Changes of Heart

by Liza Gyllenhaal

  “I am sorry, Maman,” Alain had replied. “I prostrate myself before you. What more can I do? The girl was a slut … but a very clever one.”

  “What concerns me most, Alain,” his mother had replied severely, “is that you had the least trouble deciphering what sort of girl she was. Did I not raise you properly? Did you not associate, from the earliest years, with the very best families in Bordeaux? And then did we not send you to the best schools in Paris? And London?”

  “Yes, Maman, of course, there is no question.” Alain sighed.

  “And did I not,” Madame Chanson continued imperiously, “instill in you always an idea of breeding? A sense of appropriate behavior? A desire for excellence? You must never forget, Alain, never, that you are the product of the very finest blood of Bordeaux. What flows in your veins, what nourishes your mind and heart is an inheritance with roots buried deep in the heart of France. It is not just your individual future that you must think of next time you commence with some folly or other, it is the future of the entire Chanson family. Like it or not, my dear, you are our heir. You must be the guiding light.”

  Madame Chanson, nearing seventy and all of five foot one, stood as erect and determined as a young gendarme. Her features, once famously sensual, had wizened to a birdlike delicacy. She had been lucky enough throughout her life to be able to disdain makeup, so now her skin had the glow and elasticity of a ripe peach. Her one personal vanity was the careful coloring of her hair. Not even her husband knew that she had started to go white in her early thirties. Madame Chanson’s youthful, glorious blond coiffure was legendary.

  Alain feared his mother just slightly more than he feared his father. He realized that it was his mother, Martine Cruzes Chanson, who had guided Chanson International down the aggressive track of international marketing that had transformed it over the last three decades into a major force in the wine industry. Though Alain’s father, Guillaume, was a good and dedicated businessman, he was not a ruthless one. It was Martine who had insisted in the early sixties that Chanson not sell out to the foreign investors who were swooping down on the quais of the Garonne in Bordeaux, where most of the old families still had their wine-filled warehouses. Let Barton and Guestier become puppets of Seagrams, Alain’s mother had declared, and what did it matter if Delor was gobbled up by Allied Brewers in the U.K.? Those foreign investors wouldn’t be circling around Bordeaux like so many vultures, Madame Chanson reasoned, unless they smelled meat to be devoured. So Guillaume and Martine had rejected the enormous sums offered by potential buyers. They had scrimped and borrowed, haggled and, only when necessary, cheated a bit to keep the Chanson holdings independent. And slowly, as the other Bordelais shippers found their pride swallowed up by foreign firms along with their prestigious names, Chanson stood proudly—many claimed disdainfully—aloof, free, and increasingly profitable.

  “The difficulty is, Maman,” Alain tried to explain during his uncomfortable post-Lisbeth interview with her, “that I cannot seem to find a woman who is both acceptable to you … and attractive to me.” Alain had been summoned to Martine’s private salon in the sprawling apartment overlooking the Bois de Boulogne in Paris. The Chansons had purchased the eleven superbly refinished fin de siècle rooms in the late sixties when the provincial tastes of the city of Bordeaux had begun to wear on Martine. Now the family divided its time between Paris and their chateaux and vineyards in Pauillac, just north of Bordeaux.

  “Don’t be absurd, Alain!” Martine had exploded. “I could trot six perfectly wonderful young women up here, gleaned from the best families in France, in less than half an hour.”

  “Wonderful to you, perhaps,” Alain had replied. “But I know them all, Maman, down to the powdery scent of their underarms. Shall I name them for you? Celeste Armand, Matilde de Giverny, Honoré Seviliac … would you like me to go on?”

  “Only if you have a point to make, Alain,” Martine had answered irritably. “You are being most boorish about this issue, you know. Why not marry someone like Celeste or Honoré and then have your horrible little Lisbeths on the side? That’s what your father has done, you know, and I simply turn my head. Who cares? If you are discreet, if you are sensible, you can certainly have your cake, and, well … you know what I mean. But first it is essential, Alain, that you be respectably married. Otherwise, your behavior is viewed as indulgent and vulgar.”

  “But I don’t want that, Maman!” Alain had retorted, getting up from the settee where Martine and he had been served tea, and wandering over to the long windows that looked out on the leafy roof of the Bois. “I want a marriage of love, not one of these dreadful arranged businesses. I want a modern, mutually sharing marriage, where we are two loving equals. I want…”

  “The impossible,” Martine had cut in. “You are an idealist, my dear Alain. And you are a sensualist. The two are not an easy combination in a man. Grow up. Be practical, otherwise you will spend your life, each year a bit older, in the coarse print of the gossip columns. This ideal woman you are looking for,” Martine had concluded, “exists only in your mind.”

  “We shall see,” Alain had replied quietly, “we shall see.”

  He had been looking for this feminine ideal since he was thirteen or fourteen, since the first time he had made love to a woman. She had been new to the Paris household, Martine’s personal maid, a not particularly pretty woman nearing thirty. Alain had come upon her late one afternoon, trying on Martine’s best onyx necklace, and she had promised him a very special surprise if he would keep his discovery secret.

  “And what could you possibly have,” Alain had demanded proudly, “that I could want?”

  “Ah, you will see!” she had assured him with a slow smile, sidling up to him and laying her hand gently on his shoulder. She guided his right hand to her soft, drooping breast. “Squeeze there…” He did as he was told and felt her nipple harden beneath her starched white uniform and, at the same time, he felt himself stiffen. A new and not entirely pleasurable rush of desire flushed his cheeks and lips.

  “Now you be quiet, Alain,” she had whispered, “and I will come to your room late tonight and show you … ah, the most wonderful things.”

  While the limousine carried him slowly downtown through halting midmorning traffic to Melina’s new office, he lazily recalled the maid’s skillful instruction. Pity she had been greedy, asking him for money just weeks after their affair had begun. He had made sure she was sacked a few days later, and had continued his education with his best friend’s older sister. How many women had followed? He could no longer remember. So many, and each wanting so much more from him than he was ever willing to give. At least Melina expected nothing further from him than a project now and then to keep her fledgling little agency afloat. She was conniving, it was true, and more than a little cold-blooded. But she was learning very quickly what he wanted in bed, and she was not duplicitous. She wore her ambition as boldly as she wore her snugly tailored little suits.

  She was wearing a particularly revealing one that morning—red with a black-beaded design on the lapels—when she came hurrying out to greet him in her starkly modern reception area. Ceiling track lights played on the red glossy letters of Bliss & Penrod that looked so freshly painted they still seemed wet against the white sand-blasted walls. A young, pretty blonde sat sentinel behind the sleek white front desk. A square glass bowl of freshly cut red tulips blossomed between her phone and word processor, filling the small room with a musty, feminine aroma. “Alain!” Melina gushed, “how wonderful to see you again.”

  “You also, Melina,” Alain replied, smiling. “I compliment you on your new quarters. The neighborhood is so … quaint.”

  “It’s quite the new in-place for ad agencies,” Melina told him, taking him by the arm and leading him through the swinging doors that opened onto a huge loft area. For a moment Alain had trouble seeing clearly, the light was so overpowering. “Geer Dubois, Jerry Della Femina—all the really creative agencies have moved down
. I don’t know, there’s something so stifling about midtown. Alain, you remember Janie Penrod, don’t you?”

  “Hello, again,” the red-haired woman said, holding out her hand. She was taller than he remembered, and slimmer. She was wearing a soft green dress and a single strand of very good pearls. Her hair was swept back on either side of her head, clipped with gold barrettes, then allowed to fall to her shoulders in almost schoolgirlish waves. Though her cheeks were flushed—making him think she might be overheated—the hand he grasped in his was ice cold. Startled, he met her eyes: gray-green, sea-green, and invigoratingly direct.

  “Of course, Jane,” he said, smiling to see if she would smile back, and she did, though shyly. She looked frightened and took back her hand almost as quickly as it was offered. “You are looking … quite well.”

  “Coffee, Alain?” Melina interrupted him, indicating that they should all be seated at the round table at the far end of the room. And when he said yes, Melina busied herself with cups and saucers that had already been laid out, allowing Alain a quiet moment in which to contemplate Jane again. The woman had definitely changed from the last time he had seen her. She had lost weight, it was true, but somehow it was more than that. Her skin, her hair, her eyes, everything had taken on a radiance, a burnished inner glow. She was like a woman in love, or in the first months of pregnancy—vulnerable yet confident, and overwhelmingly feminine.

  For nearly an hour he listened with half an ear to Melina’s well-organized presentation of the summer promotional piece he had given them to design. Someone had clearly taken the time to study the history and geography of his home. The piece had brought to life the bustling port city on the crescent-shaped bend of the Gironde River … the dusty vineyards of Pauillac in high summer … the enormous Empire-style chateau, viewed from the majestic front entrance at the end of a long lane of fine plane trees.

  “But this sketch is amazing!” Alain said. “It is really a striking portrait of Chateau Chanson. Melina … however did you capture the feeling of it so perfectly?”

  “That’s Janie’s turf,” Melina replied. “I believe she just found old photographs in the wine trades, didn’t you, Janie?”

  “Yes,” Janie ventured. “I drew from the photos … and I read up a bit on the area.”

  “I am impressed,” Alain replied warmly, surprised by his reaction. Though he had found no real fault with the recent ads he’d been seeing out of Dorn & Delaney, he now realized that they all lacked the style and finesse of the brochure he held in his hands. It struck him, finally, that both Zach and Melina were right in their assessment of Janie. She was a very talented young woman. And the other thing he realized, with a mixture of amusement and compassion, was that she was a bit dazzled by his presence. Every time he looked at her she blushed deeply; her eyes grew wide, and she seemed slightly mesmerized, like a deer captured in headlights. He felt himself basking in her presence, warmed by the glow of a woman’s selfless admiration. He turned to Melina and said simply, “Good work, my dear. You have the project, if you still want it.”

  “Alain!” Melina cried girlishly. “How wonderful! Of course, we still want it.”

  “Very good,” Alain said, standing. “There is one caveat, however: I’ll want all the photography shot in Bordeaux. I insist on authenticity. I’m aware of the expense, of course, and will shoulder it.”

  “Oh,” Melina gushed, her eyes bright. “Well, of course, that’s fine. We’ll need to go over and scout locations first. I suppose we should plan the trip as soon as possible so that the actual shooting can be done by the beginning of May.”

  “Yes, this will need to be printed and mailed by early June,” Alain said, tapping the brochure thoughtfully. “You better start making arrangements now. You and Janie will stay at the chateau, of course, so don’t bother about hotels.”

  “Alain, this is just marvelous…” Melina purred. Then her voice turned thoughtful. “But perhaps just I should come. I mean to save on expenses and so on?”

  “Don’t be absurd,” he replied abruptly, standing to go. He turned and smiled down at Janie, delighted to see the flush rise again up her neck and spread quickly to her cheeks. “I insist on you both coming.”

  Later, after the meeting, Melina took Alain upstairs to see the rest of the office, and Janie went back to work. Or tried to. She was too excited to concentrate on the papers in front of her. She felt flushed and feverish, as if she’d been laying out in the sun too long. The way he had looked at her! The way he had smiled! And he had asked—no, insisted—that she come to Bordeaux with Melina. It was almost too much to believe. She sat at her drawing board, staring blindly out the windows at the sunny rooftops opposite. She didn’t hear him come up behind her.

  “Good-bye, then, Jane,” Alain said softly. She whirled around, her eyes wide and shining. “I’m sorry,” he added when he saw her expression, “did I startle you?”

  “Yes … I mean, no,” Janie replied, slipping off the art director’s stool. They were exactly the same height. “I was just … my mind was on something else.”

  “Ah,” Alain said, smiling into the gray-green depths of Janie’s delightfully smitten expression. She so clearly adored him! What a pleasure it was to experience such a simple and straightforward emotion. He rather wished he could ask her to lunch and continue the enjoyment, but he’d be forced to bring Melina along as well, and the truth of the matter was that Melina had begun to bore him a bit. How selfish and ambitious she seemed next to a woman as gentle and ladylike as this Jane Penrod. “Well, I suppose I’d better let your mind get back to whatever it was on,” Alain added, holding out his hand, “before I so rudely interrupted.”

  “Not at all,” Janie replied breathily, feeling his hand close around hers. It reminded her of the day she had first met him in Michael’s office, how the sensation of his fingers against her palm had haunted her dreams for weeks. She felt as though her life had finally completed a big circle, from that earthshaking moment until now. She knew he was looking at her, really looking at her for the first time. She stared back, unashamed of what she knew he would see in her eyes. He held her hand in his longer than he needed to, and he let his gaze drift from her eyes to her lips.

  Slowly, gently, he brought her hand to his mouth, turned it over, and kissed the soft recesses of her palm. A shiver went through her as his lips grazed her skin, a jolt so strong she knew he must have felt it as well.

  “Until next time,” he said gently, releasing her hand and taking a step back, and smiling, “Jane Penrod. Until then.”

  Chapter 22

  “ ‘Bliss & Penrod Land Ramona Home Fragrances Division,’ ” Zach read aloud from Ad Age to Michael as he stood in the doorway of his partner’s office. “ ‘The fledgling boutique agency, headed by two ex-Dorn & Delaney executives, has been reeling in the smaller divisions of their alma mater’s roster as quickly as these clients start to nibble on their line.’ ”

  “Jesus, Michael, listen to this!” Zach went on, slamming the door behind him with his foot. “ ‘Melina Bliss, who owns the shop, told us during this interview: “We must be doing something right. Frankly, we haven’t had a single speculative presentation—I won’t say pitch, because we haven’t been at all aggressive—that hasn’t resulted in something concretely positive. I think people just like our chemistry. Janie Penrod, my art director and partner, and myself—well, we’re both young and creative. We’re having a good time down here, and I think that shows.” ’ ” Zach threw the magazine across the room and then collapsed on Michael’s couch.

  “You’re surprised?” Michael said, leaning back in his chair and smiling benevolently across at Zach. He had been waiting for this explosion since he heard through the grapevine—over a week before—that Madame Ramona was dividing her account.

  “Stunned. Shocked. Overcome.” Zach sighed, staring up at the ceiling. “Yes, I’m surprised.” As he often did when he was upset, Zach kicked off one of his shoes and started
to massage his foot. “Aren’t you?”

  “No,” Michael told him. “I mean, let’s be honest, Zach. How the hell did this place get off the ground? Don’t you remember? All the SS&R accounts who knew and liked us gave us a shot. That’s the way it’s done. Why should Melina play any differently? Of course, that business about her not being aggressive is just a crock. She’s been kissing Madame’s ample posterior for weeks, at least that’s what one of the Ramona account people told us. And it didn’t hurt her cause that she was laying the account supervisor, of course.”

  “So you knew?” Zach demanded quietly, sitting up and staring accusingly at Michael. “And you didn’t tell me?”

  “I’d heard rumors,” Michael replied calmly. “I hear about a thousand rumors a day … and so do you. We wouldn’t get anything done if we sat around swapping hearsay. What’s the big deal, anyway, Zach? We both knew City Slickers was something of a credit risk. Ramona’s Home Fragrances line is by far the smallest part of the account’s billings. It’s not as if we’re hurting here, Zach. With Fidini Electronics, we’re up almost fifteen percent over last year. We’ve more than covered—”

  “Jesus, Michael!” Zach cried, standing up abruptly and stalking over to the window. “It’s not the billings I care about! It’s Janie! My God, I can’t believe you can calmly sit there and prattle on about Fidini—”

  “I was only saying,” Michael tried to interject, “that we’re in really very good shape and—”

  “But what about Janie?” Zach demanded. “You knew she was going down there? You knew the whole time, didn’t you? And you didn’t tell me? Why not, Michael?”

  “Because you’re not a sane man on that particular issue,” Michael replied simply.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Janie’s a big girl, Zach,” Michael began wearily. “And she’s no dummy. If she went with Melina, believe me, she did it with her eyes wide open. Melina didn’t carry her off, Zach. Janie went willingly. She needed the challenge, don’t you see? It’s only natural.”