“I can hardly believe it,” had exclaimed the teacher after the first week. “That child has an incredible memory. Once he’s heard a word, he never forgets it. And his accent is almost perfect.”
That’s my bright boy, thought Brigitte proudly. “I wish I could get rid of my accent as easily.”
“Oh, no! On you it’s very attractive,” replied the tutor. “Don’t even try to lose it.”
Brigitte smiled gratefully at the elderly man. It was the first compliment she had received in a long time. Alex hardly seems to notice me anymore.
Brigitte enjoyed every moment she spent with her son. Even after the endless hours of sanding and painting, varnishing and polishing, day after day downstairs, she still had more freedom than she ever enjoyed before. After so many years of having precious little time to devote to David, she delighted in the luxury of spending long, delicious hours with her son.
Most of all, Brigitte was thrilled to discover David had a gift for art. At the end of his school day, David rushed back home, and eagerly came to paint beside her.
“He spends hours at my easel,” said Brigitte to Alex one night, freeing her hair from the hair band and brushing out a few pieces of plaster.
Alex had come home earlier than usual that evening and Brigitte quickly changed out of her paint splattered overalls before showing him her son’s latest effort.
“He’s got a good eye and he’s adept with a brush. Look at this. The composition is wonderful. The colors are good. Even his use of shadows is amazing.”
Alex glanced at the painting and then turned back to Brigitte, shaking his head. “You coddle him. The boy should be outside getting some fresh air, playing with kids his own age. You shouldn’t keep him cooped up all the time.”
Brigitte was hurt at her husband’s lack of enthusiasm. “Alex, for goodness sake. David can’t play sports. He has a heart condition.” She had repeated this so many times, she couldn’t bring herself to tell him about David’s epilepsy.
“I don’t want to argue with you,” answered Alex irritably. “But you know as well as I do that he needs to be active. Running around in the sunshine would do him a hell of a lot more good than keeping him cooped up inside, playing with paint. He needs to get stronger. Don’t get me wrong, David is a great kid, but he’s too dependent on you.”
He’s jealous, realized Brigitte, shocked. The thought had flashed through her mind so quickly that she wondered if she had said it out loud.
“Alex,” she said gently. “I’m still adapting to living in New York and so is David. It’s normal that we spend a lot of time together. Of course I love him, he’s my son, but that doesn’t take away my feelings for you. I wish you and I could spend more time together, too. But you are always so busy, we never seem to be together anymore.”
Alex was silent for a moment. “Sometimes, I just don’t understand you, Brigitte. I married you, and I come home every night. Isn’t that enough? Here I am, working myself to the bone trying to earn a good living for you and your son, and rather than appreciate me, you make me feel guilty for neglecting you.”
The words cut through Brigitte like knife, making her feel like an ungrateful child. How can he say that? she wondered. I try so hard to be understanding and supportive.
* * *
One month later, the last coat of varnish on the wood floors had dried and the first apartment was ready to rent. Determined to reduce Alex’s load in any way she could, Brigitte placed ads in the neighborhood paper herself, and over the next few days, she showed the apartment to dozens of prospective tenants. By the end of the week, it was rented.
That evening, Brigitte put on a clingy black dress, piled her hair high, and sprayed herself with perfume. When Alex walked in later that night, she greeted him at the door with glass of wine in one hand and a check from the new tenants in the other.
In bed later, sated from the first lovemaking they’d had in a long while, Alex leaned over her, brushed a wisp of her red hair off her face, and said, “I’d almost forgotten what a beautiful wife I have.”
Brigitte knew his amorous mood had been greatly inspired from the relief of the downstairs apartment bringing in money at last.
She smiled and said, “The rental income will more than cover the mortgage payments. What should we to do with the rest of the money?” She was dreaming of a short Holiday just for the two of them. This was the perfect opportunity to get away and fall in love all over again. Besides, they hadn’t been on real honeymoon yet.
“We’ll pay the mortgage with part of it,” answered Alex. He was staring at an invisible spot on the ceiling, his eyes shining. “And the rest, we’ll bank. Someday, I want to own a hundred buildings like this one.”
“My husband—a regular King Midas,” she said with a sigh.
“What are you talking about?” asked Alex sleepily.
“Haven’t you heard of the story of the king who turns everything he touches to gold?” she asked.
“Sounds great.”
“Oh, yes,” she continued. “Until one day, he touched his daughter by mistake and she turned into a golden statue and…Alex, are you sleeping?”
Alex’s deep, regular breathing answered her.
For a long time, Brigitte lay in the dark, thinking. The last thing she wanted was to prevent Alex from achieving his dreams. Lately she had come to feel totally unimportant to him, though. Her husband seemed to have time for everything but her. She immediately felt guilty.
I refuse to become a whiny, nagging wife. I will just have to keep myself busy. Maybe I should resume my own career. She turned onto her side and looked at her sleeping husband. “I do love you,” she whispered softly. “Very, very much.”
* * *
Anne Turner turned the key and walked into her apartment. As soon as she stepped in, she was assailed by the piercing cries of the infant.
“Shut up!” she snapped. “I was only gone a couple of hours.” Damn! I can’t even take a break without that kid waking up the whole neighborhood. She went to the kitchen and pulled a baby bottle out of the refrigerator. Without bothering to heat it, she hurried to the bedroom and shoved the nipple into her son’s mouth. “There, that’ll shut you up for awhile.”
She tucked a pillow under the bottle so it would stay up by itself. With an expression of hatred, she watched the baby as he fed. Lately, her luck had taken a turn for the worse. She had given up on trying to locate Alex Ivanov. As far as she knew, he was still in Paris, working on some project.
He was never a good prospect anyhow. I want a man with money. Lots of it. Since her pregnancy, she had been unable to find a single decent prospect. Rich men don’t want mistresses with kids of their own. They want fresh young things with small waists and perfect breasts. She looked down at the suckling baby. “Damn that Alex Ivanov for knocking me up and then just dumping me,” she said bitterly.
She conveniently forgot it was she who seduced and then discarded him as an unworthy suitor. Regardless, if she ever found him, he would pay.
* * *
Chapter 3
In Greenwich, the Black Cat Café was a Mecca of sorts to artists, flower children, hippies, hip singers, actors, and socialites alike. Although the small restaurant was tucked away in the back of an alley, it was always crowded.
Natalia Berenson sat at her usual window seat, savoring the last spoonful of her soupe du jour. Then she carefully wiped the bowl with a piece of bread which she ate with relish. Natalia was a bright and bubbly middle-aged woman, with a body similar to Disney’s Hippo in a Tutu. Her hair was platinum blonde and her voice sounded like a cross between James Cagney’s and Mae West’s—low, husky, and gravelly all at once. She wore more makeup than a Las Vegas showgirl and enough diamonds to compete with DeBeers.
There had been a time some years ago—before she gained all the weight and before cigarettes disguised her voice—when Natalia Berenson had been a glamorous movie star. During her short, illustrious career, she had married seven times, s
ix of which were to very wealthy men, and had once been quoted as saying, “Unfortunately, my marriages were mistakes, but my divorces more than made up for them.” This comment was made shortly after her most successful divorce, which left her, as she put it to a journalist, “Disgustingly rich, dahhhrling.”
Rather unfortunately, Natalia had soon after married and divorced number seven, who as it turned out, was even worse in divorce than he had been in marriage. After one short and tumultuous year of matrimony, during which number seven had swindled her out of her fortune and run off with a girl half her age and one quarter her size, Natalia had remained devotedly single. Now, ten years later, she pursued friendships with the same passion she used to display for finding husbands. She surrounded herself with friends, running the gamut from interesting but impoverished to the very rich and very famous.
Natalia sighed with satisfaction and pushed her bowl away. Now that her appetite was satisfied, she was free to pursue her other favorite activity: people-watching. Her attention immediately focused on the beautiful redhead sitting a few tables away.
Ah, there she is—the artist. She had first noticed the young woman a few days earlier. Although the girl’s mass of red hair was splattered with speckles of paint and seemed in dire need of a good trim, Natalia had detected the girl’s proud bearing and her intelligent gaze. There is something special about her, she had decided.
Over the next few days, Natalia had entertained herself by guessing the girl’s background. She was an Irish lassie, come to New York to find her one true love. Perhaps she was a German princess in hiding from her royal duties. Ah, Natalia, the woman told herself, you truly are an incurable romantic. Yet, as she well knew, other people’s romances were the only ones she was likely to have, so she indulged in these fantasies as much as she wanted.
Natalia watched as the girl pulled open a sketchpad and began to draw. There was such concentration about her, the kind of focus one usually found in passionate and talented artists, that Natalia lost herself in imagining what she drew.
When she works, nothing else exists. She doesn’t even hear the people around her. Oddly, the same comment could have been made about Natalia when she people-watched. Natalia signaled for the waiter. He came running over. “Yes, Miss Berenson?”
“You see that girl over there?” she said, pointing to the redhead.
“Yes,” he answered hesitantly.
“Would you be so kind as to ask her to come over?” It wasn’t a request. It was a royal command from one of Hollywood’s greatest legends.
* * *
Since David had started school a few months earlier, Brigitte had fallen into the habit of stopping by the Black Cat Café every morning for a coffee. Here the croissants were light and flaky, the café au lait rich and creamy, and unlike most other restaurants where only salted butter was served, at The Black Cat, the butter was sweet, just as it was in Europe. Those were only a few of the small things that Brigitte missed about Paris, but here, when she closed her eyes, she could almost believe she was back in France.
The waiter hurried over and whispered a few words in her ear. Brigitte looked across the room at the one the waiter called, ‘Natalia Berenson.’ For some reason, the overly-made-up woman with the painted eyebrows and the thick false eyelashes seemed hauntingly familiar. Her curiosity piqued, Brigitte picked up her cup of coffee, her sketchpad and pencils, and walked over. “You wanted to speak to me?”
“Yes, would you care to join me?” asked Natalia, nodding to the waiter to pull a chair.
She waited for Brigitte to sit before continuing. “I hope you’ll forgive my rudeness. My legs are not as strong as they used to be. It is much easier to ask others to join me than for me to join them.” She laughed and her massive body quivered like jelly. “Don’t tell me…you’re an artist,” she continued, acting like a fortuneteller. She closed her eyes and continued. “And you’re not American. You’re definitely European.” Natalia’s eyes popped open and swept over Brigitte, noting every detail of her makeup, of her dress. “You can only be from Paris. Am I right?”
“How did you know?”
She shrugged, a delighted simple lighting her face. “It’s a game I play with myself. Whenever I see someone interesting, I try to guess everything about that person.” She chuckled. “Besides, your accent gave you away. Just as you are a very good artist, I am very good at guessing people.” Her eyes sharpened as she studied Brigitte. “Am I right? Are you very good?”
Brigitte hesitated for a second and then nodded. “Yes. I am.”
Natalia smiled and leaned back in her chair. It creaked dangerously. “I like that. You have no false humility. Hmm. Let me see. You are a Virgo and you came to New York for love.”
Brigitte laughed. “You are right.”
“What sign is your lover?”
“My lover? Oh, you mean my husband. He is Scorpio.”
“Hmm. Scorpio men and Virgo women are a good match. They complement each other. But, you must never give up your own dreams. Scorpios lust for power and will devour those who are weaker than them.” Abruptly, she changed the subject. “Show me what you have.” She gestured toward the sketchpad.
Normally, Brigitte would never have agreed to show her sketches. They were no more than scribbles, works in progress, but something about Natalia’s bearing inspired confidence and respect. Brigitte liked her. She picked up her sketchbook and handed it over.
Natalia flipped quickly through the pages, pausing for a second here and there. She closed the book and handed it back to Brigitte. “Very impressive,” she said. “I expected as much. Who is your agent?”
“I don’t have one yet.” Seeing the woman’s eyebrows shoot up, she felt compelled to explain. “In Paris I was with Le Gallet. I’ve only arrived in New York a few months ago. I didn’t want to approach anyone until I had enough paintings for an exhibition.”
“I want to see everything you have, and I want to see it right now,” said Natalia.
“Right now? But, I…my husband…” Without thinking, Brigitte heard herself say, “Could you come tomorrow morning?” Before she knew it, she and Natalia had a firm appointment for the next day.
The next morning, after spending half the night cleaning and rearranging furniture, Brigitte guided Natalia throughout the apartment. She showed the actress a picture of David, and introduced her to Réjeanne. Both women were in their early fifties, but there was a world of difference between them. Although Natalia was obese, she oozed glamour and looked years younger than her age. Réjeanne, on the other hand, was round and prematurely grey, and looked like a cuddly grandmother.
As soon as Réjeanne heard Natalia’s name, she went into near hysterics. “Oh, mon Dieu, mais c’est Natalia Berenson, the movie star! I have seen every one of your movies. Please, may I have your autograph?” She ran for a pen and a piece of paper and handed them over for the movie star’s signature with trembling hands.
“I’m sorry. I had no idea you were somebody famous,” said Brigitte after Réjeanne had backed out of the room, nearly bowing in adoration. “I didn’t recognize you.”
Natalia shrugged. “You were just a child at the time. Besides, I’ve changed a lot since my movie days. Now,” she said, “show me your paintings.”
The film star examined each painting carefully, peering at them from up close, and then backing up a few steps to study them from a distance. Afterward she nodded and said, “I’d like somebody else to take a look at them. Would you mind?”
“Not at all,” replied Brigitte, slightly in awe of her famous guest. “It would be my pleasure.”
* * *
A few days later, Daniel Drucker phoned for an appointment. “Natalia Berenson asked me to call,” he said, sounding slightly irritated. “I don’t have much time, but I just got a cancellation. I have some time this afternoon.” A few hours later he stopped by, looking sullen and preoccupied.
DD, as he asked to be called, was a tall, effeminate man with a mane of cu
rly blond hair and an aristocratic bearing. He raced through the apartment as though he couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
“Here are my paintings,” said Brigitte, guiding him to the area she called the dining room.
“I like that one,” he said, pointing to the oil on the furthest wall and sounding bored.
“Thank you. I like it, too,” said Brigitte, wondering what exactly Natalia had in mind when she had put DD in touch with her.
DD studied each painting, and then walked over to the dining room again, this time carefully examining every piece of artwork on the surrounding walls. “They’re not bad. Not bad at all.” He continued throughout the apartment, stopping here, pausing there, but never for more than a few seconds. “So, that’s all you have to show? Half a dozen oils?”
Brigitte shook her head. “Most of my work is over here.” She guided him to the studio area. Behind her, DD gasped in surprise. He took his glasses off his nose, polished them with a silk handkerchief, put them back on and stared reverently at a large rendering of a flea-market scene.
“This is absolutely divine,” he said. He moved on to a colorful still life and gazed at it. Brigitte could sense his excitement. She held her breath. At last he turned back to her and said, “Miss Dartois, please forgive me for doubting your talent. I should have known that Natalia would never have recommended you unless you were truly gifted.” He pulled out a card from the breast pocket of his jacket and handed it to Brigitte with a flourish. “I would be honored if you allowed me to do a showing of your work.”
Scorpio Series Boxed Set Page 26