by Jan Moran
She sighed and shook her head.
“There is one new song he could do,” Harry said slowly. “He wrote it for Erica, right before they divorced. But it’s a great song. A hit, I’m sure, if you wouldn’t mind.”
Danielle pushed aside her pride. “I don’t care who he wrote it for, as long as it sells millions.” She drummed her fingers on the table. She remembered a beautiful singer at the studio, Pauline d’Amore, for whom she’d designed a dress for a nightclub scene. She was well-known and had several hit songs. “What about duets?”
“Duets?”
“With other famous singers,” she said, thinking aloud. “Cameron could reprise his old hits. Everyone knows the music, so we could produce it quickly. And the new song could be the lead single.”
Harry rubbed his chin. “Who would work with him? Although he’s popular with the public, Cameron has a poor reputation in the business.”
“Leave that to me,” she said, brushing his question aside. She planned to start with Lou Silverman, and every singer he had under contract to the studio. “I want you to draw up documents of incorporation for a new production company.”
“For you and Cameron?”
Danielle considered his question. “No, if I’m funding the company from my earned profits, it stays in my name. He can’t have access to the money. Don’t worry, I’ll pay his debts, including his debt to you. He’ll have a contract with the firm, but I’ll manage the business. Is that clear?”
“Sure, but that’s mighty aggressive.”
“Do I have any other alternative?”
“Not really.”
“And Harry, I’d like you to serve on the board.”
“With pleasure.” He smiled at her and covered her hand with his. “I’d do anything to help you, Danielle. I want you to know that.” Harry’s eyes lingered on her.
Danielle coughed and drew her hand back from his. She knew Harry found her attractive, and she certainly didn’t want to encourage him. Just look at where that got me, she thought with a grimace.
Though she was still disturbed by their financial situation, her mind was racing with possibilities. Her instinct told her this new endeavor was the answer, but more than that, it could open a new, highly profitable field to her.
Just then, the front door swung open and Cameron raced in. “My God, have you heard?”
Danielle whirled around, anger rising in her throat.
But before she could speak, Cameron yelled, “Hawaii’s been hit. The Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor this morning. The United States is at war.”
Part I - Europe
January, 1944
27
The sun’s first luminous rays sparkled like a kaleidoscope over the sands of Santa Monica beach, caressing the coastline in the golden hues of early morning.
The air was cool for January in southern California. Danielle strolled along the water’s edge, the waves crashing with a thundering roar. She turned the collar of her camel-colored suede jacket against the chill wind and jammed her hands into her pockets, enjoying the solitude.
The winter beach was deserted, on perpetual alert since the bombing of Pearl Harbor. The Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor had brought the United States to war, shattering both its illusion of peace and its policy of isolationism.
For the last two years, Danielle had risen before the sun on the first Saturday of every month to walk on this beach. She told her family it was her quiet time, her time to meditate and reflect. She loved the solitude of the beach in the morning. But she had another reason, too.
She looked expectantly behind her. Her colleague, André, was late this morning.
The ocean’s rhythmic waves mesmerized Danielle as she gazed across the shimmering swells, the surf thundering in her ears. She turned her face into the cool sea mist and breathed deeply. The smell of the ocean brought back a flood of memories, of Max and Jon and their final Atlantic crossing, of the night she and her mother and the girls fled Marseilles, of their grief-laden voyage from Lisbon to America. And yet, over endless crystalline waves also travelled the sparkling scent of triumph, of limitless possibilities, of strength and inspiration.
She’d never forgotten the vow she’d made to Philippe, or the debt she owed to the Resistance fighters, those who’d arranged her movements from Paris to Poland and back again, and provided her family’s ultimate escape.
If only others had escaped, too. Her heart ached as she thought about the sweep in Paris in July of 1942, the roundup of thousands of Jews for no reasons other than their heritage or religion, herded like animals into the velodrome, then sent to the death camps. Children of all ages, women and men. The Rafle du Vel' d'hiv, Drancy, Auschwitz. Stories of horror, families and friends she had known from childhood murdered.
It was this debt that brought her to the beach the first Saturday of every month to meet André. To fulfill my promise, to help my people, my country. So that others may live, too.
She shook her head. Life was ever changing....
Her thoughts swung to her personal life. She had to admit, her marriage to Cameron had been a mistake. Their fiery passion had burned out, and all that remained were ashes. But at the time, it had seemed the right thing to do for her family.
Their marriage had proven tumultuous, and she was shouldering the bulk of responsibility. Cameron had turned to the bottle, and who knew what else. She cringed. His fun, crazy quirks had ballooned into grossly irresponsible behavior.
She sighed. Theirs was a marriage in name only now, due to Cameron’s incessant philandering and his subsequent bouts with venereal disease, relieved only recently by the new penicillin treatments. How could she ever trust him again to make love as they had in the beginning when his insatiable passion for her body had taken her to new heights, opened new vistas on lovemaking? I can’t, she realized, I simply can’t. And she knew now that his passion for her was not a desire born of love, but of lust. And he was in lust with many other women, too.
Then, as always, thoughts of Jon intruded, and she wondered what her life would have been like with him. She missed his loving passion, his natural charisma and sense of honor, his spirit of responsibility. I love those qualities so much in him. Then she stopped herself; regret aching in her heart. After Jon had left her in Los Angeles, he had returned to England and married Victoria. She blinked against the breeze and pushed him from her mind.
Danielle rotated her sore neck and ran her fingers along a bruised lump. Cameron’s temper had grown quick, too. He had shoved her against the armoire in their bedroom last week in a fit of rage when she'd asked where he’d been the night before. However, he was still insistent on having a son with her, but the more he persisted, the more she resisted. Besides his philandering, she couldn't imagine bringing a baby into their chaotic home life. It is time to face the truth, she thought, time to make a change.
And yet, for all her private heartache, her business had flourished. She lifted her chin as she thought of her business, ever changing, ever growing, and felt pride in her accomplishments and the jobs she had created for many war widows, just as she had been.
She’d thrown her energy and talent into a variety of opportunities. Her perfume and prêt-a-porter fashion lines were now established in all the better department stores and boutiques across the country. National Music, the production company she’d founded in desperation shortly after her marriage to Cameron, had also prospered. She’d made friends with many singers through her perfume and couture business, and persuaded these stars to perform duets with Cameron. With her clever marketing techniques, the Duets albums had been such a smash hit that she had paid off all of Cameron’s outstanding debts and bought their home back from Harry.
She paused at the water’s edge, watching shorebirds dive into the surf as they fished for food. They are fearless, she thought, diving headlong into rushing waters, just as I do. She thought of Harry Nelson. She couldn’t have done it without his guidance. He had taught her sophisticated finance and
manufacturing strategies, and this new knowledge, combined with her flair for design and promotion, had catapulted her to even greater success. Whenever she met a promising new actress at the studio, she made a deal with Lou Silverman to produce records, and together they coordinated their marketing and promotional efforts. And all their stars wore Bretancourt designs and appeared in ads for Bretancourt perfumes and cosmetics.
With last year's War Production Board regulations dictating fashion design, such as skirt circumference—no more than 72 inches—and hem depth—no more than two inches—among other details, Danielle had used her profits to purchase a clothing manufacturing company in the garment district, then secured government contracts to produce U.S. military uniforms. This division of Bretancourt Holdings had proven quite profitable.
But the war wouldn’t last forever, so she was leveraging herself, investing in real estate, betting on the increased need for housing once the war ended. She’d studied the economy and felt she was properly positioned for the coming change. Nothing could hurt her now.
Except Cameron Murphy, she thought grimly, idly dragging a toe in the sand. He was scheduled to sing tonight for the mayor at a special event honoring Abigail. These days, Danielle dreaded every public appearance Cameron was required to make. She shivered and walked on.
Aside from her other business interests, the foundation of her empire remained the perfume division. She still blended every new perfume for the House of Bretancourt. Ingredients had become difficult to obtain during the European conflict; trade with her uncle had been cut off. Instead, she sought raw fragrance materials from other sources around the world, but especially in the United States.
Globally, perfumers were a tightly knit community, and Philippe had forged a special relationship with many of them. When Danielle bought materials from an island grower in the Indian Ocean, she paid handsomely for the shipment, with the stipulation that a portion of her payment was smuggled via fishing boats to Philippe in Grasse, along with a myriad of supplies for the Resistance movement, including guns, ammunition, and communications equipment.
True to her word, she had kept her promise to Philippe and Françoise. She had become one of them.
She paused and breathed in the brisk ocean breeze, feeling its power fill her lungs. Wealth is a powerful tool for change, she thought. With her new wealth, she found doctors who brought Marie back to sound mental health. With her wealth, she found security and safety, for herself and for her girls. And with her wealth, she found a way to rescue people from tyranny and death.
Danielle turned and squinted against the sun at a lone figure on the beach, smiling as he approached. There he was, just as he was on the first Saturday of every month, casually dressed, but still lean and handsome. André had been a friend of her father’s, a well-respected member of the French diplomatic corps who’d immigrated to America.
“Bonjour, André,” she called.
“Bonjour, Danielle.”
They fell easily into step, walking to a coffee stand that was just opening for morning business near the pier.
André smiled at her. “Café?”
“Oui, merci. The usual.”
Minutes later, André emerged with two steaming cups of café au lait. They continued their walk until they came to a wide, flat rock. Shooing birds and brushing sand from the stone, they sat down. Danielle reached into her pocket and withdrew an envelope, bulging with cash, and handed it to André.
“Merci, Danielle. You are too generous.”
“I’m just glad I can help.” Her money went to help people in Nazi-occupied countries escape annihilation and begin life anew. But relocation was difficult, especially if they were Jewish. Many countries were loath to admit refugees unless they could demonstrate financial independence. Even then, there were many other hurdles to cross. She sighed. How well she remembered her family’s beginning in America, their grief and poverty, their depressing little room at the Bradley Arms.
She shielded her eyes against the rising sun, her attention drawn to sea gulls squawking overhead. A comfortable silence hung between her and André as they sipped their coffee and watched the gulls dip and soar in morning flight.
As André gazed across the ocean, Danielle studied his profile. His wavy black hair was shot with grey, his aquiline nose proud and strong. But a deep furrow creased his brow, and his jaw flexed and tightened.
Danielle’s heart clutched. “What’s wrong, André?”
He let out a puff of air between his lips. “You can always tell, can’t you?”
“I know you well, André.”
“It’s your intuition.” André shook his head. “Some of our operatives were killed in Paris last week.”
“I’m so, so sorry to hear that.” She hesitated. “Not Françoise?” she asked, suddenly alarmed. She recalled her brother’s partner, the passionate, dedicated woman who had helped her flee to safety. How devoted Françoise had been to the Resistance.
André put his arm around her. “She’s fine, she’s a very brave woman. But then, they are all so brave. Speaking of which, I have another letter for you from Philippe.” He drew a crumpled letter from his pocket.
“I’d hoped you did.” Each time she received a letter, she knew an escape had been successful. Philippe always gave them a letter for her. She opened it and read it quickly. “He sends his love to you, André,” she said. She finished the letter and slipped it into her pocket.
High overhead, magnificent white gulls glided in lazy circles. Their graceful wings cast dancing shadows upon the water as they swooped to the surface to scoop fish from the surf. Danielle and André finished their coffee, rose, kissed each other on the cheeks, and went their separate ways.
“Until next month,” called André.
“I’ll be here, you can all count on me.” She walked across the beach to her sleek cream-colored Delahaye automobile. She shook sand from her shoes before getting in, and as she did, her mood darkened as she thought of Cameron again. Today is going to be a long day, she thought, dreading Cameron’s appearance.
* * *
Abigail had just stepped into her high-heeled satin pumps when two sharp knocks sounded at the door of her Beverly Hills home. Recognizing Lou’s signal, she strode to meet him, excited at the prospect of this special evening with her closest friends.
“Hello, my dear.” She kissed him on the cheek. He smelled deliciously of Bay Rum cologne, and his impeccably styled silver hair shone against the midnight black of his tuxedo.
“Good evening, Abigail. Hmm, marvelous perfume. One of Danielle’s?”
“Of course, it’s Joie de Bretancourt. Now, tell me honestly, what do you think of the dress?” She whirled around in her navy silk Bretancourt evening dress, unusual in its sleek simplicity, and the perfect backdrop for her silvery South Sea pearls.
“Stunning,” Lou replied. “The mayor couldn’t have chosen a more beautiful, talented woman to honor tonight. Beverly Hills Woman of the Year, but in my opinion, you’re Woman of the Century. You’ve earned it.”
“Thank you, dear.” She hugged his neck. “You look quite handsome, too, as always.”
Lou cleared his throat. “Don’t get me started, Abigail, I don’t think I could resist you tonight. You really don’t know the impact you have on me, do you?”
“Silly man.” She laughed and picked up her matching navy purse. “Always teasing me. Well then, shall we be on our way?”
“I suppose,” he said with a sigh. “Your public awaits you.” Lou offered his arm and she hooked her arm into the crook of his elbow.
They slid into the back of Lou’s black limousine, and as they rode to the mayor’s home, Abigail reflected on her work for Operation Orphan Rescue, the charity she’d founded, and for which she was being honored tonight. It was nice to be recognized, she admitted, but that was hardly the reason behind her efforts. The world was fraught with turmoil, locked in a reckless race toward destruction. She shuddered. Sadly, after every battle, orphane
d children were left behind.
Abigail’s Operation Orphan Rescue had grown into an international organization, aiding children from Europe and Asia displaced by war. Most children she managed to place in loving homes in the United States or Canada. The children were so dear to her. She’d made it her mission to save as many as she could, and she thrived on her work. In a sense, they were her children, replacements for the babies she could never have.
She glanced at Lou, sitting beside her. After a valiant struggle to win his financial backing, he’d become one of her most ardent supporters, and a good friend. He’d even made a short documentary about her work with studio contract stars. The film played in theaters across North America to overwhelming response. Money continued to pour in, enabling her to aid even more children. And she couldn’t thank him enough.
She stole another look at Lou. Their platonic relationship seemed to work for him. She knew she was the only woman he went out with who didn’t put pressure on him to marry. And that’s just the way I want it, she told herself firmly, opening her powder compact to check her red lip rouge.
“Here we are,” Lou said, as the limousine turned into the driveway of Mayor Albright’s Beverly Hills home.
The mayor welcomed them at the door. “Follow the crowd to the tennis court,” he said. “We’ve tented it for the event.”
Abigail and Lou strolled past a rippling koi pond. Flickering lanterns lined the pathway behind the serene Asian-style home.
A tall, distinguished man approached them. Abigail recognized him as one of her father’s friends, Steve Demetriades, an American who owned a smaller rival shipping firm. She smiled. “Mr. Demetriades, how lovely to see you."
“Call me Steve, please. Congratulations on your honor, Abigail. And Lou, it’s been too long,” he said, shaking Lou’s hand.
Abigail said, “What brings you here tonight?”
He laughed. “I just bought a home around the corner on Sierra. Nathan Newell-Grey’s daughter named Woman of the Year—do you think I could miss this and still speak to your father? He’d never forgive me. And how is he?”