Zoya (37 page)

She bid Axelle good night, and at eleven-thirty, she was downstairs, and hailed a taxi. She gave the driver the address on the rue Daru, and when she saw it, she caught her breath … it was still the same … nothing had changed since that Christmas Eve long ago when she had gone there with her grandmother and Clayton.

The service was as lovely as she remembered it, as she stood solemnly with die other Russians, singing and taking part in the service, holding her candle high as she cried silently, missing all of them again, yet feeling them close to her. She felt sad, but strangely at peace as she stood in the cathedral afterward, and watched the others, chatting quietly outside, and then suddenly she saw a familiar face, much
aged, and worn, but she was sure it was Vladimir's daughter, Yelena. She didn't speak to her as she left, she only walked quietly down the steps, and looked up into the night sky with a smile, wishing them well, the souls who had once been part of her life. … She hailed a taxi, and went back to the hotel, feeling older than she had in a long time, and when she went to bed she cried, but they were the clean tears of grief that time had healed, and was now only sometimes remembered.

In the morning, she said nothing to Axelle, and they took the train to Le Havre, and boarded the
Queen Mary.
Their cabins were the same as when they'd come, and Zoya watched as they set sail, remembering when she had gone to the States on the
Paris
, with Clayton.

“You look so sad …” The voice just beside her made her jump, and she turned to see Simon looking down at her gently. Axelle had stayed downstairs to get unpacked, and she had gone upstairs alone with her own thoughts. She looked at him with a shy smile. His hair was blowing in the wind, and he looked more rugged than ever.

“Not sad, just remembering.”

“You've had an interesting life, I suspect even more so than you told us at lunch.”

“The rest doesn't matter anymore.” She looked out to sea without looking at him, and he longed to touch her hand, to make her smile, to make her feel happy and young. She was so serious, and just then, almost solemn. “The past is only worth what it makes of us, Mr. Hirsch. It was difficult to come back here, but I'm glad I did it. Paris is full of memories for me.” He
nodded, wishing he knew more about her life than the little she had told him.

“It must have been rough here during the war. I wanted to go too, but my father wouldn't let me. I finally enlisted but it was too late. I never left the States. I wound up in a factory in Georgia. A textile mill, of course,” he smiled ruefully, “I seem to be destined never to escape the rag trade.” His eyes grew serious again then. “But it must have been hard for you here.”

“It was. But our fate was easier than those who stayed in Russia.” She was thinking of Mashka and the others, and he was afraid to pry. He didn't want to frighten her away, and she looked so beautiful as she stood lost in her own thoughts and then smiled up at him. “None of that is important now. Did you have a successful trip?”

“I did. And you?”

“Excellent. I think Axelle
is
pleased with everything we ordered.” She made as though to leave him then, and he wanted to physically pull her back to him before she could run away again.

“Will you have dinner with me tonight?”

“I'll have to ask Axelle what she'd like to do. But thank you very much, I'll extend your invitation to her.” She wanted to make it clear to him that she was not available. She liked him very much but he made her vaguely uncomfortable. There was something so intense about his eyes, his handshake was so strong, even the arm with which he guided her as the ship began to roll seemed too powerful to resist, and she had every intention of resisting him. She was almost sorry they were on the same ship. She wasn't sure she
wanted to see that much of him. But when she mentioned his invitation to Axelle, she seemed thrilled.

“By all means, accept. Ill drop him a note myself.” She did, and then horrified Zoya by announcing at the last minute that she felt ill from the rolling ship, and left Zoya alone with him in the dining room, which was not what she wanted. But within minutes, she had forgotten her hesitation, and found herself enjoying him. He was describing his year in Georgia, in the textile mill, he claimed that he couldn't understand anything they said with their heavy southern drawl, and finally, in revenge, he spoke Yiddish to them. She laughed at the thought, and she listened as he told her about his family. His mother sounded almost as tyrannical as her own, although they came from very different backgrounds.

“Maybe all Russian women are the same,” she teased, “although actually my mother was German. And thank God my grandmother wasn't like that. She was incredibly kind and tolerant and strong. I owe my life to her, in a great many ways. I think you would have liked her very much,” she said over dessert.

“I'm sure I would.” And then, unable to restrain himself, “You're an amazing woman. I wish I'd met you a long time ago.”

She laughed at the thought. “Perhaps you wouldn't have liked me as much. Adversity has a way of humbling one, maybe I was too spoiled then,” she was thinking of her days of ease on Sutton Place, “the last seven years have taught me a great deal. I always thought, during the war, that if my life ever got comfortable again, I'd never take it for granted again, but I did. Now, I appreciate everything … the shop
… my job … my children … all of it.” He smiled, each moment more in love with her.

“I want to know about your life before that, in Russia.” They were strolling outside on the deck by then. The gentle pitching of the ship didn't bother her at all, and the night air was cool as she pulled her wrap close to her. She was wearing a gray satin evening gown, copied from a design of Madame Grès, by Axelle's little dressmaker, and a silver fox jacket she'd borrowed from the shop, but borrowed finery or not, she looked extremely beautiful as he looked down at her.

“Why do you want to know about that?” Zoya was intrigued. What could it matter to him? Was it idle curiosity or something more? She wasn't sure what he wanted of her, yet oddly, she felt so safe with him.

“I want to know everything about you, you're so full of beauty and strength and mystery.” He was so earnest as he looked down at her and she smiled. No one had ever said anything like that before, not even Clayton, but she'd been so much younger then, barely more than a child. And she was so much older now, so much wiser than the girl she'd been then.

“You already know a great deal more than anyone,” she smiled. “I've never told anyone about being a chorus girl before,” and then she laughed, feeling young and mischievous again, “poor Axelle almost fell out of her chair, didn't she?” He laughed too.

“So did I,”he confessed. “I've never known a burlesque dancer before.”

She couldn't stop laughing then, “Think how pleased your mother would be!” He chuckled at the thought, as Zoya grew serious again, “I don't suppose
she'd be very fond of me, in any case. If your parents left Russia to escape the pogroms, I doubt if they feel very kindly about the Russians.”

“Did you know the Imperial Family as a child?” He didn't want to embarrass her by agreeing with her, but of course she was right. His mother spoke of the Tsar now and then as a hated figure, responsible for all their ills, his father was gentler about it, but not much. But he noticed then that she was looking quietly at him, weighing something in her mind, and then she nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Yes, I did.” She hesitated for only a beat, “The Tsar and my father were cousins. I grew up with his children much of the time.” She told him about Mashka then, the summers at Livadia, and winters at the Alexander Palace with them. “She was like a sister to me. It almost killed me when I got the news, and then … Clayton came … we were married just after that …” Her eyes filled with tears and he took her hand, marveling at how strong she was, how brave she had been. It was like meeting someone from another world, a world that had always fascinated and mystified him. He had read books about the Tsar, as a young man, much to his mother's dismay, but he had always wanted to know more about the man that he had been. And Zoya told him now, bringing him to life with all his gentleness and charm. It made him see another side of the Tsar than the one he was familiar with.

“Do you think there will be another war?” It seemed incredible that in her lifetime there should be two great wars, yet something told her that it was not impossible, and Simon agreed with her.

“I think there could be. I hope not.” He looked serious as he said it.

“So do I. It was so terrible, so many young men killed. Paris was devastated twenty years ago, everyone had gone off to war. I can't bear to think of it again.” Particularly now that she had a son of her own, and she said as much to him.

“I'd like to meet your children sometime.”

She smiled. “They're funny—Nicholas is very serious. And Sasha is a little bit spoiled. She was the apple of her father's eye.”

“Does she look like you?” He was intrigued by everything, but she shook her head. “Not really, she looks more like him.” But she didn't invite him to come and meet them in New York. She still wanted to keep a certain distance from him. He was so easygoing and so nice, but the extent to which she felt at ease with him frightened her, she didn't want to start anything with him.

He walked her back to her cabin next to Axelle's, and he left her at the door with a longing look she ignored. And the next day, when she took a walk around the deck with Axelle, he seemed to be waiting for them. He invited Zoya to a game of shuffle-board, invited them to lunch, which Axelle accepted before Zoya could say a word, and the afternoon seemed to fly by. They dined with him again, and Simon took her dancing that night, but he sensed that she was withdrawn and he asked her why as they strolled on the deck again afterward.

She looked up at his handsome face in the dark, and decided to be honest with him. “Perhaps because I'm afraid.”

“Of what?” He was hurt. He meant her no harm. On the contrary.

“Of you.” She looked up at him and smiled. “I hope that doesn't sound rude.”

“Not rude. But I'm confused. Do I frighten you?” No one had ever accused him of that before.

“A little bit. Perhaps I'm more afraid of myself than of you. It's been a long time since a man took me anywhere, let alone to lunch and dinner and dancing on a ship.” She was reminded of her trip on the
Paris
with Clayton again, but that had been their honeymoon. “There's been no one since my husband. And I don't want to change that now.”

He looked stunned. “Why not?”

“Oh …” She seemed to think about it as they talked. “Because I'm too old, because I have my children to think of now … because I loved my husband so much … all of that, I suppose.”

“I can't argue with your love of your husband, but it's ridiculous that you think you're too old. What does that make me? I'm three years older than you are!”

She laughed. “Oh dear … well, it's different for you. You've never been married before. I have. All of that is behind me now.” She seemed sure of it, and he looked annoyed.

“That's ridiculous! How can you say a thing like that at your age? People fall in love and get married every day, people who've been widowed and divorced … some of them are even married … and some of them are twice your age!”

“Perhaps I'm not as interesting as they are,” she smiled, and he shook his head with a rueful look.

“I warn you, I'm not going to sit back and accept
any of that. I like you very much,” he looked down at her with his warm brown eyes and she felt something in her stir that had lain dormant for years. “I don't intend to give up now. Do you have any idea what's out there for a man like me? Twenty-two-year-old girls who giggle when they talk, twenty-five-year-olds who are hysterical they haven't gotten married yet, thirty-year-old divorcoes who want someone to pay the rent, and forty-year-old women who are so desperate they scare me to death. I haven't met anyone I was this crazy about in the last twenty years, and I don't intend to sit here and let you tell me you're too old, is that clear, Countess Ossupov?” She smiled at his words, and laughed in spite of herself, as he went on. “And I warn you, I'm a very stubborn man. I intend to pursue you if I have to pitch a tent outside Axelle's shop. Does that sound reasonable to you?”

“Not in the least, Mr. Hirsch. It sounds totally absurd.” But she smiled as she said it.

“Good. I'll order the tent as soon as I get back to New York. Unless, of course, you agree to have dinner with me the night we get back.”

“I haven't seen my children in three weeks.” She laughed at him again. But she had to admit, she liked him a great deal. Perhaps he'd agree to being friends eventually.

“All right then,” he compromised, “the day after that. You can bring your children along too. Perhaps they're more sensible than you are.” He tilted her chin up to him and looked into the green eyes that had stolen his heart from the first moment he'd seen her at Schiaparelli's.

“Don't be so sure,” she was thinking of the children
as he spoke, “they're very devoted to their father's memory.”

“That's a good thing,” he spoke quietly, “but you have a right to more than that in your life, and so do they. There's only so much you can do for them. Your son needs a man around, and your little girl probably does too.”

“Perhaps.” She would concede nothing as he walked her home, but he took her by surprise as he kissed her gently on the lips. “Please don't do that again,” she whispered with no conviction whatsoever.

“I won't,” he said as he did it again.

“Thank you.” She smiled dreamily up at him, and a moment later closed the door in his face, as he walked upstairs to his own cabin, with a grin on his face, like a schoolboy.

CHAPTER
37

The romance flourished in spite of her, as they sailed toward New York. They dined and they danced, and they kissed and they talked. And she felt as though she had known him all her life. They had the same interests, the same likes, and even some of the same fears. Axelle left them alone, and chortled to herself as she watched from afar, and on the last night, they stood on the deck and Simon looked sadly down at her.