by Jan Moran
Liliana offered to wash the vegetables. Danielle smiled down at her and handed her the vegetables. “Look Maman, isn’t Liliana helpful?”
Marie peered at her and cocked her head, trying to place the girl. The young woman looked familiar. She knew she should know her. After all, mere strangers didn’t help a person with socks and boots. Perhaps she was the new housekeeper. Yes, that’s who she is, she decided, pleased with her deduction. She hoped the young woman was a good cook. Her husband would be home soon and he’d be hungry after a long day at the bank. “What’s for dinner, girl?”
“Chicken soup.” Danielle unwrapped the chicken breast. “Why did you cut Liliana’s hair?”
Marie shook her head. “Jean-Claude, you mean.” The girl hadn’t learned their names yet. She must have just started working for them. An intense pain blazed through her head. She pressed her fingers against her temples and sank her head into her hands. Why couldn’t the girl keep anything straight? And chicken soup for dinner? How awful! Edouard needs a substantial meal. What will I do? He’ll be home any minute. Marie cleared her throat. “We can’t have chicken soup.”
Danielle filled a large pot with water and lifted it to the hot plate. “Her name is Liliana,” she said evenly. “And yes, we are having chicken soup. With garlic and onion, it’s the best medicine for winter colds. That’s what you always told us when we were little. Don’t you remember?”
“Of course I remember,” Marie replied with false assurance. She peeked out between her fingers. Who was this girl? She tried to recall, but her memory had been fuzzy today.
Danielle took the vegetables from Liliana and picked up a knife to slice them. The doctor’s warning came to mind: Be gentle with Marie. She drew a breath to begin the familiar sing-song recitation. “You remember me, Maman, I’m your daughter Danielle. And here is your granddaughter, Liliana. My sweet baby, Jasmin, is in the bassinet. You remember her. You and Anna take such good care of her while I’m working.”
“Yes, of course I do,” Marie cried. She’d never let anything happen to the baby, her little Danielle. She stood to check on Danielle. She leaned over to kiss the baby’s pink cheek, and adjusted her blankets. “My little Danielle is such a good baby.” At that, the baby opened her eyes and gurgled.
Danielle sighed at her mother’s bizarre behavior. Her heart ached for Marie, who had once been such a self-assured, confident woman. She returned to her well-worn recitation. “I’m your Danielle, Maman. I’ve grown up. That is my daughter, Jasmin. Your granddaughter. You’ll remember soon.”
Marie’s head throbbed as she tried to assimilate the girl’s words. Jasmin, Jasmin, what was she talking about? She’d have to let the poor girl go. She liked the other one better, she seldom contradicted her. Not like this one. Why, she didn’t even know their names. And Edouard would be home soon. She must have an appropriate meal for him. She drew herself up, fighting through her confusion. I am still the lady of the house. I must put this right. On wobbly legs she turned to the girl, summoning her strength. “Perhaps chicken soup is special to you, but my husband is accustomed to finer fare.”
Danielle stopped slicing the vegetables, her knife in midair. She is worse today, Danielle thought, alarmed. Usually her mother came out of her fog quicker. The doctor said she might relapse. Her heart pounded. What if Marie never comes out of it? Wiping her hands on her apron, she hastened to her mother, took her hand, and led her to the table. “Please sit with us, madame. You’ve had a long day.” She searched for a flicker of understanding in Marie’s face. She saw none. She swallowed and tried again. “I’m Danielle, your daughter.”
Marie sank into the chair, her strength ebbing away. She glanced around the tiny room. Where was she? She shook her head. Nothing.
Danielle filled a glass of water, handed it to Marie. “Papa won’t be joining us for dinner tonight.”
“Oh?” Marie took the glass with both hands and drank the cool water. Gradually, the excruciating pain subsided. Her head began to clear. She closed her eyes, reorienting herself, blinking once, twice. “Danielle? Is that you?”
“Oui, Maman.” Relief flooded her. She took her mother’s icy hand in hers and warmed it in her own.
“I’m so glad. And Edouard? Where is he?”
Danielle hesitated, smothering her anguish. “He’s gone away with Jean-Claude. They’ve gone away for a very long time.”
Marie gazed into space and the room blurred, then returned to focus. Her headache had faded, but her memory was still dim. “They’re on holiday together?”
“Oui, Maman, on holiday. Relax and warm yourself by the heater, I’ll make a cup of hot tea for you while the soup simmers.”
From the corner bassinet, Jasmin let out a piercing scream. Danielle hurried to put on a kettle, then crossed to the bassinet. She cradled Jasmin in one arm, opened her blouse so the baby could nurse, and returned to the kitchen alcove, tending to her mother’s tea with her free hand. Liliana watched with wide eyes.
Danielle glanced at her blond-haired pixie. “How about a hot cup of milk and cocoa to warm you, Liliana?”
Liliana broke into a happy grin.
Danielle made tea for Marie, then handed Liliana a cup. “You put the cocoa in, I’ll heat the milk.” Liliana did as she was told, then Danielle let her stir the milk and cocoa.
“You’re very grown up,” Danielle said. “Come, we’ll slip into bed while the soup simmers.” Balancing the baby in one arm, she sank onto the bed. She kicked off her wet shoes and slid her throbbing feet under the threadbare covers. Liliana snuggled next to her, warming her hands on her steaming mug.
Danielle ruffled Liliana’s newly shorn hair and whispered to her. “I really do like your hair, it makes you look older. I was just surprised, that was all.” Danielle smiled down at her and Liliana cuddled closer.
Thunder cracked outside the window and rain sluiced the pane. Danielle leaned her head against the cold wall, grateful for a rare moment of tranquility. Her responsibilities were overwhelming. She was mother to Jasmin and Liliana, caretaker to her own mother, artist and entrepreneur, provider for them all. Only her sheer force of will power and perseverance kept her going. But how could she help Marie?
She’d become increasingly alarmed at her mother’s erratic behavior and her inability to emerge from her trauma. Marie appeared mired twenty years in the past, in the early years of her marriage, with her two young children. The ages of Liliana and Jasmin reinforced this belief for Marie. When she regressed, she was often lucent and lively. She wore her hair down, used little makeup, and dressed casually.
Danielle had taken Marie to a doctor who’d suggested a relatively inexpensive home where Marie could receive special care. One day Danielle visited the home and was appalled by the filth and neglect. She decided to care for her mother herself, to learn all she could about her condition, and someday, when she had the money, she vowed she would find a cure.
Through the rain spattered window Danielle could see the liquor store’s red electric sign blinking across the street. Her gaze turned to Liliana and Jasmin. The girls were content. Her mother was placated with her tea, and the soup was gently simmering, releasing a soothing aroma. She closed her eyes. Just another moment, she thought. Her feet were almost warm.
Danielle’s thoughts drifted to her finances. Money was scarce, yet she scrimped and bargained, and tucked away as much as she could. Every penny brought her closer to her goals.
She rotated her neck and massaged a sore muscle. The money she’d received for her wedding ring hadn’t gone far. When she needed money to expand the perfume line, she took in extra sewing and alterations from Esmeralda for Clara’s customers. Marie could still sew, though her attention span was limited, so Danielle often finished her work.
With the extra earnings, she bought supplies to make scented bath oil and dusting powder. Danielle smiled as she thought of her progress. She worked from this room cutting and stitching brocade pouches, filling bottles, and doing her bookkee
ping.
She’d worked hard to open new boutique accounts, but every store needed product for the holiday season. She pressed her lips together, concerned about her ability to deliver orders placed. She was desperate for funds, toiling under an escalating mountain of debt for medical bills, food, rent, and supplies. How would she juggle it all?
Furthermore, she had her eye on larger accounts, especially Bullock’s Wilshire, a department store where so many fashionable ladies shopped. Once she sold into Bullock’s, she planned to approach the elegant Lord & Taylor store in New York and Marshall Field in Chicago. Houston was home to Sakowitz, Dallas to Neiman Marcus. Later, she would add accessories, such as purses, scarves, and gloves; next, a line of suits and evening gowns, maybe even open her own shops. Her field of vision expanded daily, despite the despondency she battled on the home front.
Just thinking about her plan excited her and imbued her with a fresh, fierce determination. I can do it, she told herself, envisioning the empire that would someday be hers. She imagined every product in vivid color and detail.
And yet, her troubles intruded on her dream, diminishing its brightness and luster. How she hated their poverty and sickness, this dingy room, their tattered clothes. Not a day passed that she didn’t think of Max and her father and Jean-Claude and Hélène. Visions of Nicky inhabited her dreams. Of all the deaths, it was Nicky’s that she could not accept, that haunted her, mocked her, and filled her with sadness. His life force remained painfully vivid.
Her throat tightened as a passage from Shakespeare she’d once learned in school came to mind: Do not let your grief be measured by his worth, for then your sorrow has no end. Although their grief had been immeasurable, she knew their sorrow had to end someday.
Danielle drew a ragged breath. The past belonged firmly behind them, along with this miserable existence. They had only one safe way out, of that she was convinced.
She had her plan, and money was the indisputable key, the solution to their problems.
She would have it, no matter the cost. The late hours, the drudgery, the sacrifices. She didn’t care what it took—she would prevail. Of that, she was absolutely certain. And then one day the war will be over, and I’ll see Jon again.
Slowly, she opened her eyes, and her beautiful dream receded as the gloomy, depressing room returned to view. Jasmin lay sleeping in her arms, and Liliana looked up expectantly. Danielle’s stomach knotted with guilt. My family doesn’t deserve this life, Danielle thought, her resolve hardening. Jon’s letter lay unopened in her pocket. They could have a better life in England. But for how long? It was no secret that Hitler had England in his sights. No, she had made the right decision.
21
Clara drummed her fingers on Danielle’s business plan. She removed her rhinestone reading glasses, laid them on her antique marquetry desk and stared hard at Danielle. “Your perfume line is selling well. Your business plan is obviously well conceived.”
“Thank you, Clara.” Danielle’s heart pounded as she sat in Clara’s upstairs office, certain that Clara could hear it, see it through her thin black sheath dress.
“I may be a tough old broad, but I know talent when I see it. You’ve got a lot on the ball. But there are costs that concern me. The bottle and packaging seem so expensive. Can you reduce those costs?”
Danielle pitched forward in her chair. “The packaging must reflect the potion within. A fine perfume is a blend of art and science. It can take months, or years, to develop a composition that sparkles with magic, that captures the heart, that tantalizes the imagination. Fortunately, these development expenses have already been incurred.”
“Well, the packaging is beautiful, but—”
“Clara, you’ve agreed that this perfume has that magic, and your customers and sales confirm it.” Danielle perched on the edge of her chair, gesturing with her hands. “As far as the packaging, I assure you, it’s money well spent. Women love lead crystal bottles. The weight conveys luxury and quality. Fine packaging is absolutely crucial to the success of a perfume.”
“You have a point.”
Danielle pushed a paper across the desk and tapped on the columns of numbers. “This is my inventory, here are sales-to-date, and these are my orders. The bottom figure is the amount of money I need, and here is my projected profit.”
Clara put her glasses on, frowned as she scanned the figures. “The only problem I see is that you might become a victim of your own success. If sales continue to double and triple, then your investment in inventory must rise, but can you get the money to fulfill the demand?”
“If you could refer me to a bank—”
“Forget it.” Clara shook her head sharply, her platinum hair brushing her shoulders. “You haven’t lived here long, or established credit. Your worst crime of all is that you’re a woman in business, and a single woman at that.” She leaned across the desk, tapping her fountain pen. “You can’t imagine how difficult it was to establish my business. Had it not been for my investors, I never could have done it.”
“You mean, a business that invests in businesses?”
“No, private investors.” Clara laughed. “All men, I might add. Even though you’re French, and the French are so marvelous in their understanding of these, ah, arrangements, I don’t think you’re prepared to repay that sort of ‘interest.’” Clara spread her hands and shrugged. “But what could I have done then? Now I’m established, now it’s different. Today, if I need to borrow money, the banker will answer my call. But it has taken forever, and the bank still asks for a man to co-sign my business loans.” She rolled her eyes. “What we need are more women bankers.”
Heat colored Danielle’s cheeks. “That’s why I came to you for advice.”
Clara leaned back, put her long, lapis silk-clad legs on a corner of her desk and dangled a silver high-heeled sandal. “It’s not easy for a woman to be in business, but I love it. Now we have the right to vote, and someday we’ll own our own banks. Your girls will have a better shot at the brass ring than we do.” She arched a brow. “Until then, we have to play the game.”
Danielle lifted her chin. “Yes, but by whose rules?”
Clara’s expression hardened. “Your own. Only play by your own rules, Danielle. Otherwise, you’ll never be truly happy.”
“You speak from experience?”
“I do.” For a fleeting moment, Clara’s cool eyes reflected a deep sadness, and then the emotional curtain closed, as quickly as it had parted.
“Then I shall heed your advice,” Danielle said quietly. She returned her attention to her projections, then they reviewed Clara’s list of retailer referrals.
“Are you really sure you want to do this, Danielle? It’s a tremendous undertaking.”
“I’m quite sure, Clara.” She squared her shoulders. “I’m going to build a great company. American women have no idea what they’re missing, in terms of French perfume and style, and I know I can provide it. All I need is capital.”
Clara tapped her manicured nails on the desk. “Private capital, that’s what you need. Someone who believes in you.”
Danielle made no reply, but watched Clara’s thoughtful expression as she gazed out the window.
On the street below, the busy sounds of Wilshire Boulevard wafted in. Finally, Clara turned back to Danielle. “Women need to help one another. So, I’m willing to lend you the money you need.” She stood, held her hand out. “Is it a deal?”
Danielle shook her hand, thrilled but guarded, and well aware of the financial risk to Clara. “I won’t let you down.”
Clara smiled at her. “I’ll have my attorney draw up a loan agreement. Your inventory can serve as collateral.” She removed her glasses and leaned across the desk. “Remember, you need volume. That’s where you’ll make your money. Focus on volume and collections and publicity.” She chuckled. “Actually, you have to focus on everything. I wish I could lend you more, but this will get you through Christmas.”
After thanking
Clara, Danielle left the office and shut the door behind her. Her heart pounded with excitement, her business plan shook in her hands. She couldn’t wait to write to Jon and give him the news.
* * *
Jon stood on the deck gazing at the edge of the sea where the waves stretched toward the horizon, as distant and elusive as his future. The full moon cast an opalescent glow on the letter he held in his hand. From time to time he glanced at it, read it again, and thought about Danielle.
My dearest Jon, she wrote. Your letter was such a surprise. I am so honored that you feel you can bare your feelings to me, and first, I want you to know that I share your feelings. You are so very special to me, you have a place in my heart that no other occupies.
Love is a deep commitment, Jon. If I were a woman with no responsibilities, I would be on my way to England. But my life is full of other commitments of love. The love for my daughter and niece, the love for my mother. And with this love comes a duty of protection. Jon, we barely escaped the Nazi surge into Paris. And while I realize that England is strong, and will likely prevail against Germany, I cannot endanger my family again. I know your offer was sincere, but I cannot accept it.
All that I can offer to you in return is the love in my heart and prayers for your safety.
Feeling frustrated, Jon lowered the letter, crumpled it, and flung it out to sea. Instantly he regretted his action. What did he expect of her? He had poured his heart out to her, had proposed a plan that was impetuous and unrealistic. As he thought of it now, he was glad that she’d had the sense not to accept his offer. He wouldn’t want to put her in the path of potential danger. No, she was right to refuse him. Still, this didn’t make it any easier to accept her rejection.
Jon blinked against the stiff wind, his stomach knotted with anguish and regret. I have duties, too, he thought. My duty to my country, and to my family. But I also promised my duty to Max, and to Danielle.