An Improbable Pairing

by Gary Dickson

  “Monsieur Stoddard?” the man said.

  “Oui,” Scott answered.

  The man withdrew an envelope from his pocket, stuffing it hurriedly into Scott’s hand. Surprised, Scott stared at the envelope before realizing the man had darted through the stacks; when Scott thought to finally look up, his accoster had disappeared from sight.

  How very odd. Puzzled, Scott mused: how had anyone known he was here? Opening the envelope, he unfolded a full page torn from Le Figaro. The heading across the top of the page was Les Notices Necrologiques (the obituaries). Across its columns listing the deceased were scrawled four ominous words: “Don’t end up here.”

  Shaken, Scott left the library through a side exit; he didn’t want to risk his new shadow waiting for him outside the main entrance. He didn’t really know whether he should be alarmed or not. Be rational, Scott thought. Was this stunt a bluff designed to make him leave Paris and Desirée? But who was behind this? While he wanted to run through the details and seek her counsel, Scott intuited he couldn’t tell Desirée. He cast his mind about—was there anyone he could discuss this odd occurrence with? Not the police, he thought. Threats, particularly anonymous threats, aren’t very believable, and they would probably dismiss this contemptuously as matters between suitors in a love triangle. There was no doubt in Scott’s mind that the note was Stefano’s doing. Angrily, he wadded the newsprint in his hand, tossing it away. Italians, he thought, can be so very dramatic at times. Only desperation could conjure up this stunt. No, he couldn’t tell Desirée.

  thirty

  RETURNING TO GENEVA, THE SKI SEASON OVER, SCOTT was finally able to concentrate on school. For a few weeks, their extravagant lifestyle calmed; without an unceasing onslaught of parties and social events, Desirée and Scott’s routine settled into the hum of a married couple. Was it Scott’s imagination or was there was less teasing, less laughing, and less mystery? There was less insecurity (a plus, Scott thought) but surely less sex (which he was not happy about). Desirée was aware and, like him, not pleased. How, he wondered, did we get here?

  This stage was new to Scott—he’d never been with a woman in such a domestic relationship. He found himself hashing over the problem like a dog with a bone. Perhaps their alliance was like a ship becalmed. Without the next party, or ball, or trip, where was the forward progress? In less than two weeks, the Cannes Film Festival was on the schedule, and that excitement and newness, this fresh experience, had the power to lift them from this deadly sameness: he studying, she shopping, doing charity work, and preserving mind and body at the Ritz spa. Always followed by dinner and sometimes lunch together.

  Every relationship has its arc, much like the stages of a person’s life: birth, adolescence, young adult period, middle-ages, senior years, and death (hopefully put off for a long time). Scott knew this—but where did he and Desirée fall in this arc? He could hear her laughter in his mind—it’s been mere months, darling. He guessed they had not advanced much further than adolescence. But how could he tell her that things were feeling stale, that their domesticated routine had done something to his excitement? Her feelings might be irreparably hurt. She would probably believe, no matter how he explained it, that he was bored with her. How would he feel if the situation were reversed? After all, he reasoned, she was most likely having those same thoughts about him. This, he thought, was the more likely scenario: his novelty had worn off. Many of Desirée’s friends had accepted Scott, and he had become something of a given. Maybe, he thought, she likes the mystery man Scott, the indefatigable but tender bedroom Scott, the Scott who was more out of step and generated the most excitement, talk, and gossip, more. How could he discuss this lack of passion without risking losing her?

  Scott mulled over what to do for days. He feared avoiding the subject might yield what he feared most—losing Desirée. He worried that he’d bungle a too direct approach. He contemplated an oblique maneuver, some sort of indirect inquiry. But what would that be? Nothing seemed the right tactic. Scott was out of his league.

  IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL DAY. MONT BLANC SHIMMERED IN THE distance as Scott and Desirée sat on the terrace. They’d had a light lunch, and Desirée was enjoying a coffee, but Scott needed something stronger. He poured himself a Calvados. Desirée’s mother, Madame de Bellecourt, had introduced him to the distilled spirit when they’d visited at Easter; the liqueur was somewhat like Cognac, except Calvados issued from the apple. The fruit of original sin, Scott mused. He poured himself a stiff one. He cleared his throat and took the plunge.

  “Desirée, I would like to ask you something,” he said.

  She turned her eyes from the gorgeous scenery and carefully set her coffee on the table. Desirée studied him for a moment; he could see her thinking. Scott felt like a snake, mesmerized by a swaying charmer.

  Finally, she said, “Are you bored, my darling?”

  He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until he let it out. Well, he had not been wrong. Why had he thought he would be? From their first flirt, he’d recognized how highly sensitive she was. Over time, they’d become more and more tuned to each other’s emotions.

  “You’re not answering me,” Desirée said. “This is serious, isn’t it?”

  Scott came close, sitting by her on the chaise longue. She waited, still and anxious, watching his eyes.

  “Desirée, love of my life, will you marry me?”

  Never had he seen a more shocked look on anyone’s face. For the first time since he had known her, Desirée was disconcerted and confused. Normally the picture of self-control and mistress of her surroundings, she looked positively discombobulated.

  He moved in front of her, taking her trembling hands. “Darling, you’re making me nervous,” he said. “Say something, please.”

  “I’m . . . shocked,” she stammered. “I had no idea you were thinking such a thing.”

  “Why wouldn’t I? I love you. You love me, I hope. Isn’t this the natural progression of a relationship?”

  He watched her gather her composure. “Of course, I love you. I love you with all my heart,” and Scott was happy (and relieved) to hear the conviction in her voice. “But,” she said, and he cringed, “I hadn’t thought we were close to making such a big decision.” She ever so slightly stressed the “we.”

  Was she telling him no or not yet? “I’m not sure marriage is something you weigh on the scales,” he replied. “It’s more something you do if it feels right.” Desirée, inscrutable, listened as his words poured out. “Maybe I leaped when I should’ve looked. You’re . . .” He searched for the right word, “. . . hesitant, and that is not a good sign. Perhaps I have misunderstood; should I have waited for you to ask me? You may call me provincial, as I can’t say I didn’t think that would be shocking. I did. But for some reason, I thought if I asked, you might be surprised and pleased and—well, I thought you might be happy.”

  Tears glistened in Desirée’s eyes. This was unbearable, and Scott stood, moving away from her to the balcony’s edge. She followed, placing a soft hand on his arm, turning him to face her. “Oh, Scott,” she breathed. “This is coming out all wrong. I do love you. I would marry you.”

  His head snapped up. Angrily, he retorted, “Would? That’s conditional. Not will and not exactly a confidence builder. Am I just a toy?”

  “Darling, I’m not trying to hurt your feelings, but really; don’t we need to give things more time? You’re young, and this is still new.”

  Pulling away, Scott’s eyes blazed at her. “I think there is such a thing as giving something too much time.” He searched for an example. Picking up Desirée’s cup, he said, “Take coffee. Brewing the perfect cup requires fresh water, the right amount of beans ground to the proper texture, heat enough to percolate and brew, before it flows from the pot. It’s best drunk at that moment in time. Waiting around doesn’t improve the coffee; letting it sit once ready only makes it stale,” he said. Desirée regarded him with a calm expression, and he was reminded of how young he wa
s and how wise she could be.

  Slowly and carefully, she said, “But you will admit we have some issues, wouldn’t you?”

  Months of self-doubt poured from Scott’s mouth. He couldn’t seem to stop the flow of recriminations. “Are you speaking or thinking about all the issues that both of us chose to ignore when we fell in love? The things we said to ourselves, that you told me, didn’t matter? Or are these ‘issues’ what your mother believes? Oh, we’ve talked of all the ways she believes our relationship is doomed. Did you know that? Or perhaps these are the issues your friends—and, probably, my parents, the moment they discover the truth—point out as reasons our love affair cannot endure? Which ‘issues’ are they, Desirée? Or is it all of them?”

  “Your temper is rising. When you start making lists, particularly those irrefutable lists you use so effectively with anyone who opposes you, I know you are getting angry. And that is the last thing I meant to happen. I love you, Scott. Can’t you just think on that for the moment?”

  His pride wounded, Scott couldn’t give an inch. He challenged her: “How do we go forward if you refuse my offer of marriage?”

  She sighed heavily. “But I didn’t refuse,” she pointed out. “I said I would marry you.”

  Had she really? Scott wasn’t so sure that anything short of an unequivocal and enthusiastic “yes” was acceptable. Jaw clinched, he demanded, “When?”

  She thought for a few minutes. “Introduce me to your parents, then I’ll marry you.”

  Scott wasn’t buying it. He’d watched Desirée deflect too many unpleasant social situations to underestimate her skill. “You’re just delaying for a few months. They have nothing, I repeat, nothing to do with your response,” he said. “I don’t like this at all. Your conditional answer to my proposal undermines our feelings for each other in some unconscious but insidious way.”

  “Give me until the end of June to change I would to I will. Please,” she begged. “It’s just two short months. I do love you. And in the meantime, can’t we at least talk about some of the issues you raised? I don’t want to ignore them or your feelings.”

  “Sure, let’s talk about them,” Scott said. “Let’s get everything out in the open.”

  Desirée moved close to him, pressing her body against his. She twined her arms tightly around his waist, resting her head on his chest. “Let’s do that later. I have a better idea.”

  “And what’s that?” Scott stood there, woodenly.

  “There’ll be no doubt I love you.”

  To be honest, Scott didn’t feel like making love, or being held, or being reassured. He was angry, and Desirée was distracting him from the heat of that feeling. He wasn’t accustomed to rejection and didn’t like anyone who interfered with his focus. You’re selfish, he heard his mother’s voice whisper. He knew his anger was childish; he knew he had to overcome this selfishness if his relationship with Desirée was to last. But no matter his best intentions, Scott was hurt and, yes, angry. Reluctantly, he allowed her to lead him from the terrace.

  Desirée wasn’t about to let him remain in such an emotional state, and she initiated their lovemaking carefully. She was patient, knowing how bruised his feelings were. She worked her body in a naturally sexy way to reassure Scott and distract from his injured pride. She intoxicated him with her vulnerability and tenderness. Desirée was making amends, depending on their animal attraction to move them past the hard spot and overcome a potential pitfall.

  thirty-one

  DESIRÉE BECAME EVEN MORE ATTENTIVE AND SOLICItous of Scott’s feelings and moods. Their easy laughter returned, and he teased her, especially after a passionate session, about her reaction to his proposal. Over the next several days, they talked, anxious to define and discuss any challenges to be overcome.

  Ever the debater, Scott classified their issues into two categories: easy for him to overcome and easy for her. Take, for example, their age difference. This was easy for Scott to overcome. He said it didn’t matter, that there wasn’t that much difference; she argued the counter view—what would happen when she was fifty and he only forty-two? He argued closeness in age did not guarantee happiness; that love, compatibility, humor, and character were the main components of a good relationship. Besides, he countered, men age faster than women. He would catch up before it became important.

  The sensitive issue for him—which, actually, was two issues rolled into one—was their financial and social differences. She was from aristocracy, and he was American upper middle class. Well, she reasoned, if she accepted him, then others would as well. And as to the finances, she had plenty of money for them both. No matter his success in whatever area he chose, she pointed out, Scott would probably need twenty years to make a portion of what she’d inherited. There was something to be said for pride of working, Scott countered, of accomplishing something and being dutifully employed. Desirée said she understood—was there a middle ground? She couldn’t, however, pinpoint its location.

  Most of her male friends had careers in law, finance, or the family business. They had balanced their careers and personal lives; Scott could do the same. Scott wasn’t prepared to give up his present path. Maybe, he argued, once they were married, he could concentrate and finish his graduate degree.

  AFTER THEY HAD SEEMINGLY DEALT WITH ALL OTHER REAsons, Desirée brought up another concern over breakfast. Buttering her croissant, she said, “My darling, there is one issue we still need to talk about. I’m Catholic, and you are not.”

  There it was. Scott had wanted to be prepared for this moment, and here it was. “I hope you know that I would never interfere with your religion,” he said.

  “I do, but that’s not the issue. The whole reason my mother insisted that my marriage to Stefano be annulled was so that if I married again, I could do so in the church. On this point, she is intractable. And because you are not Catholic, our marriage cannot be consecrated. It’s forbidden.

  “What if I found another way? What if I received a special dispensation from Rome?” he asked.

  “But I don’t understand. A special dispensation to become Catholic?”

  “No, there’s another way, but it’s debatable. I was thinking we could ask Father Kohler to help us,” he said.

  “Scott, tell me what you’re thinking, please.”

  “It’s not well known, but the real interdiction that the Catholic Church has against non-Catholics is about Protestantism, since those denominations were protesters of the Catholic Church and its tenets,” Scott said.

  “I still don’t see how this helps us. You were raised a Baptist; isn’t that a Protestant?”

  “That’s just it. Yes, I’m Baptist. The Baptist denomination is commonly lumped with Protestantism, but we never protested the Catholic Church. As a result, there is a small loophole; Baptist congregants are excluded from the rule. But I’m sure that the clergy would need to be reminded of this technicality, and the appeal could only be presented by an ecclesiastical lawyer experienced in canonical law who could persuade the bishops in Rome,” he explained.

  “My God, Scott. How do you know this?

  “I asked you to marry me, and I knew it might be an issue,” he said. “Despite evidence to the contrary, I do know how to study—when given the proper motivation.”

  “You’re unbelievable,” she said. “This is why I love you.”

  “And I thought it was the sex.” Scott quipped lightly.

  “It’s that, too.”

  thirty-two

  FATHER KOHLER WAS KEY TO SCOTT’S PLAN, AND THAT prompted Desirée. She recalled that, prior to Father Kohler’s assignment in Gstaad, he had worked in the Vatican’s legal department in Rome. While he was not a lawyer and had never risen to the higher echelons, he was always close to power and a very popular and trusted confidant of those who were. If Father Kohler didn’t know the right person, then he would most assuredly know how to identify him.

  “I could call him, explain what the problem is, and see what he says,” De
sirée said.

  “That might be a lot to spring on him—our possible marriage and the church’s arcane technicalities. Of course, before we talk to Father Kohler, we need to clear up a certain matter.” He couldn’t resist cutting her a sly look. “There’s the problem of wording. I believe, the difference between would and will.”

  “Very funny.” Desirée simply ignored the comment. “Do you think we should drive to Gstaad?”

  Scott said, “I think we should invite him to lunch at Grappe d’Or in Lausanne. It’s halfway between Gstaad and Geneva, and we could engage a driver to bring him to the restaurant and return him afterward. Besides being a convenience, our effort would immediately alert him to its importance. A personal, face-to-face meeting allows him—and us—to gauge body language and facial expressions; we’ll be able to better understand how high a hill we propose to climb.”

  That very afternoon, Desirée called Father Kohler, and he agreed to the arrangements: Friday, lunch at one o’clock.

  The night before, they made love. Scott had made sure of their intimacy; it was his barometer for the relationship. If all was well, Desirée was free and unabashed. If there was discontent, Scott would note her perceptible tinge of reticence. He was relieved that there had been no holding back; Desirée was passionate and eager for his touch. As he watched her brush her hair the next morning, he saw that she was nervous—and he was, too. But they were working together on this problem, and that gave him courage.

  Arriving in Lausanne a bit early, Desirée instructed Gustav to make a detour down to Ouchy, Lausanne’s lakefront. They followed the contour of the shore so she could show Scott the promenade, where large plane trees provided shade for those strolling and anyone wishing to feed the gulls and swans. Desirée pointed out a grand residence; the exiled Queen of Spain, Victoria Eugenie, lived there and, from time to time, Desirée’s mother—Madame de Bellecourt—was her guest.