Perfect (13 page)

T  W  E  N  T  Y  -  S  I  X

“Good morning, how may I help you?” said the young woman in the real-estate office. Bright sunlight poured through the windows.

“At dinner last night, Mrs. Richardson told me one of her neighbor’s chalets is available to rent.”

“Yes. Schloss Alexander,” she said. “If Mrs. Alexander hasn’t had a change of plans. But you should know the lease is only for three months. If it’s still available, would you like to see it?” Lots and lots of ifs in her voice. Lots of caveats and subtle screening.

I nodded. “Please. Three months is perfect.”

She extended her hand. “I am Elsa Schick.”

“Margaret Romaniei.”

“Is this your first visit to Mont-St.-Anges, Mrs. Romaniei?”

“It is. And it’s Princess Margaret, actually. Mrs. Naxos was kind enough to offer the invitation for me to stay at the hotel but I’m a painter and I’d like a quiet, private place where I can really set up and go to work.”

“I understand.”

“Here,” I said. “Let me give you my card.”

She accepted the heavy ecru card engraved with the Romanian royal crest and my name, Margaret of Romania. “Let me just telephone Mrs. Alexander—I’m sure there won’t be a problem. Excuse me a moment.”

Elsa stepped into a private office and picked up the phone. I could hear her talking and laughing. “All set,” she said when she reemerged. “Let’s go look.”

She closed the office door behind us, hanging a sign with a movable clock indicating we’d be back in an hour. “This is Tati,” she introduced me to her taffy-colored horse, which had bright ribbons braided into its mane and tail and was hooked up to a red sleigh. “Would you like to sit up with me or in back, which is much, much more comfortable?”

“No, I’d like to sit with you.” I climbed up the step to the well-used, leather-covered bench. “Until yesterday, I hadn’t ridden in a sleigh for years, almost since I was a child. I’d forgotten how much fun it can be.”

“Where did you grow up?” She picked up the reins and gave Tati a little click.

“Norway.”

“They have wonderful dray horses in Norway. What kind did you have?”

Oh, dear. When it comes to horses I can possibly tell the difference between a thoroughbred race horse and a Percheron, but that’s the extent of my knowledge. I tried to recall what kind of horses pulled the queen’s carriages in London. “I’m embarrassed to say I can’t remember their name. But I do remember that they were sort of soft gray with darker spots.”

“Ah,” said Elsa. “Knabstruppers, no doubt. Quite rare.”

“Exactly. Knabstruppers.”

“Wonderful. Come, come Tati. You must wake up.” We trotted along at a nice, reasonable pace. “Would you like to drive?”

“I’d love to try. But I’ve never done it before.”

She handed me the reins. “It’s easy, and Tati’s just a big, fat baby.”

Just my speed.

With Elsa’s teaching and Tati’s patient good humor, I drove the sleigh to the edge of town, turned uphill through a stand of snow-covered trees, and passed into the Naxos’s little neighborhood.

Every now and then I saw a glint of light reflect off lenses of surveillance cameras in the trees.

While we drove, Elsa gave me a rundown of how many chalets and apartments were permitted by the covenants of the club. “This is the most there will ever be, unless Mr. Naxos changes his mind.” She described what happened when owners died or left the club, how the residence reclamation was handled. “Members don’t actually own their houses or apartments, they lease them from the club, and when a member dies or resigns, his estate is reimbursed the cost of construction or renovation and his, or her—we do have a number of women members—estate agents may come and reclaim furnishings and personal property. But the actual real estate and the membership themselves are not transferable to heirs.”

We passed the entrance to the Richardson’s Swissed-up chalet, where I’d had dinner last night, then Schloss Naxos, which was actually a huge Neuschwanstein-type white castle visible out on a point, looking as though it were out of a fairy tale. Robert Constantin’s giant chalet was across the way. A tree-filled berm hid the ground floor. When we passed his drive, I looked back and saw that the berm concealed a good-sized parking area with a number of open horse stalls and six garage/stable doors. His road continued up the hill to what I assumed was a circular drive at the main entrance. A plain red mailbox sat at the foot of the driveway.

“Here it is to your right.” Elsa pointed. Without any apparent direction from me, Tati turned down a snowy drive to Schloss Alexander. “It’s quite small but I think that’s what makes it so charming.”

The gingerbread-trimmed, brightly painted chalet sat on a rise with a spectacular view of the entire valley. Woods circled it on three sides, giving the impression that it was a solitary house in the woods far, far from civilization. A bay leaf wreath hung on the front door and inside, after a few steps down a short entryway decorated with stylized, oversized classic ski posters of Garmisch and Gstaad, a generous living room opened to the right, treating you to a breathtaking view of the surrounding peaks. The room was decorated in what I would call Modified Yodel—much, much calmer than Lucy Richardson’s house—with painted furniture, woven rugs on the plank floor, a white polar-bearskin rug in front of the stone fireplace, and the ubiquitous crossed antique skis above the mantel. To the left of the entry hall was the dining area, a long plank table and substantial cane-seated chairs with forest green cushions trimmed with red. Behind it was a counter fronting what appeared at a glance to be an extremely well-equipped kitchen. The master bedroom and sitting room were up a short flight of stairs beyond the living room. A private porch ran along the front of both of them. You had to go through the bedroom to get to the sitting room, making the suite a completely secluded little haven—ideal for my purposes. Staff quarters were in the walk-out basement with a separate entrance. There were no guest rooms. The house was spacious and comfortably appointed, designed for relaxation.

Outside, in back, instead of a garage was a stable but no horses were in sight.

“What do you think?” Elsa asked.

“I love it. What’s the staffing arrangement?”

“Mrs. Alexander brings her own household staff when she comes but we can provide whatever you need. A housekeeper three times a week is included in the rent.”

“That will be more than sufficient.”

“We’ll make whatever arrangements suit you. Do you like to cook?”

“I do.”

“So does Mrs. Alexander. Let me show you the kitchen.”

It was sensational, really an exhibition kitchen. All-stainless-steel, eight-burner Miele cooktop, four Miele ovens, polished white marble countertops, sinks galore, and pinpoint work lights.

“She’s a much more serious cook than I am,” I said. “This is amazing.”

“She’s quite well known for her cooking, especially her desserts and pastries.”

“Is this Tinka Alexander’s house?” I said.

“Yes. Do you know her?”

I shook my head. “No, but I have all her books. She’s one of my favorites. Tell me about the security arrangements and system. I’ve noticed the house alarm and the camera at the entrance.” I’d noticed much more than that but didn’t mention it.

“The house alarm rings at the police station down the hill and the cameras, actually there are four, go to these monitors.” She slid open a panel under the lip of the kitchen service counter and flipped a switch. The screens came to life with views of the gate, the front door, the kitchen door, and the wooded area around the staff quarters downstairs.

“But these images don’t go to the police station?”

Elsa shook her head. “We can arrange that, if you like. Most members prefer to protect their privacy.”

I nodded. “I agree.”

Did I believe her? I did. Club members wouldn’t tolerate having their comings and goings observed twenty-four hours a day by anybody. It was an excellent system—I could spot only two blind spots: the side of the master bedroom porch and one section of the back of the house beneath the bathroom windows. The chalet was perfect for my purposes. Although I would have preferred to remain in the incredible luxe of the hotel, I needed to be able to set up a jewelry-manufacturing studio where I could work uninterrupted for long periods of time. I had a great deal to accomplish—perfect replication of the queen’s stolen pieces—and little time to do it. Schloss Alexander would provide me with essential privacy.

“There’s another set of monitors in the master sitting room, as well. The horse guard patrols every two hours, twenty-four hours a day. Although no one has ever needed them for any security breach or criminal activity. One of our members did get stuck in the bathtub once and the security patrol had to help her husband get her out.”

“Oh, dear,” I said. “How embarrassing.”

Elsa nodded. “It was sad. Naturally medical emergencies come up from time to time, and we have a fully equipped ambulance that responds. I don’t want you to think you have to wait for a horse and carriage to get up here.”

“That’s good to know.”

“I think you’ll find Mr. Naxos has thought of everything. So. What do you think? We have two other properties that I’d be happy to show you if you’d like something larger.”

“This is perfect.”

“Wonderful. Let’s go back to town and I’ll get it all arranged. A horse and sleigh are included, along with Barnhardt, the groom/houseman, who can also drive you if you wish. He won’t get in your way at all, he lives in the groom’s quarters in the stable. Let me see, what else do you need to know? The hotel will bring your clothes up, there’s no need for you to repack. I’ll have the telephone, satellite dish, and DSL line activated in your name by the end of the day. I think that’s it. When do you want to move in?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Perfect. Schloss Alexander will be ready to receive you at ten o’clock.”

When I got back to the hotel, I called the shops I’d visited yesterday in Zurich and gave my new address.

“Yes, overnight, please. Mark the packages as ‘Art Supplies.’ ”

T  W  E  N  T  Y  -  S  E  V  E  N

Luxury has so many definitions, and what’s luxurious to one person may seem like nothing to another. I’ve found such fulfillment and pleasure in my métier during my life that I haven’t taken the time to indulge in the myriad of creature comforts associated with great spas. I’ve read about them and thought they would be a good idea for me to check out more thoroughly but I’ve never taken the time to do it. So when I stepped outside the hotel for the dozen bracing steps leading to the Spa des Anges, I felt as though I’d entered a different world. It was transformational, like walking into a cloud or arriving in heaven.

The air was perfumed with verbena and aloe—it radiated good karma and good health. A man and a woman, both dressed in crisp white clinic smocks, sat behind a counter of illuminated glass blocks, topped by a thick piece of glass that was a mysterious, almost hypnotic mossy green. Behind them, a wall of backlit shelves held the different Spa des Anges products available for purchase as well as a display of robes and slippers.

“Good afternoon,” I said. “I’m Margaret Romaniei.”

The woman stood up. “Welcome, Princesse. I am Mirabelle. Follow me, please.”

The front door opened with a gust of cold wind and in came Lucy Richardson wrapped head to toe in black mink with a red challis shawl tied around her shoulders. She opened her mouth to speak to me but I pretended I didn’t see her and followed Mirabelle through a door into a long hallway of snow white, floating gauze panels that ruffled slightly as we passed. She held open the door to a small dressing room with a private bath and shower and a mirrored dressing table. The walls were covered with ecru flannel, which muffled all sound. She handed me a featherweight snow white terry-cloth robe and a pair of slippers. The tops were cotton flannel and the soles were inch-thick clear, springy cushions that looked as if they were made out of bubble wrap.

“When you’re ready, Dr. Schmidt will take your history and perform your physical examination here in the spa clinic. I’ll show you the way.”

The spa clinic ran along the back of the building and was filled with bright light from Bauhaus-type ribbon windows that ran the length of the room in stacks of long narrow panes. The room was white and all the fittings were chrome or stainless steel. It was exactly how I expected a Swiss clinic to look. Clean and austere, cutting edge, completely professional.

A nurse led me into an examining room and immediately Dr. Schmidt arrived, a Swiss woman of indeterminate age but mature. A woman who understood women my age.

“Would you like to weigh?” she asked.

“I don’t believe so.”

“That’s fine. Please be seated here.” She indicated the edge of the examining table and for the next hour proceeded to question me about every aspect of my life—many of the answers I gave her were true—followed by the most thorough physical I’d ever had. She spent an inordinate amount of time on my hands, having me squeeze her fingers as hard as I could, which was hard enough to make her wince; flex my fingers and them spread them, then fold them in one at a time and then open them up one at a time.

“You have very interesting hands,” she finally said. “They have the strength and flexibility of a much younger person. You’re fortunate. By this time, most people’s hands have begun to stiffen to some degree.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Must be my genes.”

Genes, of course, had nothing to do with it. I exercise my hands constantly, manipulating various sizes and shapes of stones and marbles, hiding them under my fingers, letting them drop into my sleeve. The flexibility, sensitivity, and dexterity of my fingers have always been integral to my success. You don’t become the world’s greatest anything by wishing it so—it’s just like getting to Carnegie Hall: it takes practice, practice, practice. I shared none of this wisdom with Dr. Schmidt.

She then reviewed and explained the results of the chemistry reports she’d gotten back so far and when she was finished, she pronounced me in very good health, for which I was grateful. “I don’t see any restrictions to your fitness regime.” She flipped through the chart. “I see you missed your cardio test this morning.”

I looked at her over my glasses. I could lie, but why. “Cinnamon rolls.”

She smiled and nodded. “Well, perhaps you’ll be there tomorrow.”

“Perhaps.”

She extended her hand. “You can reach me twenty-four hours a day. Please let me know if you decide to undergo the cellular injection therapy and I will make the arrangements. It’s an in-patient procedure and we need forty-eight hours’ notice.” She pushed a small bell and the door opened immediately. “Mirabelle will take you to your first appointment.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“Have a wonderful rest—I’m sure you’ve earned it.”

The truth was, I hadn’t earned my rest yet. I was still in the warm-up stage for what I expected would be the most serious test of my skills and endurance in my life. Did it make me feel better knowing that according to the doctor I was up to snuff physically? In excellent shape for a woman my age who had an undisciplined diet and did minimal exercise? Well, it didn’t hurt.

“Follow me, please,” said Mirabelle. “We will start with the steam.”

I’d just drifted off on the hot tiled ledge when I heard the door open with a quiet whoosh. I quickly pulled my towels over myself and opened one eye just enough to see through the fog. Oh, God. It was Lucy. Didn’t she have a steam bath at her own house? She was turning my afternoon off into a very stressful ordeal.

“Yoo-hoo,” she whispered, and came and bent over me, trying to see if my eyes were open. “Yoo-hoo. Margaret. Are you asleep?”

“I was, but I’m awake now.” I sat up and slid to the end of the bench, putting put my back against the wall.

“Oh, good. I’m glad I didn’t wake you up.” She stretched out flat on the ledge catty-corner from mine and casually threw off her towel. There was not one authentic thing about her breasts. They rose straight up like, well, the Alps. “I get so bored all by myself in these things. It’s much more fun to have someone to talk to. Don’t you think?”

“Much. But unfortunately, my time’s up. If I stay another second I’ll turn into a puddle.” I reached out a leg for the floor, carefully holding my towel around me in a death grip. “Lucy, thank you so much for including me last night. It was very thoughtful of you. I’ll see you again soon, I hope.”

“Absolutely. Did Alma say if she and George were coming?”

I shook my head. “She didn’t.”

“I’ll have to give her a call. It would be fun if they came for a few days and we could all just girlie it up together while the boys did their business thing. Do you play bridge?”

“I’m sorry to say I don’t.”

“Well,” she said. “That’s okay. We’ll just find something else to do—shopping maybe.”

“Unfortunately, I’m here to work. I’m a painter and I need to get some pieces ready for a show. But maybe we can have lunch in a few days.”

“Oh, I love art. What kind of painting?”

“Mostly landscapes. I really have to go. This heat is starting to make me feel a little woozy.” I pulled the door open and fled to my massage.

I wondered how long it would take for word to get out that I’d rented Tinka Alexander’s chalet. I had visions of Lucy appearing on my doorstep wanting to have a slice of strudel and a chat.

Thankfully, our paths didn’t cross the rest of the afternoon.