Scent of Triumph (30 page)

“You have a point.”

Danielle pushed a paper across the desk and tapped on the columns of numbers. “This is my inventory, here are sales-to-date, and these are my orders. The bottom figure is the amount of money I need, and here is my projected profit.”

Clara put her glasses on, frowned as she scanned the figures. “The only problem I see is that you might become a victim of your own success. If sales continue to double and triple, then your investment in inventory must rise, but can you get the money to fulfill the demand?”

“If you could refer me to a bank—”

“Forget it.” Clara shook her head sharply, her platinum hair brushing her shoulders. “You haven’t lived here long, or established credit. Your worst crime of all is that you’re a woman in business, and a single woman at that.” She leaned across the desk, tapping her fountain pen. “You can’t imagine how difficult it was to establish my business. Had it not been for my investors, I never could have done it.”

“You mean, a business that invests in businesses?”

“No, private investors.” Clara laughed. “All men, I might add. Even though you’re French, and the French are so marvelous in their understanding of these, ah, arrangements, I don’t think you’re prepared to repay that sort of ‘interest.’” Clara spread her hands and shrugged. “But what could I have done then? Now I’m established, now it’s different. Today, if I need to borrow money, the banker will answer my call. But it has taken forever, and the bank still asks for a man to co-sign my business loans.” She rolled her eyes. “What we need are more women bankers.”

Heat colored Danielle’s cheeks. “That’s why I came to you for advice.”

Clara leaned back, put her long, lapis silk-clad legs on a corner of her desk and dangled a silver high-heeled sandal. “It’s not easy for a woman to be in business, but I love it. Now we have the right to vote, and someday we’ll own our own banks. Your girls will have a better shot at the brass ring than we do.” She arched a brow. “Until then, we have to play the game.”

Danielle lifted her chin. “Yes, but by whose rules?”

Clara’s expression hardened. “Your own. Only play by your own rules, Danielle. Otherwise, you’ll never be truly happy.”

“You speak from experience?”

“I do.” For a fleeting moment, Clara’s cool eyes reflected a deep sadness, and then the emotional curtain closed, as quickly as it had parted.

“Then I shall heed your advice,” Danielle said quietly. She returned her attention to her projections, then they reviewed Clara’s list of retailer referrals.

“Are you really sure you want to do this, Danielle? It’s a tremendous undertaking.”

“I’m quite sure, Clara.” She squared her shoulders. “I’m going to build a great company. American women have no idea what they’re missing, in terms of French perfume and style, and I know I can provide it. All I need is capital.”

Clara tapped her manicured nails on the desk. “Private capital, that’s what you need. Someone who believes in you.”

Danielle made no reply, but watched Clara’s thoughtful expression as she gazed out the window.

On the street below, the busy sounds of Wilshire Boulevard wafted in. Finally, Clara turned back to Danielle. “Women need to help one another. So, I’m willing to lend you the money you need.” She stood, held her hand out. “Is it a deal?”

Danielle shook her hand, thrilled but guarded, and well aware of the financial risk to Clara. “I won’t let you down.”

Clara smiled at her. “I’ll have my attorney draw up a loan agreement. Your inventory can serve as collateral.” She removed her glasses and leaned across the desk. “Remember, you need volume. That’s where you’ll make your money. Focus on volume and collections and publicity.” She chuckled. “Actually, you have to focus on everything. I wish I could lend you more, but this will get you through Christmas.”

After thanking Clara, Danielle left the office and shut the door behind her. Her heart pounded with excitement, her business plan shook in her hands. She couldn’t wait to write to Jon and give him the news.

* * *

Jon stood on the deck gazing at the edge of the sea where the waves stretched toward the horizon, as distant and elusive as his future. The full moon cast an opalescent glow on the letter he held in his hand. From time to time he glanced at it, read it again, and thought about Danielle.

My dearest Jon
, she wrote.
Your letter was such a surprise. I am so honored that you feel you can bare your feelings to me, and first, I want you to know that I share your feelings. You are so very special to me, you have a place in my heart that no other occupies.

Love is a deep commitment, Jon. If I were a woman with no responsibilities, I would be on my way to England. But my life is full of other commitments of love. The love for my daughter and niece, the love for my mother. And with this love comes a duty of protection. Jon, we barely escaped the Nazi surge into Paris. And while I realize that England is strong, and will likely prevail against Germany, I cannot endanger my family again. I know your offer was sincere, but I cannot accept it.

All that I can offer to you in return is the love in my heart and prayers for your safety.

Feeling frustrated, Jon lowered the letter, crumpled it, and flung it out to sea. Instantly he regretted his action. What did he expect of her? He had poured his heart out to her, had proposed a plan that was impetuous and unrealistic. As he thought of it now, he was glad that she’d had the sense not to accept his offer. He wouldn’t want to put her in the path of potential danger. No, she was right to refuse him. Still, this didn’t make it any easier to accept her rejection.

Jon blinked against the stiff wind, his stomach knotted with anguish and regret.
I have duties, too,
he thought.
My duty to my country, and to my family. But I also promised my duty to Max, and to Danielle.

If Danielle would not come to England, he could go to her. Letting his mind wander, he thought,
we could marry, and I could set her up in a home in the safety of Los Angeles, take care of her. She’ll be there waiting for me when this war is over. I could work from our Long Beach offices.

He shook his head sharply.
These are the rambling thoughts of a lonely man. This is what I tell the young men under my command.

His thoughts turned to those men, his friends, poor chaps who’d died leaving behind widows and babies, or family estates without heirs. He thought of those left behind, how they grieved and struggled.

And what if he didn’t make it through? Should he be so quick to turn Danielle into a widow again? Hadn’t she suffered enough? He wanted to comfort her, not cause her more grief. In her letters she wrote that her business was successful, and assured him that she and her family were very comfortable. Should he rock their boat?
Of course not
, he decided. The war couldn’t last forever, and when it was over, he would go to her.

A sudden spray slapped across his face, jolting him. Wiping water from his face, he tasted salt on his lips. His father’s words came to mind.
We Newell-Greys have salt water in our veins.
Jon knew that right now, his duty was to his country. His commitment to Crown and country and the cause for which they fought took precedence over all else in his life. The future would be sorted out in time.

But even now, he had a feeling about how his future would play out. His mother had written about a surprise planned for his next leave, whenever that might be, and he suspected that his mother and Victoria were still planning their marriage, even babies. He spat into the sea, expelling the taste of salt from his mouth. Again, it seemed his life was all about damned duty, and sometimes he hated everything and everyone for it.

Except Danielle.

Jon spun on his heel and strode inside. He still had a letter to write before turning in.

The months slipped from the calendar as winter gave way to spring and Danielle felt renewed invigoration for the business and life she was creating for her family.

She bathed quickly this morning, preparing for a very important day. Today she was scheduled to launch her line at the fashionable Bullock’s Wilshire department store.
At last,
she thought,
I’ve worked so hard to get to this point. This is my big opportunity.

Though she had every confidence in her creations, Danielle was still most comfortable behind the scenes, crafting her perfumes and accessories and organizing the business. She loved working with people, but selling into a new store with new faces made her nervous. Marie had always handled that.

In preparation for this huge step, Danielle had kept a rigorous schedule. In fact, her only social outlet was correspondence she exchanged with Jon. He encouraged her efforts, and she liked to think she helped raise his battle-fatigued spirits. England was still under attack, but holding her own.

Danielle swept her hair into a chic roll, then pulled on her dependable black sheath dress. She had worn it so much the neckline had frayed. Frowning, she arranged a beautifully embroidered scarlet silk scarf, one of her own design prototypes, to mask the tattered edge.

She gazed idly at her reflection in the mirror, but her thoughts were consumed with business. At last, her tenacity had proved rewarding.
Thanks to Clara, my first holiday season was successful. Money is still scarce, but someday, somehow, I will provide everything my family needs. And today is just the beginning.

She kissed her sleeping family good-bye. A half hour later, she stepped from the bus. Shielding her eyes from the spring sun, she gazed up at the grand Bullock’s Wilshire store.

Calming her jittery nerves, she swept inside, then rode the elevator to the executive offices. Her morning was jammed with meetings with the buyer, publicist, marketing director, and store manager. Rarely did a store of such stature place such a large opening order with a newcomer. However, the buyer made the terms quite clear: If the Bretancourt line didn’t sell, it would be returned to her. Danielle knew her success lay in training and motivating the sales clerks. Today was her moment of truth.

“We wish you luck,” the store manager said.

“Thank you, I’ll do my best,” Danielle replied.
I cannot fail
, she told herself. She walked to the elevator and pushed the call button. While waiting, she flipped open her burgeoning appointment book.
Where did the days go?
A lack of time was the bane of her existence. Danielle sighed, watching the movement of the shiny brass dial as the elevator ticked past each floor.

As she waited, her thoughts shifted from business to family matters. Jasmin had taken her first tentative steps, and Liliana was excited to begin school. Even Marie’s regressions occurred less often, though she was still a shadow of the sophisticated, self-assured woman she had been in Paris.

The elevator arrived, the doors slid open, and Danielle stepped into the empty elevator. She breathed a silent prayer as she rode the elevator down to the first floor cosmetic department. Nervously, she smoothed her hair, securing wayward tendrils.

The elevator slowed its descent and came to a halt. She stepped out, pausing to admire the soaring Art Deco architecture overhead, the finely detailed murals, the sparkling chandeliers. A tuxedoed pianist played at a black grand piano near the entrance, filling the air with a Vivaldi melody. Bullock’s Wilshire was one of the finest stores in California. She swallowed her fears and arranged a smile on her face.

I am ready.

She crossed the floor to her appointed counter, where her product line was already displayed against an artfully draped backdrop of scarlet satin.
It’s breathtaking
, she thought, immensely pleased.
Chimère, by Danielle Bretancourt.
The display was arranged exactly as she had instructed the in-house designer.

The cosmetic sales clerks greeted her laconically, with a mixture of apathy and boredom, then returned to their gossip, spurning her efforts to engage them.
A difficult group
, she sighed, her hopes sinking. Then she remembered what Jon had once said to her:
Where’s your famous French courage?
She thought about the challenges he faced every day. Just thinking about him gave her confidence. She set her jaw, stepped up to the perfume counter, and introduced herself to the floor manager.

Several customers passed but ignored her. A well-dressed woman in a navy hat and fitted suit approached the counter.

“
Bonjour, madame
. Would you like to try a new French perfume today?”

The woman hesitated, sniffing the perfume, then admired the crystal flacons and satin brocade pouches. She glanced at Danielle, then back to the name on the display. Suddenly, her face illuminated with recognition. “Are
you
Danielle Bretancourt?”

“
Oui, madame
.”

“I’ve heard of you,” she exclaimed, breaking into a wide smile. “I’ve read all about you in Hedda Hopper’s column.”

Danielle suppressed a laugh, recalling the scene at Clara’s boutique. “Hedda Hopper adores my perfume, too.” Clara had been right about the press. She must remember to thank Cameron, too. “Louella Parsons also wears it,” she added with a conspiratorial smile.

At the mention of the two Hollywood gossip queens, the sales clerks shifted their attention to Danielle.

The woman said, “I’ve heard all the movie stars wear it!”

“
Oui, madame
,” Danielle said coyly. “Many do.” She sprayed the perfume in the air, creating a theatre of scent for the woman to experience as they spoke.

“May I try your perfume?”

“Of course. I call it Chimère.” Danielle’s heart leapt, her mind raced. She remembered how Marie used to demonstrate the art of wearing perfume. “But first, allow me to help you discover the true heart of the perfume,
madame
.”

Danielle spritzed the fragrance on the back of the woman’s hand with a flourish, then placed her own hand over the spot, drawing strength from the connection. “You see, the warmth of my hand brings out the true nature of the perfume as it develops on your skin. This is why perfume seems different on each person. As it blends with your skin, it becomes unique to you.”