Shades of Trust

by Cristiane Serruya

  “This is the type of place that you imagine just can’t get any better, but it continually surpasses our expectations.”

  “I always stay here because of Gabriela. There are few hotels in Paris that receive children like George V.” She looked around as well and her eyes sparkled. She licked her lips as if she could taste the scented lobby.

  “I don’t know if I like this expression of yours.” Alistair cocked his head. “What are you planning now?”

  Sophia wasn’t listening. She was intently examining the orchids that appeared to be floating in air. That’s it. “Mmm,” she moaned and purred, “I want him. I want Jeff.”

  “What?!” Alistair was aghast. He blinked at his future wife. “You want…Jeff?” Who the hell is Jeff?

  She started and looked up at his face. “Yes, Jeff Leatham. He’s the artistic director of the hotel. The amazing flower designer responsible for this,” she said, raising her arms to indicate the superb floral arrangements. “For our wedding. I have to call him. Now. He’s very sought after.”

  “Madame Leibowitz. Lord Ells. What a pleasure!” Christopher Norton, the general manager was waiting to accompany them to the Penthouse Suite Sophia had booked for them. “Your luggage has arrived and I’ve already sent the Rolls for your sisters. Their flight is supposed to land in half an hour.”

  “Superb, Chris.” She linked her fingers with Alistair’s and smiled at the manager. “Could you get me an appointment with Jeff Leatham? We are getting married in August and I’ll have no one but Jeff for the flowers, and of course, for all his creative ideas.”

  “Congratulations to you both! I’m sure Jeff will be thrilled, Madame.” He exited the lift and opened the doors for them.

  Designed to resemble an elegant European residence, the Presidential Suite was two-thousand square feet, and its six terraces offered a three-hundred-and-sixty degree view of Paris. Jeff Leatham’s beautiful floral arrangements, along with French paintings, Blue de Chine pottery, and the floral damask fabrics in golden-yellows-and-dark-blues created the sense of a luxury home.

  Their personal maid and butler were already unpacking their luggage in the main bedroom.

  Alistair let Sophia organize things and asked for refreshments as he went directly to put Gabriela in bed in her room on the other side of the suite. She stirred and mumbled something, but didn’t wake up.

  “She’ll wake up only for dinner now,” Maria said as she took off the little girl’s shoes. “I’ll take care of her, Mr. MacCraig.”

  “Perfect, Maria. Thanks.” He stopped to look once more at the blonde girl sleeping like an angel before he exited the room, softly closing the door behind him. How could I have been so lucky? Two angels gift-wrapped in one cloud is better than I deserve.

  He slowly made his way back to the living room where Sophia was talking excitedly with a thin, tall, dark-haired man dressed in a black T-shirt and black washed jeans.

  “Alistair, come here.” She grinned happily at him. “This is Jeff Leatham. Jeff, my fiancé, Alistair Connor.”

  The men shook hands and Alistair sat beside Sophia, who handed him a flute of Krug champagne. They toasted and he pulled her by the waist, snuggling her close to his body, as she talked of her ideas to the flower designer, who made a few notes. Alistair’s mind was only half-engaged in their conversation until he heard Sophia stating that she wanted no white flowers.

  Fuck, Sophia. You’re a widow, but this is too much. It’s a wedding for Christ’s sake! “Why not?” he frowned down at her.

  “It’s too virginal,” she wrinkled her nose. “It’s not appropriate.”

  Jeff’s laughter filled the room. “My dear, if that were true no bride would wear white anymore.”

  “Sophia, this time I’m getting married in a church. Can’t we have white for the wedding ceremony, at least?”

  Church?! I’m Jewish. There’ll be no— She realized that they’d never talked about religion. She turned her head to face him, but he was eyeing Jeff.

  “I want white roses and orange blossoms in the chapel at Airgead. It’s all in dark wood and rock. White will be perfect. And I want the air scented with vanilla.”

  Damn. How am I going to solve this? She squeezed Alistair’s hand, saying, “We can decide on the flowers for the wedding ceremony later, can’t we, Jeff?”

  “Yes, of course. So, I’ll block off my schedule for that week. I’ll be waiting for the photos and the floor plans.” He closed his black leather Moleskine.

  They rose and walked to the suite door. Jeff grinned at her and said, “Sophia, your wedding will be fun to do. I already have a million ideas for it. Black iron and green for one day, crystal glass, purple and orange for the other—”

  “And white for the ceremony,” Alistair reaffirmed.

  “White for the ceremony,” Jeff concurred as he shook hands with Alistair. He kissed Sophia on the cheeks. “White roses and orange blossoms, Sophia. And vanilla scented air. A romantic groom’s wish cannot be denied.”

  Sophia shook her head and sighed. “All right, then.” But there will be no chapel.

  Chapter 16

  Jesus, Mary and Joseph! “We’ve been at it for at least ten minutes, but you haven’t convinced me at all. If you don’t believe or follow a specific religion, why not marry in mine?”

  You’re not listening. “Because I can’t change religions like I change clothes. One minute Catholic, the other Jewish, and then back to Catholic.” She made a face at him. “Then next year, I’ll be a Buddhist. Can’t you see it’s ridiculous?”

  “You said yourself that God didn’t need a name. What’s the difference?” He raked a hand through his hair, pacing the living room. Why are you creating so many difficulties?

  “There’s Gabriela to consider too. She’s also Jewish.” She shook her head. “What’s the problem with a civil marriage?” I can’t marry in the Catholic Church anymore.

  An aggravated sigh left his lips and he looked away as he toyed with the champagne flute in his fingers. You did it for Gabriel. Why not for me?

  “I didn’t know you were so religious,” she murmured, walking to his side, touching his stiff back with light fingers. “You said you married…uh, her at a registry office.”

  “I did.” Slowly, he turned to watch her face, green eyes narrowing. “But you are no’ her. I’m no’ marrying you on a whim, because you’re pregnant. Nae,” he shook his head, impatiently. “You are the one. The one that I want to spend my life with. The one that makes me happy.”

  Oh. My. She looked in his eyes and capitulated. “Would you agree to an ecumenical wedding? We could build a place outside.”

  “Aye, I would.” His shoulders visibly relaxed. “The Church of Scotland is very flexible.”

  “I’ll find a rabbi and a priest that will agree to it.”

  “I’ll talk to Father Bruce. He baptized me. I’m sure he’ll be happy to oblige us.”

  “While we are talking about it, did you—”

  A knock sounded on the door, interrupting them. Sophia walked to the hall to open the suite door.

  She barely had time to steady herself when her twin sisters threw themselves at her, babbling in Portuguese at the same time.

  “Easy girls, easy.” Sophia backed away from the two lively girls.

  “What happened,” Victoria started and Valentina finished, “to your face?”

  “I fell.” Sophia was more than used to their strange way of finishing each other’s sentences. “The stitches come out next week. Come on in, girls.”

  They walked into the living room where Alistair was eating a piece of Bleu de Brèsse. His hand stopped in midair and his mouth dropped open when he peered at the petite girls, with their arms wrapped around Sophia’s waist. He had already seen photos of them, but nothing could have prepared him for the real thing.

  Victoria and Valentina were absolutely identical. They were short, five-foot-three, slender and delicate, with abundant light blonde hair that ended in large c
urls at the middle of their backs; their blue eyes sparkled on their peachy skin, complemented by heart shaped mouths. They were nothing like Sophia and Felipe or even Carolina. To make things worse they were wearing identical outfits, faded blue denim jackets over plain white T-shirts and shredded white jeans, pink flats and orange Hermès Birkin bags.

  “Where is Gabriela?” they asked at the same time.

  “Sleeping,” Sophia answered. “Let me introduce you to your future brother-in-law.”

  Victoria whispered in her right ear, “Oh, my. He is,” and Valentina added in her left ear, “a giant hunk.”

  “Behave, girls,” Sophia admonished in a murmur.

  Valentina let go of Sophia’s waist and approached Alistair, who was standing by the sofa. “Hi there. Aren’t you big?” She put her hands on his shoulder and stood on her tiptoes to kiss him. “I’m Victoria.”

  Victoria flanked an astonished Alistair on his other side and repeated the gesture. “And I’m Valentina.”

  “Alistair Connor. It’s a pleasure, uh, Victoria” he looked at Valentina who nodded, and then to Victoria, “and you’re Valentina.”

  “Got it,” they answered him, smirking.

  Sophia looked from one to the other and put her hands on her hips. “Girls! Grow up, will you?”

  The twins giggled and turned to Alistair again, correcting themselves, and confusing him even more. “She’s Victoria,” Valentina pointed to her sister, while Victoria did the same, “and she’s Valentina.”

  Christ! Alistair eyed Sophia, shaking his head slightly, and asked, “Are they right in the head?”

  Sophia laughed. “No. They are not. Call them both Vic, or Val. They’ll answer anyway.”

  What? “Very well.” He grinned down at the twins. “So, Vics, do you care for some champagne?”

  Thursday, April 15, 2010

  9:51 a.m.

  Breakfast was served on the terrace overlooking the Madeleine, the Opera, and the Pantheon.

  Sophia was distractedly enjoying the view and drinking the freshly pressed orange and strawberry juice, when Alistair asked, “How do you distinguish the twins?”

  “By their behavior. Valentina is the youngest by two minutes, and more impulsive. Victoria is sweeter, calmer. When they were small—well, even now—Val comes up with mischief and Vic eagerly follows. A hint for you, Victoria has a small scar on her chin,” Sophia tilted her head and pointed to the right underside of her own chin, “right here. She fell from her horse trying to jump a fence and got three stitches.”

  He grasped her hand, lacing his fingers with hers, drawing her attention back to his face. “Do you still miss your parents, Sophia?”

  She almost choked with the unexpected change of subject. She put the glass on the table, swallowed the juice and dabbed her mouth with her napkin, clearing her throat. “Yes. I do. Very much. It’s a…an eternal void, even fifteen years after. I only remember flashes; my father pushing me on a swing or my mother helping me with my homework. But mostly, what I remember are…” She sighed and raised her eyes to his. “The senses. Her smell and her caresses. Her soft bosom. His laughter and booming voice. The feeling of freedom when he would throw me up in the air and catch me.” Her lips trembled. “Cherished memories.”

  Whenever she looked at him with those sad, dark brown, emotion-filled eyes, Alistair wanted to wrap his arms around her, shielding her from all harm and pain. To make love to her until she was laughing again, that tinkled sound that made his heartbeat accelerate to a thousand per minute. “How did you cope with it?”

  “Family love and a special friendship between me and my siblings. We were very close. My family was only us. No uncles, no aunts, no cousins. When they died, Felipe, Carolina and I, we…we became inseparable. We had all our meals together. We slept in their room all the time. And we spent all the time we could with the twins. The best thing my grandparents did was to send me away. Me and Carol. After a week in Lausanne, I missed my parents so much, I missed my brother and my little sisters so much, all I wanted was to go back. I went through a month of unparalleled anger.” She gazed up to the blue sky and the sparse soft clouds, seeing her parents’ fading faces on them, remembering those times. “I know anger is acceptable when you’re grieving, especially when you’re a ten year old girl. Carol was eight, but she grew ancient in just a few weeks. And Felipe, he carried the weight of it all on his shoulders. He closed himself off, and like Carol, became an adult instantly. Always worrying about the future so much that he forgot to live his present. He was only sixteen. I think he thought he had to fill my father’s shoes.”

  He brushed a lock of her raven hair behind her ear just to touch her. If he could, he would have pulled out all that grief from her soul.

  Sophia leaned her face on his hand for a moment, closing her eyes and letting his warmth seep into her. “It was hard. It was a pain that went on and on and it never ended. It’s perverse to lose both parents at the same time,” she bit her lip and shook her head. A tear fell down her cheek when she whispered, “It was too soon to say good-bye. And what is even worse…time dulls the pain, but then it also bleaches the good memories…” Her words trailed away with a helpless gesture with her hand.

  Instinct overcame him and he brought her onto his lap, nestling her back on his arm. Her pain unveiled his own. He couldn’t imagine Nathalie’s memories fading away. “I’m sorry, mo gràdh.”

  Sophia sank on his chest. Solid. Warm. So real. When she looked up into his eyes, she saw her own heartache mirrored there, as if he felt her ache as his. Oh, Alistair Connor. You had it even worse than I did, didn’t you? She regarded him with love, as his pain-filled eyes reminded her he had lost a child and there was nothing more perverse than that.

  “That’s why I want Gabriela to have at least another sibling. I can’t imagine what it would have been like if I were an only child. Yeah, my grandparents were there. They were supportive and loving. But…my sisters and my brother…we shared the same pain and we bore it together. In that year in Lausanne, I was always with Carol. Joined by grief, by need, by love. We helped each other the best way we could. We dealt with our…acceptable anger, by doing things all sorts of mad things. We won every fencing competition. And every horse race, giving the horses rein as if we were chasing their killer. We punched our dough in the Cordon Bleu class, instead of kneading it delicately for hours, like it was responsible for their death. After a while, every girl in the class was passing us their dough behind the teacher’s back for us to knead it.” She smiled at the memories. “The teacher, he knew, of course. But he closed his eyes to that. The only time we were punished was when we fought over something ridiculous with a schoolmate and we had a flour war in Monsieur Putton’s kitchen. He had a fit and called the head-teacher.”

  His fingers combed her hair, bringing solace to the dull ache that was always waiting to resurface.

  “What was the punishment?” His voice was intense as if he would take revenge on the teacher who dared punish her.

  “It was not that bad. Monsieur Putton had a very gentle heart. He was fun and talented. We lost our weekend outings for three months in a row. He said he was going to teach us to respect our elders, other people’s opinion, and food.” Her lips curled up softly. “We learned to respect the kitchen. Oh, we did. For a few weekends, we were in the kitchen from ten in the morning to four in the afternoon. We peeled vegetables, we polished the pans and cooking utensils. We cleaned the kitchen until it shined. And we cooked. So many different recipes that we were never the same again. Carol cooks even better than I do. She’s always wanted to be a chef.” Her smile grew. “The sacrifice was rewarding. A lesson taught with love and sweets. That is the way lessons should be taught. With love.” She licked her lips and took an apple from the fruit plate. “I promise I’ll bake cookies and my decadent chocolate and fresh wild berries tartlet for you next week.”

  Before she bit the apple he snatched it from her hand and bit it himself and offered it back to her
.

  The sinful look he gave her made her mind reel.

  She was unable to make sense of the changes that came over him without explanation. One minute he was profoundly sad and the other, extremely aroused. She’d never experienced anything like it.

  “You are scandalously debauched, Lord Mercurial,” she whispered to him.

  He brushed her hair away and kissed her neck, nibbling the soft skin under her ear and sucking her earlobe lightly, before he confessed, “I’ve become so many different men since I met you that sometimes I don’t even recognize myself.”

  “And that’s a good thing? Becoming Lord Multiple Personality?”

  He raised his head and looked at her very seriously. “Sophia, in hindsight, I know that my relationship with Heather was…the worst kind that could have happened to me. However, I can understand why I entered it. I, as any healthy man, have sexual fantasies, but she…she was obsessed with sex in the most perverted way.” His lips curled in a half grimace. “I’m still asking myself why. Have I told you I started seeing a therapist?”

  “No,” she breathed, surprised. “Do you like it?”

  “Aye,” he smiled amused. I was surprised myself, sweetheart. “Unbelievable, isn’t it? I wonder, mo chridhe, if you realize how much you’ve changed me. It’s miraculous.”

  Stop. I’m not responsible. You are. “Why did you start going?”

  “First, you said I should. Then Tavish Uilleam. He said that I was poisoned. That Heather had awoken my dark side. He convinced me to at least try. Andrew, my therapist, made me see things in a different light.”

  “Like what?” She shifted on his lap to sit up straighter.

  He looked away from her face and sighed. “I told him about my—Heather’s sexual preferences, which I gladly indulged. Just like a drug addiction, it started with small experiences, and I had an illusion of self-control. That I could control myself, her and all the, uh, partners we had. At first, it was only linked to the idea of physical and psychological gratification, that we were learning and being rewarded, and…I think this idea created a dependence.”