by Gary Dickson
At first, they struggled with the obligatory pronouncements and greetings, but there was a brief conversational respite as they ordered turbot and steamed potatoes with a Chassagne-Montrachet. After the waiter had left, they seemed to be at a new standstill. Albert’s tortured face and nervous manner suggested he had something on his mind, something he was eager to discuss. Scott encouraged him to have a little more wine, which Albert accepted. Shifting slightly in his chair, Albert focused on the pepper mill, using more than necessary, before uncharacteristically blurting, “Scott, tell me; were you certain as to whether Desirée would say yes when you asked her to marry you?”
Oh—Scott knew what this was about; Albert was about to propose to Celine, and he wanted a few pointers. He smiled. Women overestimate men’s self-assurance, he mused; if they only knew. Here was Albert, a leading cardiologist and man of intelligence and character, who was mentally pacing, wondering whether the woman he loved would give a yes or no. He was so uncertain of her answer that he hardly dared to ask the question. Meanwhile, his intended, the sweet Celine, was waiting and longing for him to ask that very question, simply bursting to say yes. Somehow, though, Albert couldn’t imagine he was worthy of her approval. Such is the mystery of love, Scott thought.
“Of course, I was shaking,” Scott said, hoping to give Albert courage. “It took me days to prepare my plea. I wrote it out, rehearsed, and tried to steel myself for the possibility of rejection—or worse, her derisive laughter. Those were difficult days, with sleepless nights, and bouts of indigestion.” This got a laugh out of Albert. “But one lovely afternoon, I assumed the stereotypical position, got down on bended knee, and asked her if she would be my wife, half dreading the whole thing. Then, her answer came, easily, without equivocation, unexpectedly, joyously, and emphatically: yes. With that, all the tension and doubt drained away, and I was quite possibly the happiest of men.” It hadn’t quite gone like that, but how could Scott tell Albert that Desirée had put him off for weeks and that it had taken a baby and canonical dispensation to get to “yes”? No, Albert needed the fairytale version, and Scott happily—if somewhat less than candidly—obliged.
“It sounds so easy when you say it,” Albert said. He shifted this way and that in his chair, drinking water and then more wine.
“Albert, listen to me. Celine loves you dearly. All you must do is ask, and she’s yours. We all can see it in her eyes. She’s just waiting for you.”
Albert reached across the table to give Scott’s hand a hearty shake, and then he stood up to embrace Scott in the French fashion. Was it Scott’s imagination or was Albert standing a bit taller, a more confidant man?
“My dear Scott, may I ask another question?” Albert asked.
“Of course, please do.” They resumed their seats, and Scott poured them both more wine.
“It might seem a little impertinent, and if it’s none of my business, then please tell me. I will harbor no ill feelings.”
“When someone prefaces a question with this much preamble, there is usually cause to worry,” Scott said, laughing.
“Okay, here it is. How do you feel about finding yourself day after day in the company of all these wealthy and entitled people?”
“Win the prize, Albert. You can worry about the details of living later.”
“I better ask Celine soon before I lose my nerve,” Albert said. “And Scott, just to let you know, your secret is safe with me.”
Secret? Scott presumed that Celine had confided Desirée’s condition to Albert. So much for the fairytale, he thought.
THE MUSÉE NISSIM DE CAMONDO IN THE 8TH ARRONDISSEment was a residence that had been willed in trust to the French government, to be maintained in its original condition. What made the Musée Nissim de Camondo famous was its exquisite decorative arts, including place settings and silver. Desirée and Celine had conspired to spend a Saturday looking at the antique china collections; they were hoping to have a special pattern made for them at Sèvres. The women invited Scott and Albert to come with them on their expedition. The men lagged behind while Desirée and Celine wandered ahead, chatting about the art pieces.
“Scott, look,” Albert said. He held a red box with a gold border and, stamped into the leather, one word: Cartier. Though no further explanation was necessary, he proudly lifted the hinged top and voila, Scott saw an emerald-cut diamond (so large it had to be four carats) with two round cut stones on each side. Even in the low light of the museum, it glistened. Scott gave his friend a congratulatory and conspiratorial smile.
“When?” he asked.
“Now,” Albert replied. “Keep Desirée busy for a moment, will you?”
Scott sprang into action, moving ahead to ask Desirée to look at a beautiful vase he had seen in another room. Desirée followed him, but Scott could tell she didn’t like being interrupted in her quest.
This left Albert and Celine alone in the museum’s living room.
Only a minute passed before they both heard a happy squeal from Celine, followed by some nervous laughter, a little bawling, several sniffles, and Albert’s voice calling, “You two can come back now.”
They found Celine with big tears of joy and Albert with a Cheshire cat grin.
DURING THESE LAST DAYS LEADING UP TO THE WEDDING, Scott managed to reconnect with Andre and Leon. They met at Époque, their usual haunt.
Their first two meetings had taken place during winter and early spring, but it was full summer now, so they took a table outside. In the nice months, tables spilled onto the Champs-Élysées’ wide sidewalk and turned the corner onto the intersecting street. Trim evergreens in planters defined the restaurant’s boundaries and offered a degree of privacy, while umbrellas shielded guests, food, and wine from too much direct sunlight. The waiters wore traditional black pants, bow ties, vests with a white shirts, and aprons common in brasseries. Still, the red and gold colors so prominent in the interior decoration of the restaurant flowed thematically onto the sidewalk, contributing to the festive atmosphere.
“My dear Scott, you honor us with your presence every three months,” Andre said saucily. Jerking his head toward the ever-present security detail, he went on. “Leon has noticed that you have some new friends following,” he said.
“Leon is too observant,” Scott said. “The paparazzi, you know.”
Grinning, Andre replied, “That’s how we get our news about you.”
“Well, I have news you can’t get from them, at least not yet. The countess and I are to be married on July 23 at the Church of St. Pierre de Chaillot. I’ve come today to pass on the invitation. We hope you will come with your wives, of course.”
Andre rose from his seat to wrap Scott in a genuine bear hug. “My God,” he shouted, “what does one say, but congratulations mon ami; you are so full of surprises.”
Leon seconded the well wishes. “Quite, quite stunning,” he stammered. “Really stunning. Congratulations. My; you don’t waste any time, do you?”
“I must admit I was worried, but this May-December romance has turned out superbly,” Andre said.
“And you were worried about what, exactly?” Scott inquired.
“I don’t have to tell you that the tabloids will know about this as soon as the invitations go out. That is, if they don’t already know from their spies in the couture houses where the wedding trousseau originates. Or from the caterers. Or florists, or . . . you understand, Scott.” Andre wasn’t telling Scott anything he didn’t already know. His friend continued.
“The wedding will be a spectacular story, and they’ll play up every angle—if you understand my meaning. You’re marrying the Countess de Rovere, and there’s no way to keep the paparazzi away. They will know your every move in advance. They will be at the wedding and the reception. I’ll bet they’re even tracking where you plan to honeymoon. All you can do is limit their access.”
“We’re dealing with it,” Scott huffed, irritated at Andre’s warnings.
“Remember, you can’t even t
rust your friends. What about the count?”
“What about him?”
“He’s disturbingly possessive. Count de Rovere was incensed when she secured an annulment.”
“He’s disturbed all right.”
“Is that why you have the security?” Scott declined to answer, but his response was unnecessary. Andre said, “He’s dangerous, Scott, and likely more dangerous now that you plan to marry.”
It was almost as if Andre were privy to the events of the last few weeks. Everything had seemed to be lining up in a most favorable way: the dispensation, the wedding plans, the special friends on board, a minimum of innuendo and gossip.
And then some three weeks ago, a story had appeared about the Countess de Rovere’s impending marriage to an unknown university student; Scott was even mentioned by name. The headline, “American Student Captures Countess’s Heart and Hoard,” painted Scott as a gold digger, a less than complimentary picture of his intentions. Stefano had added to the tasteless speculation, and some of the specifics indicated an informer within the wedding party. Desirée was upset; Madame de Bellecourt had found it necessary to retire to her bedroom for the day, after the story was published. Scott prayed no one discovered that Desirée was pregnant. If the press gained access to that fact, they would show no mercy.
Stefano had been reduced to a naysayer, a prognosticator without credentials, predicting impending and hoped-for doom. According to him, the marriage was an ill-aligned and ill-advised match that would surely spiral into an abyss of blame and discord. He spread his venom at his reputation’s expense. Unwilling to accept that he had been replaced, he embarrassed any who sought to temper his outbursts and maintain some decorum. But who could blame him? Once, he had held Desirée, but he had valued that prize so little that, eventually, he’d lost her.
forty-six
ONE MORE MOUNTAIN WAS LEFT TO CLIMB; THE Stoddards were due at Orly Airport, and Scott was worried. This was their first time in Europe; in addition to that adjustment, it was his parents’ first meeting with Desirée, whom his mother blamed for Scott’s predicament; last, but not least, they would meet Madame de Bellecourt. Desirée’s mother couldn’t conceal her aristocratic underpinnings, even to prevent alienating her future son-in-law’s parents. Oh, she might surprise him, but Scott thought she would find a way to demonstrate her displeasure regarding the marriage. In any case, he knew he couldn’t control Madame de Bellecourt, nor could he oversee and supervise his parents’ every move. They would already be on the defensive, being in a new place, with new people, and new everything; they would criticize before they could be critiqued. It was a dangerous game, and Scott could hear Cardinal Massela’s intuitive words about families and their impact on a couple.
The evening before his parents’ arrival, Desirée asked, “Will they be nervous?”
“Nervous would be preferable,” Scott replied. “Defensive is what I’m worried about.”
“So, we have from the airport to the hotel to get them to relax.”
“Do you have a plan?”
“Maybe we could tell them how everyone is looking forward to meeting them.”
“Not believable.”
“Do you have a better idea?”
“Yes, I was thinking narcotics.”
“We could conduct French classes on the way from the airport to the hotel. Maybe by the time we arrived, they could have a kind of patois going for them.”
“Yes, and after the dinners and festivities, we could conduct seminars on French table manners, the basics of knife and fork, polite conversation (including tone and volume), and gestures of the hands and face, all designed to transform them from this nice American couple into sophisticated and jaded continentals.”
Scott and Desirée laughed and carried this absurdity to its limits. They wouldn’t be able to ward off every challenge nor protect themselves all the time. If either one made a little (or big) mistake, the lovers agreed: que sera, sera.
“But I do hope your mother likes me,” Desirée said wistfully.
“She will, my dear. Why wouldn’t she?”
“I can think of several reasons, not the least of which is that I am taking her little Scott from her.”
Scott agreed, grinning. “You’re probably right about that. You know she kept me in the crib until I was eleven,” he said.
“It’s not a laughing matter,” she said, though she did giggle a bit at the image of Scott crammed into a baby’s crib.
“I agree, but my mother is a smart lady. She knows how her brioche is buttered.”
Desirée insisted on coming to the airport; of course it was the right thing to do, but Scott was nervous, because with them came a phalanx of security and the commensurate increase in interest by the press. His parents were proper, if relatively middle class, people—Scott wasn’t worried about their appearance or comportment. They would do fine. But he hadn’t seen them since last September, and since his telephone conversations had been crafted more to conceal than reveal, his parents had been denied a chance to adjust to the rapidly progressing circumstances of his romance with Desirée. In a different scenario, Scott could imagine they might be proud of his link to a countess, a woman of wealth, social standing, and prestige. But he knew they felt surprised, taken advantage of, and without options or say-so in the outcome. In the past, they’d always been a part of any decisions affecting Scott. With Desirée’s financial means, the Stoddards no longer had any monetary leverage with their son. But emotional? Perhaps Scott didn’t require their approval, and maybe their disapproval had lost the impact it had carried before.
They made it through customs before Scott spotted his parents, who were looking everywhere for his face in the crowd. His mother and father were fastidious; they’d disembarked from the plane looking as though they’d been at a spa. His father wore his perennial dark blue pinstripe; his mother, in camel and beige Céline. Scott thought they looked good, even better than ten months ago, when they’d accompanied him to the ship.
He led Desirée toward his parents. His mother saw them first, and Scott reached to embrace her, at the same time shaking his father’s hand. After a moment, they separated, and Scott said, “Mother, Father; let me introduce you to my fiancé, the Countess de Rovere. Desirée, my parents, Edward and Sarah Stoddard.”
“It’s very nice to meet you,” his father said. “I don’t believe I have ever met a countess. And Scott was right; you are quite beautiful indeed.”
“Thank you, Mr. Stoddard. You are most kind,” Desirée said graciously. Turning to Scott’s mother, she handed her the welcome bouquet she’d brought. “And Mrs. Stoddard—I am so pleased to meet you. Scott has told me all about you both. I’m so glad you are here,” Desirée said in her excellent English, caressed ever so slightly by a light French accent.
Mrs. Stoddard, standing at his father’s right, and slightly behind him, shyly extended her hand and then, when it was accepted, ventured to embrace Desirée. It was a nice moment. They walked to the car, the luggage was loaded, and Desirée whispered to Scott before climbing into the plush seat, “Oh, your parents are so nice, my darling, just like you.”
The photographers and journalists discovered them, and began to press close on all sides of the Mercedes, pushing to get better angles. A look of annoyance spread across Scott’s mother’s face. Mr. Stoddard remarked, “Isn’t there anything that can be done about these people? How in the world do you put up with this?”
On their way to the hotel, Desirée and his father filled the car with unexpected, banal chatter. Scott was surprised his father possessed such charm; the elder Stoddard did not hesitate to ladle it on heavily. Scott’s mother, meanwhile, was taking in Desirée, surveying her future daughter-in-law’s every minute detail. Her scrutiny wasn’t pointed enough to notice unless you knew his mother, but Scott could tell she, too, was taken with Desirée’s beauty and elegance. He smiled; today, Desirée’s sensitivity to others was so apparent. She’d dressed modestly (well, modestly b
y Paris’ standards) in a simple, white linen pencil skirt with a printed gray and ivory jacket. She looked fabulous in a large bone cuff and ring, encrusted with diamonds, and matching earrings. Scott’s mother loved jewelry more than most, and had a substantial collection, so she appreciated the quality and taste of Desirée’s accessories.
By the time they reached the hotel, his father had become a convert. Scott expected his mother would be a harder sell (he wondered, did she view Desirée as a rival for his affection? That wouldn’t be unusual; Mrs. Stoddard was fiercely and competitively protective of her only child, often measuring herself against every woman she met).
They’d booked the Stoddards at the Plaza-Athenée, one of Paris’ grand hotels, all five-plus stars. Madame de Bellecourt had specifically chosen the Plaza-Athenée because of its proximity to the church and prime shopping, which she thought Scott’s mother might enjoy. She’d insisted on making the reservations herself, in person, reviewing the specific accommodations with the general manager. The Stoddards would be enjoying a suite of some proportions, decorated with antiques and period furnishings, all enhanced with the brocades and toiles so quintessentially French. Orchids were placed an hour before his parents’ arrival. Madame de Bellecourt had supervised their selection as well, voicing her opinion that flowers should not have an annoying or overpowering scent. She suggested orchids, and orchids they were.
They checked into the hotel; tired from the trip, Scott’s parents wanted to rest a few hours before dinner. That first evening, Desirée thought it best to have a quiet, easy dinner at the hotel. But before leaving, she said, “There will be a car and driver at your disposition while you are in Paris. Mrs. Stoddard, there is a hairdresser in the hotel, but if you would like, I would be pleased to arrange an appointment with Frederic, my coiffeur at Alexandre de Paris.”