An Improbable Pairing

by Gary Dickson

  “You are the talk of the Spanish court in Lausanne,” Juan Carlos said to Scott. “Our mothers are talking, too—Madame de Bellecourt told my mother you have captured Desirée’s heart. Well, that’s how I remember it. She may have had a bit more to say, something about Cupid being careless with his darts.”

  “I can’t imagine that I’m the talk of anything,” Scott said.

  “Your imagination is not in question, but we all would like to know what your magic is,” Juan Carlo said.

  “If there is magic, it’s all Desirée’s,” Scott said. “I am completely under her spell and have been, from the moment I first saw her.”

  “I will be frank: For several years, her friends and I have been proposing very nice young men to the countess, but she has always demurred. We wondered when she would pick someone for herself. She has excellent taste, as you know, so we would never disagree with her choice,” Juan Carlos said.

  “Nor would I,” Scott said.

  Juan Carlos reached across the table and shook his hand. It was a hearty, sincere shake. The movement caught Desirée’s eye, and she beamed, giving Scott an affectionate look across the table.

  “Desirée, I presume we shall see you and Scott at the film festival in Cannes in May,” Jacques Deschamps said. “Will you stay at your mother’s place in Mougins or at the Carlton?”

  “We haven’t discussed it. My mother actually wants me to come for Easter, which is just a few weeks away,” Desirée said. “It’s early this year.”

  “Scott, have you met Desirée’s mother yet?” Caroline Deschamps asked, with a quick glance toward Desirée.

  “No, I haven’t had the pleasure.”

  “It remains to be seen if that will be a pleasure,” Desirée muttered darkly. Teresa patted Scott’s hand in a soothing way. “Don’t mind Desirée,” she said soothingly. “Madame de Bellecourt just pretends to be difficult. It’s part of the persona she projects. I’m sure she will love you, too.”

  This back and forth between trusted friends revealed that Desirée had much longer-term plans than Scott was privy to. It was the middle of February, and she’d just announced two projects in the works that had been unknown to him: one in March, just weeks away, and the other in May. When had Desirée planned to tell him? How many other schemes were awaiting the proper moment for disclosure? Knowing how Scott intended to maintain his studies, she might have maneuvered this unwitting group to reveal what she didn’t want to broach directly. She was clever.

  After dinner, they descended to the King’s Club, the Badrutt’s private nightclub, where champagne cost 120 Swiss francs per bottle and the décor was more Arabian Nights than Louis XV. A crowd had already gathered, but the stylish group was given a corner table, commanding a view of the dance floor.

  On the dance floor, Scott was finally able to hold Desirée in his arms. He was aware of an audience; their party made no attempt to hide their interest, eager to determine if body language en dansant would give insight into the depth of Scott and Desirée’s connection. Desirée must have sensed this, too; in her most sensual way, her arms embraced his neck, and her body, swathed in the silver lamé, seemed magnetized to his. In perfect synchrony, they followed the slow and incessant rhythms of the beat.

  Taking advantage of the moment with her sole attention, Scott murmured in her ear, “Am I going with you at Easter?”

  “I want you to,” she said, her aquamarine eyes looking up at him.

  “Does your mother know I’ll be coming?”

  “She suspects, I’m sure.”

  “When will you tell her?”

  “Tomorrow. She’s waiting for an answer.”

  “Will she like me?”

  “If she will let herself.”

  They didn’t speak any more about the upcoming visit. Scott left the matter in her hands because he knew Desirée would engineer this in her own way; all he had to do was show up and behave in a nice, intelligent, and slightly unpredictable manner. From everyone’s comments, Madame de Bellecourt seemed to have already formed her opinions. With her mind made up, maybe a good strategy for dealing with Desirée’s mother would be to upset and contradict her prejudgments.

  THEY GOT BACK TO THE SUITE LATE, AND DESIRÉE INDICATED in little ways that she was tired; they’d had a long day, and she wasn’t sure she was up for an even longer evening. Once they were in bed and the lights were out, Scott moved to caress her. At first, Desirée pulled away—she knew what he was up to. But all Scott needed to do was excite her, and any reluctance and fatigue would disappear. Little by little, her resistance waned, and she changed her mind, deciding to encourage his attentions to her body. As her breathing intensified and her first sounds of pleasure escaped, Scott knew she was glad he’d persisted. In sync, they moved together slowly, sensuously; in the end, their lovemaking was better than ever.

  THE ROOM SERVICE WAITER AWAKENED THEM THE NEXT morning. He rolled in a large table set with Bernardaud china, Baccarat crystal, and Christofle silver. Fluffy scrambled eggs with truffle shavings, thick-cut crispy slices of bacon, and golden hash browns beckoned from domed sterling chafing dishes. A large cut-crystal pitcher filled with freshly squeezed orange juice, a silver wire basket of breads and morning pastries covered by a white linen napkin, coffee with warm milk, and a vase with a fresh bouquet completed breakfast. This, thought Scott as he belted his plush robe, this was the life. He took a seat, admiring the spread as sunlight filled the room.

  Desirée joined him from the bedroom. She wore a chocolate brown robe covering a negligee with ivory lace, and her cheeks were still slightly pink from the stubble of his beard.

  “Good morning, my darling,” she said, just as the telephone rang. She answered it. “Yes, Maman; I was expecting your call. I’ve decided to come to Mougins for Easter, and I would like to bring my friend.” Desirée listened for a few moments and then said, “It’s your decision, but I think you’ll like him.”

  She hung up the phone and gave Scott a kiss. “It’s done. We’re going to Mougins for Easter.”

  “Really?” Scott said skeptically. “It sounded more like you may have given her an ultimatum.”

  Desirée sighed. “My mother understands better when she’s not given a choice.”

  twenty-seven

  THREE WEEKS AND INNUMERABLE PARTIES, LUNCHES, and dinners later (and very few classes), and Scott and Desirée were on their way to Mougins for Easter. They’d take an Air France flight to Nice, where they would rent a car.

  After conversation with her mother and in anticipation of their visit, Desirée had been providing Scott with more family information. Françoise de Borchgrave, the daughter of the Count and Countess de Borchgrave, had married Bertrand de Bellecourt, the son of a Swiss private banking family. They had been introduced when Bertrand was working in the family’s investment office in Paris. Once wed, they’d lived in Geneva, Paris, and Mougins for some thirty years. Over time, however, the couple’s interests had diverged. Finally, Desirée’s devoutly Catholic parents decided to live separate lives, which allowed them to avoid the unthinkable—divorce. That was when Desirée’s father moved to Los Angeles to pursue banking interests and, later, real estate investments. He had died unexpectedly of a heart attack three years ago, leaving the family home outside Geneva and an apartment in Paris to Desirée, his only child. Her mother had retained the home in Mougins and acquired her apartment in Paris on the Avenue Foch, close to Desirée’s. Madame de Bellecourt was an energetic, well-connected woman who actively participated in Parisian social life; she supported many charities connected to her first love, the preservation of French historic architecture. Parisian through and through, Madame de Bellecourt was fiercely protective of Desirée, her only child.

  Scott and Desirée landed at the Nice airport, where he was thrilled to collect their rented Mercedes Benz 230SL convertible. Since the car was a two-seater, a separate messenger would transport their luggage to Mougins just in time for lunch. Bon appetit, Scott thought.


  Desirée drove. She’d taken the route many times, and the car climbed smoothly from the Mediterranean coast to the heights above Cannes. The views were magnificent in all directions, and Scott soaked in the experience. They drove through the medieval town of Mougins and continued until they passed under an arch. Spanning the narrow lane, it was inscribed with Le Vallon de l’Oeuf.

  “The Valley of the Egg?” Scott translated. “Nice name.”

  “My father came up with it,” Desirée explained. “He thought it funny.”

  She pulled the car up to the entrance of the house, which stood atop an outcrop overlooking a valley of native Mediterranean scrub flora. Fruit trees and grape vines filled the landscape on the other side of the two-story, ivory-and-white stone structure. It was classical mas, a particular kind of farmhouse originally built to be a self-sufficient unit (house and grounds supporting the people who lived there, generally an extended family, as well as their animals). In the past, the terrain surrounding these provincial homes was usually planted with various grains for the animals and an extensive vegetable garden, fruit orchard, and root cellar, but it was obvious that comprehensive renovations and additions had been made to the once bucolic practicality of earlier times.

  The noise created by the tires rolling over the pea gravel driveway must have alerted Madame, because there she stood on the front veranda: erect, proud, and attired in Hermes. Not everyone appreciates how conservative French women of a certain milieu and age can be. Their chic dress, paucity of makeup, and restrained use of jewelry are unconsciously but assuredly assembled to communicate perfection and a no-nonsense and rigid preference for manners, etiquette, and decorum. Madame de Bellecourt was a perfect example.

  A gray twill skirt trimmed in a thin band of leather; a print blouse of yellow and gray, depicting swans floating along a peaceful lake; a gold bracelet of simple anchor chain links dangling from her wrist; and a large yellow tourmaline cabochon on her left index finger all disclosed the origin of Desirée’s impeccable taste. Her silver hair—every strand in place—hung straight before flipping at the ends. Removing her sunglasses, Scott saw familiar eyes of aquamarine.

  Desirée led Scott up the few steps to the veranda, where she greeted, embraced, and kissed her mother, before turning to say, “Scott, please let me introduce you to my mother, Madame de Bellecourt. Maman, Scott Stoddard.”

  “Mr. Stoddard, welcome to Le Vallon de l’Oeuf.” Madame de Bellecourt greeted him formally.

  “Enchanté, Madame,” Scott said. He was not surprised at the stiff beginning. She would undoubtedly warm up and then get around to addressing her beloved daughter’s relationship. The question was, how long would it take before what was on her mind would overwhelm the dam of politesse, spill over, and become a torrent?

  They were shown to their respective rooms. The décor was country French: comfortable, low-key, Provençal prints and colors, overstuffed chairs and wooden furniture, earthenware crockery, and watercolor landscapes. Scott chuckled at the connecting door; Madame, a staunch Catholic, may not have approved, but irrespective of her predilections, she was a realist.

  At precisely one o’clock, they were summoned to the dining room. Lunch was served. At the large, well-worn farmhouse table, positioned before two sets of French doors leading out to a terrace and garden, Scott was accorded the seat of honor, to the right of Madame; Desirée sat to her left. Outside, Scott noticed there was another dining table on the terrace, under a large tree; he imagined in warmer weather, meals were taken outside under this oak. Beyond that he could see a swimming pool and pool house flanking the garden and terrace.

  A servant (Scott later learned he was the husband of the cook; the couple cared for the property year-round) opened a bottle of Domaines Ott, a rosé from nearby St. Tropez, and poured each a glass. A fresh and appetizing salade Niçoise in a large serving dish was passed—Desirée first, Madame second, and Scott last—along with a loaf of crusty peasant bread, which they broke off portion by portion by hand, and crock of unsalted butter. Dessert was a Pears Charlotte (caramelized pears topped with a dollop of whipped cream).

  Conversation at the table was a two-party affair between Desirée and her mother. Though Desirée made several attempts to integrate him into the discussion, Scott responded when necessary. But he offered nothing more than required, because he sensed Madame wasn’t ready to accord him equal status in their interaction. She—not Desirée—would determine when (and even if) that would come. Nevertheless, the conversation that did transpire was very pleasant and cordial. It was a conversation that almost any mother and daughter might have about myriad subjects: Madame’s ambulatory issue, since improved; upcoming schedules regarding Geneva, Paris, and Cannes; mutual friends, including the Deschamps, and others Scott hadn’t met; and the status of Gustav and Father Kohler. They decided—no, Madame decided—that they would take coffee on the terrace.

  Desirée excused herself as the coffee was served, and Madame de Bellecourt and Scott sat in silence. He had the distinct feeling that the dam was about ready to give way.

  Madame de Bellecourt set down her cup of coffee and turned to him. Here it comes, he thought. He looked at her expectantly, waiting.

  “Mr. Stoddard, I presume I don’t need to inform you that your relationship with my daughter is very troubling and not one of which I approve,” she said.

  Scott knew he should tread carefully with his response. “Your opinion has, in one form or another, been communicated to me through a variety of sources,” Scott said without emotion.

  “Can you find even one reason for which my ‘opinion’ should be altered?”

  “Madame, I hope your mind is not set. At present, I fear you are not prepared to hear that I love your daughter; I make her happy, which is the best reason possible for you to accept our relationship,” Scott said earnestly.

  “I believe that my objections would not be viewed as exceptional by any fair-minded person,” Madame said. “You are young. You are American . . . need I go on?”

  “With all due respect, I’m not contesting the validity of your objections. But if it turns out that your premise is faulty, then the results will be erroneous, too.”

  “But Mr. Stoddard, my objections are many.”

  “Nor am I surprised. Please; let’s review your list together to see if we have collected all the reasons for which this relationship is flawed and should be abandoned as quickly as possible,” Scott said. “I’m glad of the opportunity to discuss this frankly.” (He wondered, though, if the next few minutes would teach him that he only thought he appreciated directness.)

  Madame de Bellecourt’s eye’s flicked toward the doorway; Desirée might appear at any minute. “I’m not sure discussion would be beneficial,” she said.

  “I can assure you I will not be offended by any of your concerns. I have my own prejudices, so I understand too well and, on the contrary, feel it could be very helpful for you to know how deeply I understand your reservations.”

  “Then list away, Mr. Stoddard,” she said, folding her hands in her lap.

  “Let’s see: differences in age, social status, experiences, finances, culture, and religion.” Scott’s eyes met hers as though to ask, How am I doing?

  “That’s quite a list, Mr. Stoddard. It seems insurmountable,” she said.

  “It would be, except. . . .”

  “Except what?”

  “Except we love each other,” he said. “And I ask you to remember: You approved Desirée’s union with her ex-husband. I presume you gave your blessing for the very reason that their relationship lacked any of the objectionable differences you raise. But their homogeneity did not prevent the couple’s dissolution, and I propose it was missing two crucial ingredients that can overcome the greatest impediments: love and respect.” Scott leaned forward, looking directly into Madame de Bellecourt’s eyes in a confidential manner. Without blinking, she stared back. In some fashion, they understood each other.

  “Who knows what tomo
rrow will bring?” Scott continued. “We must live as we feel in the moment, not structuring our current lives to conform to preconceived ideas that course toward an unknowable future. Madame, I would ask you to reserve your judgment until you, like we, can see if our relationship has the wherewithal to go the distance.”

  Madame seemed at a loss for words, and after a moment of reflection, she took a sip of coffee. In a softer tone, she said, “Mr. Stoddard, I’m glad we could speak directly regarding my concerns, but I will also tell you that I remain unconvinced.”

  “I, too, like everything out in the open, and I appreciate your candor. I know how precious your daughter is to you, and I had not presumed of having the slightest chance to convince you on our first meeting. I hope you will drop your objections; it would make Desirée so very happy, and her happiness is paramount to me.”

  For the first time, Madame de Bellecourt smiled at Scott. “Monsieur, the issue at hand is not your intelligence or your remarkable skills of argument. But facts are facts, and you and Desirée are very dissimilar.”

  Desirée, with her usual, perfect timing, reappeared at that moment. “You two look quite serious,” she said. “What have you been talking about?”

  As Madame searched for an answer, Scott seized the moment and interjected, “Your mother and I have been discussing the importance of making organized and efficient lists.” Though Desirée was puzzled, Madame appeared relieved.

  That evening before dinner, Scott was alone in the great room of the house, lost among the large bookshelves, which contained an array of titles on many different subjects in several languages. He’d just selected a history about the search to find the source of the Nile when Madame entered the room. Would he like a drink? When he said yes, she inquired—was he familiar with pastis, a licorice-flavored French aperitif? No, Scott wasn’t and, since she seemed to genuinely want to introduce it to him, he accepted a glass. She had one, as well. When Desirée joined them, she made a face and had a flute of champagne instead.