Three Weeks in Paris (8 page)

In particular, she admired the handsome antique chests, dressing table, and other smaller pieces from the Jacobean period, and the Persian rug in the center of the room. This was very old, its rose and blue tones faded, but it looked perfect against the dark pegged wood, and it was priceless, she knew that. A beautiful gilded mirror over one of the chests, antique porcelain lamps and vases, and a charming old grandfather clock standing in one corner were items in the bedroom that Kay cherished as much as Ian did.

Several comfortable chairs were arranged near the fireplace, and Kay curled up in one of them now.

It was late, well past midnight.

Ian was already fast asleep. She could hear the faint rise and fall of his deep breathing; the only other sounds in the room were the crackle of the logs in the grate and the ticking of the clock in the corner.

Kay was thinking of Ian. She had been overwhelmed
by his passion tonight, not only in the conservatory after tea, when he had taken her by surprise and made amazing love to her on the floor, but then later in their bed, when desire had overtaken him yet again. He had been unable to get enough of her, or so it seemed.

She had found herself responding in kind, meeting his passionate sexual needs head-on, as wild and demanding as he was.

Hope rose in her that she had conceived.

Kay wanted a child as much as her husband did, not that Ian ever made reference to his longing for a son. But she knew deep within herself how much he yearned for an heir, a boy to follow in his footsteps as the Laird of Lochcraigie.

What would happen if she didn’t conceive? Not ever? Would he divorce her and find another woman to bear him a son? Or would he shrug and hope that his sister, Fiona, would marry and provide a male child to inherit the title and vast family holdings? The awful thing was, she had no idea what Ian would do.

Rising, Kay walked over to the window and looked out. It was still snowing; there was a high wind that sent the crystalline flakes whirling about, and on the ground they were still settling. There was a blanket of white below, and under the pale moon this pristine coverlet seemed woven with silver threads. The wind rattled the windows all of a sudden, but the house stood firm and solid, as it always had. William Andrews of Lochcraigie had built a manse that had defied time and the harsh Scottish winters.

If only she had someone to talk to, Kay thought, pressing her face against the cold windowpane. She had never discussed their childlessness with Ian for fear of opening a Pandora’s box, or with her mother-in-law for the same reason. If only Mam were still alive, she thought, and unexpectedly a surge of emotion choked her. Her mother had
made her what she was, and put her where she was in a sense, but her mam was no longer around to reap the benefits or share the joy. Her brother, Sandy, was long gone, having emigrated to Australia eight years before, and she never heard from him anymore. Sadly.

I have no friends, at least not close friends, she realized, and thought instantly of Alex Gordon. They had been so very close once, until their terrible quarrel. Sometimes, when she wasn’t closing her mind to those wonderful days at Anya’s school, memories of Alex enveloped her, and she found herself missing the American girl. Not the Italian, though; Maria had been a pain in the neck. And Jessica, too, had been difficult. Furthermore, Jessica had been mean to her, teasing her and putting her down. Miss Jessica Pierce was cruel and vindictive.

A long, rippling sigh escaped from her throat, and she felt a sadness settle over her. But there
was
Anya Sedgwick. She had always been good to her, not only as a teacher and mentor but as a true friend, almost like a loving mother. Perhaps she should go to Anya’s party after all. If she went a few days prior to the party she could meet with Anya privately, unburden herself perhaps. But why wait until June? she now wondered. And thought instantly of François Boujon. Once she had an appointment with him she could make a date for lunch or tea or dinner with Anya, who would be thrilled to see her, she had no doubts about that.

Suddenly, boldly, Kay made a decision. She would go to the party anyway. Out of respect for Anya, as Ian had suggested earlier.

She couldn’t help wondering how her three former friends would behave toward her. She had become a fashion designer of some renown, after all. And although she seldom used her title away from Scotland, she was, nevertheless, the Lady Ian Andrews of Lochcraigie now.

Jessica

JESSICA PIERCE WAS IN A FURY
.

She stood in the elegant den of her Bel Air house, looking down at her boyfriend, Gary Stennis. He was almost falling off the cream velvet sofa, sprawled out across the cushions, dead drunk.

Her cool gray eyes, always keen and observing, swept around the room.

Everything looked neat, undisturbed, in the superbly decorated room. Except for the messy jumble of things he had managed to accumulate on the low antique Chinese coffee table in front of the fireplace. A piece that had cost her the earth and was impossible to duplicate, since it was the only one in existence.

The unusual ebony table, beautifully inlaid with mother-of-pearl orange blossom trees, was littered with a number of highball glasses, one of her best Baccarat crystal goblets, a bottle of Roederer Cristal, half full, and an empty bottle of her Château Simard Saint-Émilion 1988. One of my better red wines, she thought as her eyes settled on an antique crystal dish. With a flash of irritation she saw that this valuable signed piece of Lalique, a gift
from a client, had been carelessly used as an ashtray. It was full of cigarette butts. And God knows what else.

Sighing under her breath, Jessica picked it up and sniffed. The unmistakable aroma of cannabis was missing. For once he had not been smoking pot with his friends and colleagues. She put it down, relieved.

A sudden frown furrowed her brow, and she leaned closer to the coffee table, staring at the crystal goblet. It bore traces of lipstick on the rim. But it had obviously been a business meeting, of that she felt sure.

Pages of his new script were scattered on the floor, along with a yellow legal pad on which innumerable notes had been scrawled. In his handwriting.

Straightening, now focusing all of her attention on Gary, she studied him for a moment, and through dispassionate eyes. His salt-and-pepper hair was mussed, his face was gaunt and pale with dark smudges under his eyes. In sleep, his mouth had gone slack, was partially open, and in combination with his furrowed neck, it made him look curiously old, worn-out.

Washed up, she thought, and felt a tinge of sadness.

But no, he wasn’t that. At least, not yet.

Gary was still a brilliant screenwriter, one of the best, if not
the
best, in the business, and his past was filled with tunes of glory. And Oscars.

He had written many of the greatest screenplays ever put on celluloid and for some of the most talented stars, male stars especially. During his most celebrated career he had made, lost, and made several fortunes, married two famous movie stars, divorced them, and fathered a daughter with one who no longer spoke to him.

And now, at the age of fifty-one, he was courting her and entreating her to marry him.

When he was sober.

Quite frequently these days he was drunk. And because
of this addiction, which he refused to admit was an illness, she knew deep down she would never marry him. In her innermost soul she knew she would never be able to cope with an alcoholic on a long-term basis, and that was what he was on his way to becoming, if he wasn’t already there.

Constantly Jessica begged him to go to AA, but he merely laughed at her, and somehow managed to charm her into believing he didn’t need Alcoholics Anonymous. In her quiet moments, when she was alone, she knew with absolute sureness that he did. Just as she knew she should break up with him.

On two occasions Jessica had thrown him out; he had managed to charm his way back into her life. Well, he was charm personified, everyone knew that, and
the
master when it came to words. He had earned millions and millions from his words, hadn’t he?

“Don’t forget, he’s a writer, he knows exactly what to say to press
your
buttons,” her friend Merle was always saying. Her retort to Merle never varied. “And don’t
you
forget that Jeremy’s an actor. He knows which role to play to punch
yours
. Once an actor always an actor, Merle.”

Merle usually laughed, and so did she. They knew their men, that was a certainty. And they’re both wrong for us, Jessica thought; she turned swiftly on her high heels, went out of the den, and closed the door quietly behind her.

She was still furious with Gary for being in this inebriated state when she got home, and the best thing was to let him sleep it off.

Jessica had been in Santa Barbara for five days, supervising an installation at a client’s new house, and Gary had promised her dinner tête-à-tête at home tonight … no matter what time she arrived. A dinner he would cook. He was a great chef when he wanted to be, and a great lover when he was stone-cold sober.

Yes, she loved him, with certain qualifications. Nonetheless, he made her madder than a wet hen at times. Like right then.

When she reached the circular front hall with its glassy black granite floor and elegant curving staircase, Jessica picked up her hanging clothes bag and overnight carryall and headed upstairs to her dressing room next door to the bedroom.

As she went into the octagonal-shaped room she caught sight of herself in one of the four mirrors, and after hanging up the clothes bag and putting the carryall in a corner, she turned and stared at herself in the nearest glass.

Stepping closer, she moved her long blond hair back over her shoulder, then straightened her jacket. What she saw was a tall young woman of thirty-one, not bad-looking, quite elegant in a white gabardine pantsuit and high-heeled mules, with a string of pearls around her neck and pearl studs in her ears. But it’s a slightly tired woman tonight, she muttered, then went back downstairs.

Jessica’s brown leather handbag was on a Louis XIV bench in the front hall. Picking it up as she walked past the bench, she hurried down the carpeted corridor to her office. Pushing open the door, she turned on the light switch and moved forward to her eighteenth-century French
bureau plat
in front of the window.

The first thing she saw, propped up against the Chinese-yellow porcelain lamp, was a FedEx envelope.

————

JESSICA SAT STARING
at the invitation for a long time, lost in her thoughts as she found herself carried back into the past.

A decade fell away.

She was young, just twenty-one, and starting out at the Anya Sedgwick School of Decorative Arts, Design, and

Couture, situated on the rue de l’Université in Paris, where she had gone to study interior design.

In her mind’s eye she could see herself as she was then … tall, very thin, with straight blond hair falling to her shoulder blades and skin without a blemish. A smalltown Texas girl on her first visit to Europe. An innocent abroad.

She had been captivated by Paris, the school, Anya of course, and the little family pension on the Left Bank, where she lived. It had all been new, different, and stimulating. So very exciting, and far removed from San Antonio and her parents. She missed them a lot, while managing to enjoy every new experience at the school and in her daily life.

And it was in Paris that she met Lucien Girard and fell in love for the first time. It was at the end of her first year that she and Lucien were introduced by Larry Sedgwick, Anya’s nephew. She was just twenty-two; he was four years older, an actor by profession. She smiled inwardly now, thinking of the way she teased Merle unmercifully about living with an actor.

Lucien and she had been the perfect match, completely compatible. They liked the same movies, books, music, and art, and got on so well, it was almost uncanny. They shared the same philosophy of life, wanted similar things, and were ambitious for themselves.

Jessica had believed she knew Paris well— until she met Lucien; he had quickly shown her she knew it hardly at all. He took her to wonderful out-of-the-way places, charming bistros, unique little boutiques, art galleries, and shops, and obscure pretty corners filled with peacefulness. He showed her interesting churches, little-known museums, and he had taken her on trips to Brittany, Provence, and the Côte d’Azur.

Their days together had been golden, filled with blue skies and sunshine, tranquil days and passion-filled nights.

He had taught her so much … about so many different things … sex and love … the best wines and food, and how to savor them … with him she had eaten mussels in a delicious tangy broth, omelettes so light and fluffy they were like air, soft aromatic cheeses from the countryside, and tiny
fraises du bois
, minuscule wood strawberries fragrant with an indefinable perfume, sumptuous to eat with thick clotted cream.

With him, everything was bliss.

He had called her his long-stemmed American beauty, had utterly loved and adored her, as she had him, and their days together had been sublime, so in tune were they, and happy. They made so many plans.…

But one day he was gone.

Lucien disappeared.

Distraught, she tried to find him, teaming up with his best friend, Alain Bonnal. His apartment was undisturbed; nothing had been removed. His agent had no idea where he was and was as baffled and worried as they were. He was an orphan; they knew of no family member to go to, no one to appeal to for information. She and Alain checked hospitals, the morgue, listed him as a missing person. To no avail. He was never found, either living or dead.

That spring of 1994 Lucien Girard had disappeared off the face of the earth. He might never have existed. But she knew very well that he had.…

Suddenly jumping up, Jessica hurried across the office to the large French armoire where she kept fabric samples, opened the drawer at the bottom, and pulled out a red leather photograph album. Carrying it back to the desk, she sat down, opened the album, and began turning
the pages. It was a full and complete record of her three years in Paris studying interior design. Almost everyone she had met and cared about was in there.