13
'I want to hear everything!' Jeanne said excitedly when Hélène returned to Saint-Nazaire. 'Did you see the Comte? Was his son handsome?'
Hélène looked across the kitchen table at Jeanne and smiled weakly. She cupped her hands around the warm coffee mug and looked quietly down into it. 'Yes,' she said slowly. 'He was very handsome.'
'Did you fall madly in love with him?'
It was supposed to be a joke, but Hélène couldn't laugh. She shook her head. 'At first, I thought I did. I'm afraid he was more taken with me than I was with him.'
Jeanne stared at her. 'You mean he. . .?'
Hélène nodded. 'He asked me to marry him.'
'You're not serious!' Jeanne gave Hélène an appraising look. Then her voice took on a quiet respect. 'You are serious.'
Hélène nodded.
Jeanne looked sharply at Hélène. 'Don't tell me you turned him down!'
Hélène smiled. 'I did.'
'Well, that does it! Now I have to hear every last detail!'
They talked far into the night. Hélène didn't omit a thing. When she got to the part about the ball, Jeanne shook her head. She couldn't believe it. It all sounded too lavish for this world.
'You'll have to see my gown,' Hélène said wistfully. 'It was the most beautiful one there.'
Jeanne's eyes brightened. 'I can't wait to see it.'
Suddenly Hélène smiled. She reached across the table and put her hand on top of Jeanne's. 'Tell you what. I'll give it to you. It'll need a little taking in since you're so skinny, but it will make the perfect wedding gown.'
Jeanne shook her head. 'I could never accept it,' she said in a tight voice. 'It. . .it means too much to you.'
Hélène smiled. 'You must accept it. I wanted to make a dress for you, but this one is just perfect. I want you to look beautiful. After all, you get married only once, right?' She waited for Jeanne's nod. 'And you want to look beautiful for Edmond, don't you?'
'Yes, but.. . you might need to wear it someplace. . .'
Hélène shook her head. 'I'll never have the opportunity to wear it again.'
Jeanne looked doubtful. 'But what about when you get to Paris?'
Hélène sighed. 'That's still a long way off, I'm afraid. Madame Dupre gave me a generous bonus, and I've saved quite a bit of money already, but it's not enough. Not for Paris.' Suddenly her face broke into a smile. 'How is Edmond?'
'He was here for only two days,' Jeanne said. 'He decided we could use the extra money, so instead of taking his month's vacation, he went back out to sea. It seems that your ambition is rubbing off on him.'
'What do you mean?'
Jeanne suddenly clapped a hand over her mouth. 'Oh-oh. Now I've let the cat out of the bag.'
Hélène's eyes narrowed. She leaned across the table. 'Out with it,' she demanded.
'I'm not supposed to tell you,' Jeanne said hesitantly. 'Edmond wanted to tell you himself.'
Hélène chuckled. 'You told me this much; now I might as well hear the rest.'
Jeanne sighed and shook her head. Then her voice dropped an octave. 'We're saving up so that Edmond can go to school.'
Hélène's eyes widened in surprise. This was news, indeed. 'School,' she repeated aloud, rolling the word on her tongue. A sudden keen intuition came over her. Edmond was right. An education would serve him well.
Jeanne's eyes burned with earnestness, but when she spoke, it was in a curiously soft voice. 'Edmond wants more out of life than just being a fisherman, Hélène. He wants a future. He wants to be somebody. And when we have children, he wants them to be somebody, too. So he's thinking of going into law.' She paused. 'Just like you, he decided that in order to do it, he needs to return to Paris.'
'Paris!' Hélène's eyes lit up and she could feel her heart beginning to pound. 'That's wonderful! she said.
Breathlessly Jeanne plunged on. 'We've got it all worked out. For the next two years we'll scrimp and save. Then, as soon as we can afford it, we'll follow you to the city. They say there are many jobs there, so I shouldn't have any trouble finding work as a waitress. That way, I can help pay his way while he's going to the university!' She looked at Hélène proudly.
It's too bad that we no longer have Maman's house in Montmartre, Hélène thought bitterly. Then none of us would have to wait to get to Paris. But instead of voicing these thoughts, she asked brightly, 'When's the fleet due in?'
'Next Friday. And the wedding is on the following day. Just think, Edmond's getting a whole week off!'
Hélène grinned. 'Good. There'll be enough time for two celebrations, then.'
Jeanne frowned. 'Two?'
'Of course. One for your marriage, the other for your future.' Suddenly Hélène sprang to her feet and began to pace thoughtfully up and down the kitchen. She tapped an index finger against her lips. 'Let me see, now. . .there's the wedding. Are all the preparations made?'
Jeanne nodded.
'Good. And we'll have to plan a big dinner and. . .Good Lord! There's still so much to be done. We have no time to lose! You'd better come by my place this Sunday. I'll have to do the alterations on the gown immediately! And if I can find the right fabric by then, I'll sew your veil, also.'
Jeanne stared at her. Suddenly she started to laugh.
Hélène stopped pacing and looked at her. 'What's so funny?'
'You look so nervous, everyone would think you're the bride!'
14
The wedding was beautiful and Jeanne was the picture of the bride that all women dream they will be one day. Hélène sighed. This was a fairy-tale dream that happened once in your life. And Edmond was waiting for his lady, understandably nervous, yet visibly anxious for her arrival, for their hands to be joined forever.
Now it was over and Hélène realized that her time had come—not to meet her love, but finally to return to her beloved Paris to pursue her own dream.
She was ready.
Carefully she stepped over two sets of railroad tracks to the third platform. Edmond set her cardboard suitcase down at her feet. She turned around and looked at the small party of well-wishers who followed her. The only friends she had were here. Jeanne, Edmond, and Madame Dupre. And now she would be separated from them. Tears stung at her eyes. How long would it be until she saw them all again? she wondered.
She could hear the faint chugging of a locomotive. She glanced down the tracks. In the distance, a plume of white smoke marked the approaching train.
'It's coming,' Jeanne murmured.
Hélène held her breath. She nodded with apprehension.
Madame Dupre gave Hélène a small package. 'I've made you some sandwiches,' she said.
Hélène nodded gratefully.
'Wait a second, there's one more thing.' Madame Dupre reached into her pocketbook, took out an envelope, and pressed it into Hélène's hand.
Hélène looked at it curiously. 'What is this?'
'A little something that might come in handy,' Madame Dupre said vaguely.
Slowly Hélène lifted the flap of the envelope. She could see money inside. 'No,' she said firmly.
'You'll need it,' Madame Dupre said, pushing Hélène's hand aside. 'There isn't much. I didn't have a chance to go to the bank. It was all there was in the cash drawer.'
Hélène embraced Madame Dupre. For a moment she couldn't speak. 'Thank you,' she said finally, her voice husky. 'For everything. I'll never forget all you've done for me.'
Madame Dupre's eyes were moist. 'You just become successful!' she whispered. 'You just take Paris by storm!'
'I will,' Hélène promised. She turned to Jeanne. 'Good-bye, friend.'
Jeanne's lips quivered. Then she drew Hélène wordlessly toward her.
'You'll take care of Edmond?' Hélène asked softly.
Jeanne nodded. She looked ready to burst into tears.
Hélène turned to Edmond.
'Well, it looks like you're finally on your way, Little French Girl,' he said softly.
H
élène found herself sniffling. She threw herself into his arms. He wrapped them around her, and she could feel his gentle strength. 'I'm frightened, Edmond,' she whispered.
He looked at her in surprise. 'What of?'
'Paris.'
'Don't be,' he said solemnly.
'I don't like to be all alone.'
'Don't worry. We'll join you there as soon as it's possible. And Jeanne will write to you every week.'
Hélène nodded and looked up at him. She smiled through her tears. 'If I'm rich before you, I'll send for you and put you through school.'
'And if I get through school before you're rich, Little French Girl, I'll start a magazine for you.'
The train rolled in with a metallic screech and then crawled to a stop with a mighty hiss and a jolt. Hélène looked up at the rows of grimy green cars. Then she glanced at her friends. There was nothing more to be said.
'Off you go,' Edmond said cheerfully, extricating himself from her arms. 'To Paris.'
A lump rose up in her throat. 'To Paris,' she repeated softly.
TODAY
Thursday, January 11
1
It was after ten o'clock in the morning when James Cortland Gore III spun his swivel chair around to face his office window. It overlooked New York harbor to the right and the East River to the left. Idly he switched his gaze directly downward. Twenty-one stories below, he could see the tourists already swarming around on the decks of the antique tall ships that were docked at the South Street Seaport.
He spun back around to face his desk and pulled open the top drawer, where he kept his cigars. Opening the wooden box, he selected one, sniffed it, held it to his ear, and carefully rattled it. Satisfied, he trimmed the end off, leaned back, and lit it slowly. He folded his hands over his ample stomach as the expensive aroma of the Havana filled the office. Contentedly he puffed at it.
Things were certainly looking up, he thought with satisfaction. In fact, in a few days he might even surprise Geraldine by ordering the half-million- dollar Chris Craft Roamer she had been hungering after. He thought about it for a moment. Yes, a yacht might be very nice indeed. After all, there would be nothing to do on board but eat and drink, and he loved to do both. Best of all, it would even be affordable. Because only last night he had received another telephone call. . ..
He had been at home going over some documents in the big paneled study, a redolent pine fire sparkling in the fireplace when the call came.
'Do you know who this is?' the familiar voice asked softly.
His heart had begun to pound wildly and he looked around to make sure he was alone in the room. Geraldine had an unnerving habit of entering a room quiet as a mouse, and you'd never even know she was there. 'Yes,' he whispered into the receiver as if the walls might overhear.
'Well? Have you come to a decision?'
He took the silk handkerchief out of the breast pocket of his red silk smoking jacket and mopped his forehead. He had broken out in a sweat.
'Yes,' he finally answered. 'I have decided.'
'And your answer?' the voice demanded.
He hesitated, but only fractionally. 'I'll do it,' he whispered. 'She will not get an extension. I will arrange it so that you will get her shares.'
'Good.' The voice sounded satisfied. 'The moment we sign the papers, you will receive a briefcase containing one million dollars.'
'Consider it done.'
The phone clicked and went dead, and it took him a moment to realize that the caller had hung up. His chins were quivering as he replaced the receiver. He felt relief. Yes, and at the same time, he was very nervous. As nervous as he was each time he 'wrote' himself a loan.. . .
The intercom on his desk buzzed. He leaned forward and pressed the button. 'Yes, Alice?'
'Mr. Gore, there are two men from accounting here to see you.'
He stared at the intercom, his face going pale. Men? From accounting? Once again he began to break out in a sweat. Good God, not the auditors, he prayed. Not at a time like this. Not when he'd be able to replace all his 'borrowings' in less than a week's time. Dear, sweet, merciful God, no. Then he put the brakes on this ridiculous train of thought. He was just feeling guilty and panicky. There really was nothing to fear. After all, it was part of his job to deal with the accounting department. It would not do to panic each time he had to talk things over with them. That thought made him feel better, but one thing was certain. As soon as he got his hands on the million, he'd lose no time in replacing the missing funds.
After a long moment he cleared his throat. 'Send them in,' he said.
Seconds later, Alice opened the door and ushered them into his office. His heart began to thump and he thought he was going to be sick. Instantly he realized that he had reason to panic. These were not just two men from accounting. He recognized them. The short, stocky one was Paluzzi, the tall blond one O'Rourke. They were part of the bank's internal auditing team.
Gore's mind began to race. If he didn't think fast, he'd find his whole world, his dreams, indeed his whole life come crashing down all around him. Somehow he'd have to stall them; somehow he'd have to find a way to gain a week in order to dig himself out of this mess. Above all, he must conceal his fears. His guilt.
'Gentlemen,' he said with a forced smile. 'Won't you have a seat?'
They nodded expressionlessly and sat down in the two overstuffed chairs that faced his desk.
Gore quietly folded his hands on the polished mahogany surface. It did not surprise him to find that his hands were shaking. Trying to keep his voice natural, he favored the men with the friendliest look he could muster. 'What can I do for you?'
Paluzzi looked curiously at him. A sturdy Italian with thick black hair and extremely broad shoulders, he looked more like a weight lifter than an accountant. But looks can deceive. Gore knew that Paluzzi's reputation at ManhattanBank was secure. He was the best auditor they had.
'Mr. Gore,' Paluzzi said softly, 'we've been going over your accounts dating back over the last five years. The first forty-three months are in order. But beginning seventeen months ago, we've found some discrepancies.'
'Discrepancies?' Gore could feel his blood pressure rise. 'What kind of discrepancies?'
Paluzzi's dark eyes were steady. 'I think you already know, Mr. Gore.'
This can't be happening, he told himself over and over. It's only a nightmare. A nightmare. It'll be over when I wake up.
Now O'Rourke spoke up. 'Don't you want to know the amount of the discrepancy, Mr. Gore?'
No! He didn't want to hear another word. He couldn't bear it any longer. But in a faraway voice he found himself murmuring, 'How much?'
'Exactly five hundred thousand, ninety-five dollars,' Paluzzi said. 'All of it missing from your accounts.'
Gore forced a thin laugh. The moment it came out, he realized how unconvincing it sounded. 'You must be mistaken,' he said. 'You have the ledgers?'
'In our office. They are correct.'
Gore pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. 'I would like to go over them with you, if it won't be inconvenient. Could you wait outside for me? I would like to make a telephone call first.' He caught them exchanging glances. He puffed his chest out with dignity. 'No, gentlemen,' he assured them, 'I'm not going to call a lawyer. I have no need for one.'
O'Rourke looked questioningly at Paluzzi. The shorter man shrugged. Then both got up and went back into the outer office, closing the door softly behind them.
Gore covered his face with his hands. It was over. He didn't stand a chance now. He would be branded a thief, put in jail, ostracized from his clubs, never find another job. At least not in another bank. No bank in the world would ever touch him again. He was a thief.
One more week, and everything would have turned out differently. But now? Now it was too late. Suddenly he wondered what Geraldine would think. He smiled bitterly. She'd probably be mad as all hell that after all her years of working so hard at being a social item, it would be gone down the d
rain in one fell swoop. She would despise him.
Geraldine didn't like losers.
Slowly he walked toward the door, then stopped and turned around to stare out the window. From here, all he could see was the sky. Like a siren, it seemed to beckon sweetly.
Suddenly he knew what he had to do. It was the only way out.
He took a deep breath. Then, before he could change his mind, he charged forward, holding his hands out in front of him. They smashed through the plate glass, his knees caught on the thigh-high air-conditioning and heating ducts, and as he plunged through the window, his body did a grotesque, graceless somersault.
The sudden rush of cold air felt strangely exhilarating. He let out one short scream, and then it was all over.
Geraldine had been right. Her husband did kill himself. If not because of the Bulgari bracelet, then because of some others.
2
Hélène was standing behind her desk, her back to the windows. She looked down at the artboards that completely hid the beautifully inlaid marquetry. There was a thoughtful expression on her face. The artboards were all mock- ups of Junot magazine covers. The tissue paper protecting each picture had been carefully folded back behind each board, and a sea of glossy faces stared coldly up at her. She studied each one closely.
There was La Moda, with a fiercely scowling super-model; French Les Modes showing a tart with glossy, pouting lips; the German Mode cover girl, almost in too aggressive a pose; and a sweet-faced, airbrushed blond for American Les Modes.
It was funny, Hélène thought, that the average American woman preferred the sweet-looking girl-next-door-type model to the angular Amazonian Venus the Europeans adored. Her eyes roved on.
The English edition of Les Modes showed a full figure in a billowing summer dress by Halston, and Yachting and Boating had a photo of two 'New Wave' girls in blue suede bikinis at the helm of an outrageously expensive Riva speedboat.
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