yours.”

She stood beside him, looking out across the moonlit landscape. It was truly all hers, those trees, those hills, those chalky pathways—all hers. She slid her hand into his and leaned her head against his shoulder. Most wonderful of all, it was given not with strings, like Monsieur gave, but with love. “How can I thank you?” she murmured. “It’s the most wonderful present you could ever have given me.”

“I know,” he said, gripping her hand in his, “I always know what you need.”

Léonie didn’t say anything, she didn’t have to. Jim did know what she needed, he knew how to make her feel secure. And he had given her all this land. He had made her again what she had always wanted to be, a woman of property.

–
• 67 •

Lais and Leonore dozed peacefully in the shuttered afternoon twilight of the nursery at the Villa Encantada in Key West and Amélie’s face held a tender smile as she closed the door softly behind her. Further along the corridor she peeked into Vicente and Jean-Paul’s room. The six-year-old boys were sprawled across their beds in identical positions on their stomachs, heads turned to the right, eyes tightly shut. It had been a turbulent morning, the heat was getting to everyone, but finally they were all sleeping and maybe by the time they woke the heat would have lessened and they would be less irritable.

Amélie wandered out onto the terrace and flung herself into a low hammock strung between two posts. Xara was resting in her room and the house was quiet. In fact, the whole hillside seemed quiet today, for once the birds were subdued and only the insects continued their normal buzzing.

Pushing her heavy hair back from her forehead, she gazed at the sky. The sun shone brassily against a cloudless bright blue and Amélie sighed, they could expect no relief from the heat, she was sure of it. Why did it seem so much hotter this year than usual? Still, it was better here than in Miami, she had been right to escape that enervating humidity. Just one more week and the hotel would close for the three-month out-of-season break and Roberto and Edouard would join them. And then, when the weather cooled from high summer and the new season began, Roberto would be the new manager.

Sole charge of such a magnificent hotel was an all-consuming job. Roberto would be working all hours, spending more time at the Palaçio than in their neat little house on the grounds—even less than he did now.

A frown furrowed her brow. Roberto seemed happy, he loved
his work, he adored the children, he loved her—
but it wasn’t the same
. A picture of the salon at the Villa d’Aureville with the blood-stained bodies lying on the floor sprang unbidden into her mind and her eyes flew open in an attempt to dispel the memory. Had a single day passed in two years when she hadn’t thought of it? And she knew Roberto did, too, although he had never—ever—mentioned it again after Diego’s funeral. It’s finished, he had told her then, and we must forget it and go on. We have our baby to think of and our lives together. Her mind had seethed with questions, but perhaps he had been right, they were better left unanswered. Yet she had known it would never be the same. Diego had succeeded in the end, as he always had, in coming between them.

The heat was intolerable, there wasn’t a scrap of breeze as she swung herself from the hammock and wandered, barefoot, indoors. Her room was cooler and in the dimness she shed her clothes and lay down on the bed. It was vast, white-sheeted, and comfortable. It was meant for siesta-time lovers, she thought, on afternoons like this when the heat of their passions would match the heat outside.

And what do you know about passion, Amélie do Santos? she wondered. She knew about love because she loved Roberto, and he loved her and their lovemaking took its tone from that. But it wasn’t an all-consuming
passion
. She had never felt that sort of passion—would she ever? She was the Senhora do Santos, whose very busy husband loved her, and she had her children to fill in any gaps that might have appeared in her life.