Best Laid Plans (9 page)

The Quarter was still sleeping this
crisp Saturday morning. The French Market, which displayed a staggering variety
of fruits and vegetables during the week, was slowly acquiring the tenants that
turned it into an addictive weekend flea market. Horse-drawn carriages began to
arrive on Decatur Street. The horses' metal-banded hooves rang against the
pavement in counterpoint to the whistles from the Mississippi tugboats that
worked the other side of the levee.

Artists were arriving in the
Vieux
Carré
. Amanda watched them set up their easels and hang finished paintings against
the wrought-iron fence that circled Jackson Square. Standing proudly in the
gardens was the magnificent bronze statue of Andrew Jackson. An ever-growing
pigeon population roosted on the tail of his rearing horse. The graceful spires
of St. Louis Cathedral pierced the cloudless blue sky, but multicolored
umbrellas were popping open to protect against the April sun and in
anticipation of the afternoon rains.

Subtle strains of accordion music
tantalized Amanda's ears. The early-morning street musician was playing a
melody from a
Claude Lelouche
film . . . very French, very mellow, very
passionate. Her breakfast forgotten, Amanda leaned against the white iron
chair, suddenly surrounded by fond memories of another place. Another time.

Even though the French Quarter was
dappled in sunlight and fragrant with flowers, it lacked the intimacy of Paris
in winter. Strolling, chattering tourists couldn't compare with the anxious,
effervescent students from the
Sorbonne
who filled the small cafes.
While New Orleans had become a citadel for artists and sculptors, it lacked the
ghosts of the old masters that haunted the crooked alleys of
Montmartre
.

Wrapped in the blue mystery of dusk,
she had walked those narrow, winding streets that had inspired
Renoir
,
Toulouse-Lautrec
,
Utrillo
and
Picasso
. The
Place du Tertre
looked much like
Jackson Square, filled with outdoor bistros and trees, tourists and aspiring
artists amid an ever-blooming garden of easels.

A gentle breeze sent Amanda's napkin
skittering along the red-checked tablecloth. She rescued the napkin, trapping
the white paper beneath her coffee cup and remembered a day long ago that
started the same way. It had been November and the raw wind made her drink
first the apple brandy that came with her coffee; she had borrowed a
Gauloise
cigarette to light for warmth.

She had been very Bohemian eight
years ago, very worldly, very much the artist. A student at the
Chambre
Syndicale de la Couture Parisienne
. Amanda stayed for eight months, October
to June, to train as a minor
couturière
in the haute couture system.

Train? Labor! By nine every morning,
she and eighty other students, of varying nationalities, would squeeze onto
small stools behind even smaller tables to toil until five with only a brief
break for lunch. No talking was permitted during the work time. Mme. Gervaise
would teach and order, walking through and ripping apart days of effort with a
short, "Non! Like this!"

A single light bulb illuminated their
cramped work areas. Pressing was done with flat irons heated by gas plates that
Amanda had remembered seeing in the Smithsonian. The ironing board was a piece
of wood on two saw horses, yet muslin patterns were always perfectly pressed.

A lot of hard work had brought her to
that cramped space. She had labored mightily to attain her goal: Student
Designer of the Year at the Fashion Institute of Technology. It had enabled her
to go to Paris, learning from the best. She had loved it. She had cursed it.
She had been happy. She had been sad. But she had never been bored.

The students had formed a solidarity
group, living in a dorm, touring the city, claiming
L'ècole Cafe
in
Montmartre as their own. The outdoor bistro became their country; the students
were its citizens. Amanda literally owned a wicker chair at the corner table,
watching an endless parade of beautiful people who entertained with their
dress.

She loved to stroll along the
Place
Vendôme
, home of the most expensive shops on earth. She was smiled and nodded
to in Nina Ricci and possessed a
Hermès
silk scarf. Yet on that distant
November day all the breathless excitement and passion that was Paris had been
forgotten, replaced with depression and despair.

In the States it was Thanksgiving.
Amanda knew her parents' house would be filled with laughing relatives and
friends. She could envision the golden-brown turkey stuffed with oyster
dressing that would be centered on her mother's holiday lace tablecloth.
Ruby-red cranberries would shimmer in their used-once-a-year crystal dish,
nutmeg and cinnamon would rival all the other tempting aromas, making stomachs
anxious for pumpkin and mince pies.

While there was no Thanksgiving in
France, Paris was celebrating the Feast of St. Catherine, the patron saint of
seamstresses and young girls. The
Chambre
was closed, and all couturiers
enjoyed the holiday. Girls roamed the streets wearing their special green and
yellow caps to signify their unmarried state.

If there was one city in all the
world that was not meant to be viewed alone, it was Paris. Affectionate young
couples strolled through
Montmartre
, down from the bulbous white
basilica of
Sacré-Coeur's
sacred site to
Pigalle
, the hotbed of
the gaudiest nightlife in town.

Watching the lovers, Amanda had felt
very singular indeed. She refused to join her female classmates in the
rollicking Leap Year festivities that bubbled in the streets. Instead Amanda
had spent the entire day in her wicker chair at
L'ècole's,
doodling the
most outrageous designs on an endless supply of paper napkins and keeping warm
with a carafe of
Beaujolais,
crusty fresh baked bread and sizzling
grilled sausages.

Late that afternoon she realized that
the heady red wine had rendered her quite intoxicated. There could be no other
explanation for the appearance of that familiar masculine figure that zigzagged
among the outdoor tables.

As Amanda's rose-tinted lips curved
in a reminiscent smile, she suddenly became conscious that the same familiar
man was headed toward her today. She repeated what she had said eight years ago
in Paris: "Lucas, of all the bistros in all the world, what are you doing
in mine?"

His rich laughter rose above the
noise of the growing number of tourists who clustered on the sidewalk. "I
read the note you taped to my toe." Lucas pulled out an ornate chair,
expertly signaling for service. "You're one hell of a hostess, Mandy,
leaving your houseguest on the sofa."

"You looked so cute all curled
up in a fetal ball." She gave him an audacious wink. "Why didn't you
wake me last night? You couldn't have been very comfortable."

He fidgeted slightly, pulling the
points on the white collar of his burgundy knit shirt. "Your snoring made
conversation impossible." The lie was delivered with ease. "I thought
for sure you'd sleep late."

"I love coming here early on the
weekends. The Quarter is closed to traffic, the artists display their
paintings, the streets are filled with horse-drawn carriages. It brings back
some pleasant memories."

Lucas moved his hands to allow space
for the steaming mug of chicory blend and a wax-paper-wrapped beignet that the
waitress delivered. "It does look like
Montmartre
." His hand
reached out to tug her copper curls. "Your silly little beret is
missing." He took a careful swallow of coffee; lines traversed his forehead.
"I hope more than the past is pleasant for you."

Amanda shrugged, pulling absently at
the elbow-length sleeve on her leaf-strewn turquoise dress. "Daydreams are
always water-colored, but I was thinking how true it is that history does
repeat itself." Her fingers curved in appreciation around his white-cuffed
left wrist. "You showed up in Paris that November when I was depressed and
homesick, and yesterday you appeared again when I needed a morale boost. How do
you always know?"

"You lucked out eight years ago,
Mandy." Lucas tugged his earlobe. "I was in New York. The airport in
Maine was shut down due to snow. I missed the plane to North Carolina to be
with your folks and suddenly found I needed to spend the holiday with a friend
rather than strangers in the snack bar at LaGuardia."

"Liar." Amanda watched him
eliminate the hole-less doughnut in three substantial bites. Lucas was amazing.
She knew he had canceled plans for a ski vacation in Aspen to cheer her up in
Paris. And now her knight in shining armor had again arrived to rescue the fair
maid.

Amanda gave him a tremulous smile,
reaching out to let her fingernail dust the powdered sugar from his dark
moustache. "Say, when am I finally going to hear this mysterious
proposition of yours?"

"You've got a lot of nerve,
kid." Lucas playfully grabbed the lapels on her V neck dress collar, the
soft material soothed his calloused fingers. "You fell asleep last night
and missed my rather nervous dissertation."

Laughter bubbled in her throat.
"Lucas, I am sorry. Tell me again." She held up her palm. "I
promise not to doze off."

"I don't know," he hedged,
wiping his mouth with a napkin, then neatly folding it inside the empty mug.
"It may not be the brilliant scheme I first thought." Lucas found he didn't
have to feign uncertainty. He was afraid Amanda would say no.

"Let me be the judge," she
insisted. "Come on, while we walk to the shop you can dazzle me with a
very well-rehearsed proposal."

Arms locked together, they left the
Café
du Monde
and headed into the Quarter. Lucas was deliberately quiet, his
emotions still in a state of confusion. He had lain awake last night trying to
decipher exactly why his motives had changed. Initially he had wanted Amanda to
come to Dallas for a vacation. Vacation? Hell, that idea had been pushed aside
by other thoughts. Amanda could no longer be his buddy. His pal. Or be equated
with his sisters. Lucas realized his feelings had undergone a change - a change
that had nothing to do with a glandular reaction to oysters or a designer gown.

The ghost of Amanda Wyatt had been an
invisible specter that shadowed all his relationships. Unconsciously he had
measured all women against her and found them wanting. He had even been drawn
to Kitty because she was like a young Amanda.

Last night they had laughed about
searching for Mr. and Ms. Right. Lucas realized the laugh was on him. He
already possessed the treasure he was constantly seeking. Now Lucas felt it was
essential to bring Amanda more solidly into his life. Her feelings
had
to change. Her feelings
had
to echo his own.

Amanda paused in front of the
Pontalba Buildings that flanked Jackson Square. "Lucas," she said,
jiggling his arm, her voice low and inviting. "I won't bite your head off
if I don't like your idea. Give me a chance?"

"All right, Mandy." Lucas
disengaged her arm, jamming his balled fists into the pockets of his tan twill
pants. "I am going to say this straight out. No sugar coating. No mincing
words. No –"

"Dammit, Lucas!" Her
vanilla pump stamped against his leather boot; her mouth twisted into an
impatient scowl.

Laughing, he leaned against the
cast-iron railing that fenced off a marigold and geranium apartment garden.
"I came here to offer you a month-long vacation at my ranch. I thought
you'd enjoy horseback riding, new scenery, meeting new people. I also have
quite a nest egg put aside for furniture, wallpaper, paint, accessories - all
the little things that will make my house a home. I know of no one who could do
that better than you."

Lucas held up a peremptory finger,
halting her words. "Yesterday you said, 'I'm already at my peak. I've
accomplished my goals. What else is there?'" He took a deep breath,
praying his logic would find favor. "I know how emotionally involved you
are. It's hard to make a move away from what's safe and secure. I also know
that you don't have any idea what you want to move on to. The ranch would be a
perfect transition point. It could be the little step you need to identify a
new challenge."

Her gray eyes surveyed his intense
features. "Lucas, what a wonderful compliment. I'm deeply honored that
you'd want me to contribute to your home." Amanda scratched her cheek.
"The idea of a vacation, even a working one, is appealing. But a
month-" She shook her head. "That's a long time to leave the
shop."

"You said yesterday that you've
been coming to work and having little or nothing to do," Lucas reminded.
They resumed walking, sidestepping an antique-looking popcorn wagon, the
butter-coated, exploding kernels sending a fragrant message into the morning
air.

"Yes, you are right." She
exhaled a frustrated sigh. "I guess I just don't want it proved that I'm
not needed. Dammit, Lucas, instead of adding harmony and serenity to my life
you've aggravated the situation." Amanda directed him around the corner to
Dumaine Street. "One part of me wants to rush home, throw my jeans into a
suitcase and run off with you. Another part is screaming, 'Don't be a
fool!'"