LoveMakers

by Gould, Judith

  Dorothy-Anne was allowed to stay, and what she witnessed was an extraordinary battle of wills. Because in one thing Dr. Dadourian was determined to have his way, and he was insisting that Elizabeth-Anne plan an extended stay at one of the European spas. She was equally dead set against such a plan.

  'Vartan, I'm not sick. Perhaps a bit disoriented and weak, but that's not surprising, considering I feel like Rip Van Winkle must have after he woke up. I need a little time to catch up on things and gather my wits. But that's all.' Her years of stubborn pride would not allow her to admit she needed coddled care, and her bright eyes flashed like cold steel. 'I'll be damned if I'll allow myself to be hospitalized around sick people.'

  'Those spas aren't exactly hospitals,' Dadourian corrected her.

  'Well, as far as I'm concerned, they are.' Her eyes were steady. 'And don't tell me they're fashionable resorts. You know how I hate resorts of any kind. I despise programmed days and nights. I refuse to sit around water fountains in parks or take part in group therapy. And I don't need to take any curative waters, thank you very much. The water which pours out of my faucet at home suits me just fine.'

  He sighed. 'You do try my patience sometimes, you know.'

  'Vartan, if you didn't have me to spar with, you'd be bored to death.'

  'You really do need rest and professional care,' he insisted gently. 'You need time to readjust, I repeat, readjust to life as it is experienced awake, as well as to adjust to the fact that you're paralyzed from the waist down. You need a period of transition: He permitted himself a rare smile. 'Don't forget, you're not a spring chicken anymore.'

  'No one knows that better than I.' Her lips smiled at him, but her eyes looked at him hard and long. He was a line doctor, the finest there was. As well as the most expensive. But, most importantly, he was a decent man who had been a friend to her for years. Perhaps if he thought she needed therapy and rest, it was for the best. But not at one of those dreary dress-up spas where patients strolled around in minks. She didn't want it, and she wouldn't have it.

  Suddenly, she remembered what Henry had first said to her and she had an idea. 'Vartan . . . ' she said thoughtfully, 'you know, maybe you are right after all. Perhaps a vacation - ' she stressed the word, ' - would do me some good. God knows, I haven't had one in decades.' Her lips tightened. 'But I don't want anything remotely smacking of hospitals and clinics and sanatoriums.'

  He nodded slowly, suspiciously.

  'And I won't go alone,' Elizabeth-Anne added. 'I'd be bored to tears and get far too restless.' Her eyes twinkled mischievously as she glanced across the room at Dorothy-Anne. 'I don't really want to go at all. I want you to know that for the record. But I'm not adverse to it under one condition.'

  Dadourian sighed wearily. 'And what is that, pray tell?'

  She smiled at her great-granddaughter. 'That Dorothy-Anne accompanies me.'

  Dadourian turned around and stared at the child. Under the circumstances Elizabeth-Anne's five-year-old great-grandchild could only be a liability. What his old friend and patient needed was rest and therapy. However, the child did have a governess. Perhaps having company would even do her some good. That too could be therapy of sorts. Especially since the old woman and the young child were such fast friends. He turned back to Elizabeth-Anne. 'I suppose you'll take her whether I like it or not,' he said at last.

  'I knew I could count on you, Vartan.'

  Elizabeth-Anne settled upon the south of France. A real estate broker was called, and he combed the Maritime Alps until he found a suitable villa to lease. A local doctor was contacted who would drop by daily and keep his eye on her. Meanwhile, Henry had come up with a pride of private nurses who would accompany Elizabeth-Anne. There were three of them. The first a Miss Hepple, Elizabeth-Anne hated on sight. She was short and stout, a no-nonsense, middle-aged woman who was gruff and tight-lipped. Miss Hepple and Henry got along all too well for Elizabeth- Anne's liking. She could sniff out a spy when she saw one. She suspected that the woman had been instructed to report the slightest infraction of Dr. Dadourian's orders to Henry. She knew she would have to be careful. She wasn't planning on just lying around on chaises and sunning herself. She and Natalie Goldstine were going to be doing a lot of business over the telephone, contrary to doctor's orders. But she liked the other two nurses, Miss Bunt and Miss Kinney, and she sensed at once that they weren't very fond of the dour, overbearing Miss Hepple either.

  The trip was planned swiftly. The Hale jet would fly Elizabeth-Anne, Dorothy-Anne, her nanny, and the three nurses to Paris, and then on to Nice. From there, hired cars would drive them to St. Paul de Vence.

  The morning of the departure, Vartan Dadourian paid Elizabeth-Anne a last visit. 'You won't have to worry about a thing,' he assured her. 'Miss Hepple, Miss Kinney, and Miss Bunt are fine nurses. I've also arranged for a Fraulein Ilse Lang to meet you in St. Paul de Vence. She comes highly recommended. She's reputed to be the finest physical therapist in Europe.'

  'And I suppose you'll tell me next that if anyone can help me walk again, it's she?'

  He made a gesture of irritation. 'No, I won't. You know better than that. I've never kept anything from you in the past, and I'm not about to start doing that now. It's possible, of course, but none of us think you'll walk again. There has been too much damage.'

  Elizabeth-Anne nodded. 'Thank you, Vartan. It's cruel of you, but I need to know the truth, not a bunch of lies.'

  He eyed her sorrowfully. 'If I could - '

  'I know you would.' She held his hand and smiled. 'And I'm grateful, really I am. Perhaps the vacation will even do me some good.' She bit down on her lip. 'If only Miss Hepple weren't coming,' she murmured.

  'You don't like her?'

  She met his eye. 'Not a bit. My grandson Henry chose her for me because she's his spy. I can tell. She'll report back to him on everything I do.'

  'I could help recommend another nurse.'

  She shook her head. 'Don't bother. Knowing Henry, he'd make sure she was another Miss Hepple. At least I know who I need to watch out for.'

  Dadourian squinted his eyes dangerously. 'This doesn't mean you've lied to me, does it?'

  'Lied to you?'

  'Just remember what I told you. You're to do absolutely no work. At least not yet.' He paused. 'Absolutely none.'

  Elizabeth-Anne was not one to lie, even for convenience. She simply nodded vaguely, which she felt he could interpret any way he chose. She had extracted a solemn vow from Mrs. Goldstine to phone her regularly to keep her posted on any and all important business developments. She had a feeling that the transatlantic telephone wires would be buzzing. She knew all too well that if she, the center of power at Hale Hotels, was out of touch for too long, Henry could simply take over without anyone's knowing it. He could fire the staff which was loyal to her and replace them with his own people. Elizabeth-Anne alone could prevent this from happening. She knew once she lost control, she would have difficulty regaining it.

  Henry was her grandson, and she loved him dearly, despite his faults. But he was hungry for power. Far too hungry, and with her gone, his appetite could be sated far too easily .

  Somehow she would have to manage to keep him at bay. The alternative was too frightening.

  5

  The villa was named Le Fleur de Matin, the Flower of the Morning, and it was a picture postcard come to life. Nestled on a wooded hillside high above Cannes, the original portion of the house dated back to the thirteenth century. Fortified, renovated and expanded many times since, the villa was now an odd conglomeration of rambling buildings. It ranged from one to four stories in height, while a certain homogeity, and a guarantee of privacy, was provided by high walls surrounding the entire six acre property.

  Upon arriving, Elizabeth-Anne stared up at the house as the driver lifted her out of the car and gently set her down into her wheelchair. She let out a sigh of relief, seeing at a glance that she would be more than comfortable here. This was a dream house, a fanciful collect
ion of dark stained wood and sturdy stone surroundings on a colonnaded, grown vaulted terrace on three sides. Through the huge arches of this terrace, one could see for miles, and directly below it lay the villa's courtyard and garden, a sumptuous collection of cleverly clipped plane trees and lush vines.

  While the drivers, supervised by Miss Kenney and Miss Hepple, unloaded the mountains of luggage from the three cars, the real estate agent showed Elizabeth-Anne and Dorothy-Anne around. Even before they were shown the inside of the house, both great-grandmother and great- granddaughter were enchanted. This was their paradise, their own secret garden.

  The inside of the house posed few problems for Elizabeth-Anne's wheelchair, as she could live entirely on the ground floor. This arrangement was essential to her fierce pride in self-sufficiency and need for relative freedom of movement. All in all, the villa offered beauty, and comfort and privacy.

  But even paradise has its drawbacks.

  Despite days filled with Ilse Lang's therapy exercises, Dorothy-Anne's company, and hours spent on the phone with Natalie Goldstine (who called under the code name 'Alicia' to throw off the prying Miss Hepple), Elizabeth-Anne found herself growing increasingly restless. She was sick and tired of constantly sitting, sitting, sitting. She came to despise her wheelchair. It was at once her mode of transportation as well as the symbol of her affliction.

  But worst of all, she despised doing nothing. The therapy, the games, the telephone calls . . . it was all make- work. That was the worst part. She had spent a lifetime building and creating, managing and expanding. She ached for the thrill of accomplishment, the tension of even an average business day. There were only so many games one could play before one tired of them.

  She felt as if she had been put out to pasture.

  She would sit in the fragrant, shady courtyard and a single thought would enter her mind and fester there.

  If only there was something to do.

  It started out as a game.

  It turned into Les Petits Palais, an entirely new string of ultra luxurious, small hotels operating under the Hale Hotels banner.

  One early afternoon, after finishing lunch in the courtyard, Elizabeth-Anne and her great-granddaughter were in the midst of one of their usual, now lackadaisical, games. Dorothy-Anne would toss a huge, inflated beach ball at her great-grandmother, who would catch it, toss it back to her, and then move her wheelchair around a tree to another position. Dorothy-Anne soon tired of it, for which Elizabeth-Anne was extremely grateful. It was a game which was boring beyond endurance and taxed her energies severely.

  'Now we'll play hotel,' Dorothy-Anne announced out of the blue.

  Elizabeth-Anne felt tired. She eyed her great-grand- daughter sadly, then closed her eyes for a moment. 'If only we could, darling,' she said. 'But this isn't a hotel.'

  'Yes it is!' Dorothy-Anne nodded emphatically, secure in her childhood knowledge. A house was more than just four walls. It could be a cottage, or a castle, or even a hotel. 'We'll pretend it's a hotel. Anything's what you pretend it is.' She began to skip toward the house. She turned around and motioned excitedly for her great-grandmother to follow.

  Shaking her head, Elizabeth-Anne pushed on the wheels of her chair. 'Where are we going?'

  'Out front to the parking lot. We'll pretend we just got here, and we've got to unload our suitcases. That's the first thing that happens at a hotel, right?'

  'It certainly is, young lady.' Elizabeth-Anne regarded Dorothy-Anne with warm affection, delighted by her eager imagination. But Elizabeth-Anne wanted to play this new game even less than she'd wanted to play ball. It would only emphasize how far she was from her empire, from the heart of the passion which made her tick. But she was determined not to disappoint her favorite little girl; and besides, without Dorothy-Anne's company and vivacity, life would be completely unbearable.

  So Elizabeth-Anne followed Dorothy-Anne up to the house along the gently sloping ramp which had been constructed over the raised threshold, and then through the cool, dim downstairs halls and out to the large raked-gravel parking lot outside the walls. She looked at her great- granddaughter curiously. 'Well? What do you suggest we do now?'

  Dorothy-Anne's eyes sparkled. 'I'm riding in a car. See?' She raced to the end of the long drive, dwarfed by the two facing, sentinel rows of cypresses lining the smooth expanse of gravel, oblivious to Elizabeth-Anne's cries of caution. Then she spun around and came rushing back the way she had gone, but her demeanor had changed. She was pretending to drive a car, her hands clasped around an invisible steering wheel. She pulled up beside Elizabeth-Anne with a pretended screech that drove Elizabeth-Anne to clap her hands over her ears.

  Dorothy-Anne snuck a tiny, sideways flick of an eye at Elizabeth-Anne. 'Now I'm getting out, getting my luggage,' she explained.

  She mimed it to perfection, a wealthy dowager stepping out of the car, nonchalantly slamming the door and unlocking the trunk. She lifted out two enormously heavy, invisible suitcases and lugged them up to the front door.

  'Wait,' Elizabeth-Anne called quickly. Despite herself, she was getting caught up in the game. 'A porter has to come running and get the suitcases for you. A lady never needs to carry her own luggage. Not at a line hotel!'

  'Oh yes! Here he comes now.' Dorothy-Anne quickly set down her imaginary luggage and placed her hands on her hips. 'You're late, young man!' she chided threateningly, parodying someone she'd once heard. 'This is no way to earn a tip.' She glanced at Elizabeth-Anne. 'What do I do now?'

  'You tell him you have a reservation.'

  Dorothy-Anne held her head high with regal hauteur. 'I have a reservation,' she announced importantly.

  The game continued for an hour. Dorothy-Anne 'checked in' at the 'front desk,' a refectory table in the hall behind which Elizabeth-Anne quickly wheeled herself, pretending to be the concierge. Dorothy-Anne was then led by an invisible bellboy to the nonexistent elevator. She rode upstairs to her room (which was really still on the ground floor), and then she had lunch in the courtyard.

  And as Elizabeth-Anne watched the fantastic game, something slowly began to stir in the back of her mind.

  A small lobby with a desk, precisely where the refectory table was located.

  The image flashed through her thoughts, and she closed her eyes.

  All around her, the building seemed to come to life. She could almost hear the sounds of clattering dishes in the courtyard, the murmurs of earnest conversation, the light- hearted tinkle of silvery laughter. She could almost feel people gazing down from the colonnaded terrace above her.

  The quiet, whispering feet of bellboys.

  The ringing of the concierge's bell.

  The scraping of suitcases on the tiled floor.

  Startled, she opened her eyes and gazed around. Lithe, dancing fingertips prickled up and down her spine. A powerful surge of excitement billowed through her, and her eyes glittered with feverish excitement.

  'Great-Granny!' Dorothy-Anne called urgently. 'What is it? Is something wrong? You didn't bring me my drink!'

  But Elizabeth-Anne didn't hear her. She was lost deep in thought. She was in another world. The very world Dorothy-Anne had described to her earlier.

  Anything's what you wanted it to be.

  Yes! It could be!

  Slowly she spun her wheelchair around and gazed up at the immense, rambling house. The more she thought about it, the more she realized that it could be more than a villa. It really could! It could be -

  A hotel.

  A small, intimate luxury hotel in the heart of Provence. From what the help had told her, there were countless bedrooms upstairs.

  The farmhouse next door was deserted; a gallery could connect the two buildings.

  The courtyard would be the dining area.

  She glanced up at the colonnaded loggia. The loggia would be yet another dining room.

  An elevator would have to be installed.

  A staff found.

  More bathrooms put in.

&nb
sp; But the kitchen was big enough. She had seen it.

  The thoughts raced through her mind, one upon another.

  Suddenly she reached out and pulled Dorothy-Anne close. 'Darling!' Her whisper was solemn and intense, but her face was radiant. 'How would you like to turn this house into a hotel. A real hotel?'

  Dorothy-Anne stared at her. 'Oh, Great-Granny,' she breathed finally. 'Yes.'

  'But it's got to be a secret,' Elizabeth-Anne warned. 'No one must know.'

  'Oh, I can keep a secret. I promise.'

  Elizabeth-Anne raised her chin with satisfaction. She had found something to do.

  Now came the logistics.

  Buying the property, as well as the one next door. If they were for sale.

  Finagling finances - her banks were located three thousand miles away. Large sums of money would have to be transferred to a local bank. She couldn't use Hale Hotels money; Henry would get wind of it immediately. But she had millions of her own tucked away.

  Hiring a contractor. And a hand-picked staff

  And while all that was going on, she had to be certain Miss Hepple was far removed from it all. For now, she would change her to the night shift. And, something else hadn't escaped her sharp eyes. She had noticed the dour woman staring at the young, live-in gardener. She hated to do it. She was a business woman, not a pimp. However, no one knew better than she that special circumstances required special solutions.

  A thousand francs changed hands. The gardener began to speak to Miss Hepple, who was icy and insulting. And intrigued.

  The real estate agent who had leased Elizabeth-Anne the house was sent to Paris, where he successfully negotiated for its sale.

  Two million dollars were wired from New York to the local bank.

  The deserted farmhouse next door was soon hers too.

  Another thousand francs were paid to the gardener. Miss Hepple was thawing, and soon he was taking her on long drives around the countryside. His instructions were specific: to keep the nurse away for as long a period of time each day as was humanly possible. Miss Hepple quickly became an authority on the local landscape and customs.