An Improbable Pairing Page 11

  They were seated with the Bertrands, whom Scott remembered from Desirée’s dinner at the chalet, and an assortment of the countess’s friends: a couple from Milan, the Soldati; the Marquis and Marquise de Valoir, from Paris; a lovely French woman, Celine Montaigne, Desirée’s childhood friend; and Celine’s escort, the ebullient and rakish Francesco, whom Scott had met two weeks earlier. Celine was mannerly and reserved, and Scott found her difficult to read, which worried him—he knew how important it was for her to like him.

  Curious, Scott whispered to Desirée, “Why are we sitting with Francesco?”

  “First, Francesco is sitting with us, and it is for Celine,” Desirée said sotto voce. “She is so sweet and my close friend forever; I enjoy her company. And second, do we really want Francesco wondering about us from afar? Non. I like him wondering close at hand, where I can keep an eye on him.” Placing a hand on Scott’s shoulder, she both caressed and signaled a change of topic. “And you, my darling, with your new papillon and studs, look so continental.”

  “Ah, yes, my birthday present. Thank you again. You have impeccable taste.”

  They attempted to dance, but friends and acquaintances constantly interrupted, trapping the couple at the table with necessary introductions and ensuing chitchat. Scott’s frustration grew as the night progressed. To the blasé and beautiful, he was an outsider and a difficult person to quantify. Their comments and questions indicated a judgmental curiosity about exactly who he was—well, he wouldn’t help them. In the restroom, enclosed in one of the stalls, he overheard two men speculating that he was the son of an American financier. Gritting his teeth, Scott wondered: How bored were these people? And just how superficial?

  When Desirée and Celine excused themselves from the table for a moment, Francesco took the opportunity to move over a few chairs until he was across the table from Scott.

  “I understand you are in the international program at the university in Geneva,” Francesco said. “What a prestigious program. A few years ago, I heard it was very difficult to get in.”

  Scott laughed depreciatingly. “I guess they’ll let anyone in now,” he said.

  “Oh, I doubt that, Monsieur Stoddard. You seem to know what you want and how to get it. You’re quite a fast worker.”

  “I have never been called slow.”

  “Don’t be so quick that you get into trouble.” Scott eyed Francesco, but before he could respond, the ladies returned to their seats.

  “Now what are you two discussing?” Desirée asked, noting the proximity and sensing the tension between the men. “Politics? I hope not. Religion? Francesco, I hope I don’t learn that you’ve been rude. I know you mean well, and I love you dearly, but I really can’t abide rudeness.” She wagged a finger impishly.

  “My dear Desirée, you know me,” he said. Then he related how he was asking Scott about Gstaad and congratulating him on being in the university’s international program. Scott remained silent; challenging Francesco would only look boorish.

  “That is very charming of you,” Desirée said, clapping her hands lightly. “We just want to be nice to each other and not betray our breeding.” Sensing an opportunity for escape, Francesco quickly rose; taking Celine by the arm, he guided her toward the dance floor. As they passed, Scott thought he read the slightest look of gratitude on Francesco’s face.

  Scott had to admire Desirée’s deftness; watching her in social settings was an education. No matter the unpleasantness, she never showed temper, only resolve; her approval was gracious, and her disdain was deft. Publicly, she always seemed above the fray, what Scott thought others might read as aloof. Privately, he knew her to be warm, tender, and emotional.

  “Next weekend, my darling,” Desirée said, “you may get to meet my ex-husband.” Now this would be a new social situation for Scott, and he wondered whether he’d be able to channel some of Desirée’s grace and aloofness. She continued, “Francesco informed me that Stefano might be coming to Gstaad for the weekend.” She waved a hand dismissively at the room full of people. “We know all the same people. It is a small society here.”

  “Lucky me. So he just suddenly decided to come up for the weekend?”

  “No, not suddenly—when he heard about you, my darling.”

  “Somehow I’m not complimented.”

  “Don’t be cross. I can’t control his comings and goings. Since our annulment, if I’m seen with the same man twice, he can’t stand it.”

  “Tomorrow is Sunday, and I need to get back to Geneva.” Though he intended only to remind her of his commitment to school and his studies, Scott knew he sounded like a child having to share a favorite toy.

  “Now you’re mad, but I can’t help it. I don’t control Stefano.”

  “Let’s just drop it,” he said.

  They didn’t discuss the count anymore, but Scott continued to dwell on this new development. He felt blindsided, disturbed; even though she was divorced, he hadn’t expected a jealous ex to be circling. It had been, what, three years? Furthermore, Scott hadn’t anticipated an ex who was apparently still reeling from his loss and determined to win back his former wife. The count was much more sophisticated than Scott, a playboy of legendary proportion. And wealthier. Desirée sat next to Scott, glittering in diamonds, and he couldn’t afford those expensive cuff links she’d so easily given him. He couldn’t compete with Stefano’s wealth.

  Was it possible Desirée was using him to inflame Stefano’s jealousy? The count was still carrying a torch, and a young, ardent lover would be such exquisite provocation. Could Desirée still be interested in Stefano and was she using Scott as a match to light passions? Or was she merely bent on torturing Stefano at Scott’s expense? He hated to think she was capable of such a thing, but revenge is a strong motivation. No, Scott wouldn’t consider that their tender moments were anything less than genuine. Maybe she didn’t know what her unconscious motives were.

  Whatever Desirée’s feelings, Scott decided to refrain from showing any displeasure. There would be no pouting or petulance, as anger would be a sure sign of insecurity. The image of Marlyse frowning at the train station appeared in his mind, and Scott remembered how manipulative and small her silence and demands had seemed. He shuddered; no, he wouldn’t play that game—the anxiety-ridden lover, preoccupied with fear. He had to be the picture of self-assurance, even to the point of being nonchalant when presented with Stefano. Anything less would only add to the control Desirée currently held over Scott. He wondered if she was using this episode to induce a jealous reaction from Scott rather than from her ex.

  The evening passed in a blur. Once back at the chalet, their lovemaking reflected the insecurities and lack of trust Scott felt, despite his intentions to ignore the unwelcome interloper. It wasn’t that he wasn’t passionate—he was—but the level of intimacy that had characterized their earlier private moments wasn’t present. Neither of them called attention to the difference, but Scott was certain Desirée had noticed as well. Whether they discussed it or not, something had changed. The next morning, Scott found himself in bed alone; Desirée already up and at breakfast was fast becoming their habit. He dressed and went downstairs, following the sound of her voice into the breakfast room.

  On a whim, Scott said, “I have an idea. Let’s go to Paris this weekend.”

  Desirée responded as though she’d read his thoughts and uncovered his insecurities. “My darling, at some time—either this weekend or sometime later—my ex will be around. We share too many friends, and we often find ourselves in the same places: Gstaad, Paris, Florence, or the Côte d’Azur. Is it awkward? Yes. Is it uncomfortable? Yes, again. But are we going to be provincial and run away, or are we mature, sophisticated adults?”

  There was that word again, provincial. “Desirée, I understand, but help me, please. What do you want me to do? How do I deal with Stefano?” he begged.

  “Please realize that the only way to be rid of Stefano’s unwanted attention is to show him the futility of hi
s efforts. Since our annulment three years ago, I have not had a serious relationship; because I haven’t, his mind leaves open the possibility of reconciliation, no matter how futile I have pronounced our reunion. Your presence will signal a reality. Stefano doesn’t really love me. He never did; I was just a prize, and when I wouldn’t ignore his assignations and left him, his male ego was crushed. He refused to accept the truth. Now he wants me back, so he can enjoy his reputation and tell those sycophantic friends of his that I’m unable to live without him.” She put her arms around Scott’s neck and rested her head on his shoulder before continuing. The soft weight of her was reassuring; her words more so. “Stefano is playing a fantasy that can’t happen. I stopped loving him years ago.” She placed a hand over his heart. “I started loving you.”

  Scott covered her small hand with his larger one and gently asked, “What do you want me to do?”

  “Act normal, and just love me. Now let’s get ready and go to mass and then have lunch.”

  “I’ll try. You know I love you, but it’s difficult. Navigating your social circle, dealing with your former husband—who’s a count—and knowing the right things to say, the correct way to act. . . .”

  “Life is difficult, my darling,” she chided. “But we must deal with it. And while you’re bathing in your woe-is-me pool, remember—this is not easy for me, either. Yet I haven’t hesitated. I entered this relationship withholding nothing. I introduced you to my friends, skeptical though they are. I’ve endured my mother’s criticism and unwanted admonitions. It’s not been a bed of roses. But dealing with these rough spots will be easier if you can see the situation as ours rather than just yours.”

  This woman—she could teach him so much about the world. Scott shook off his insecurities regarding Stefano, in awe of how gracefully Desirée navigated life’s more troublesome aspects.

  “You’re right, and I’ll do whatever I can to help your ex see the error of his ways. Shall we announce our engagement and finish him off?” Scott asked, kissing the top of her head. Desirée pulled back to give him a serious look.

  “You’re joking I know, but please—don’t. Not about that. Let’s try to get through next weekend first,” she said solemnly. “I love your wit, but at the moment, it is not funny.”

  Scott smiled. He loved teasing her, and at the heart of his dry humor sometimes Desirée couldn’t quite tell whether he was serious or not. “And what if I were serious? About marriage?” With surprise, he realized his heart was racing as he waited to hear her answer.

  “I’ll know when you are.”

  twenty

  MASS BEGAN AT NOON, AND THEY ENTERED THE church with only minutes to spare. Desirée insisted on sitting in front, which meant walking down the length of the center aisle, essentially parading before all the townspeople and visitors whose seasonal turnout warmed the Catholic priest’s heart while burnishing the church’s collection coffers.

  As the usher showed them to their pew, Desirée said to Scott, “I need to speak with Father Kohler after the service. I hope you don’t mind.”

  As the liturgy wound its way through the ceremony—a cross between Swiss German and Latin—Scott wondered about the motive behind her meeting with the good father. True, he was an old friend, probably a counsel of some rank, and Desirée rarely did anything without a reason. So, why then, did she need to speak with Father Kohler?

  AFTER THE BENEDICTION, FATHER KOHLER GREETED HIS departing parishioners on the steps of the church before joining Desirée and Scott, who were waiting for him in the foyer.

  He greeted Desirée affectionately and said, “Mr. Stoddard, you are becoming a regular at St. Joseph’s. We must make you a member. Countess, shall we speak in my office?”

  Waiting in the car with Gustav, Scott tried not to appear impatient. Half an hour passed, and again he wondered what they could possibly be discussing. Finally, Desirée and Father Kohler appeared at the front door of the church. They lingered a moment more. Desirée, agitated, shifted from one foot to the other, her gestures uncharacteristically emphatic. Finally, she bid the cleric goodbye and strode down the steps. Gustav opened the rear car door, and she slid in next to him.

  “I’m sorry we took so long,” she said apologetically.

  “Want to discuss it?”

  “Father Kohler has asked me to help a Romanian family—their grandmother is a friend of Helena, my cook. They want to immigrate to Switzerland and need money to bribe their way out. I agreed to finance their exit, but anonymously.” Desirée explained she often helped Father Kohler with problems in his parish. He was more than just her priest; after Desirée’s father died, Father Kohler became an advisor and confidant. He had been close to the family since his years at the Vatican, and naturally, he had advised her during her annulment. Still, something about Desirée’s delivery made Scott feel she hadn’t told him everything.

  “There must have been something else. You seem disturbed.” He put an arm around her solicitously. “Please tell me.”

  He was surprised to see a faint sheen of tears in her eyes. “Yes, there was something else.”

  “Was it . . . did I come up in the conversation?” he asked tentatively.

  “My mother called Father Kohler and asked him to please talk some sense into me.” For all her brave talk about not caring what others thought, Desirée clearly cared about Father Kohler’s opinion. Scott could see she was shaken. She wiped her eyes and said, “Let’s not talk about it.”

  They rode in silence to the restaurant, where Desirée’s subdued demeanor continued through lunch. It wasn’t a complete calm, but the conversation (if it could be so euphemized) consisted of a series of long stretches of silence interrupted by a few perfunctory comments about the quality of the food and the changing weather.

  Scott couldn’t help but worry that Desirée would listen to his detractors. He hadn’t even met Madame de Bellecourt, and Desirée’s mother was already desperate enough to enlist the trusted family priest to help derail their romance. Did he really need to ask about the nature of the objections? Scott had to admit he’d been wrestling with those same objections himself. There was no need to press her for more details, and he hated to give them more importance by asking.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Desirée said, breaking the silence. “Father Kohler won’t be interloping again. I hope I didn’t hurt his feelings. It’s not his fault; it’s my mother’s.”

  “There seem to be a lot of people interested in breaking us up,” Scott observed carefully.

  “Some people insist on wasting their time.”

  twenty-one

  AT FIVE THIRTY THE NEXT MORNING, THERE WAS NO traffic, and the roads weren’t icy. Scott was glad, because he did some of his best thinking behind the wheel when he could reflect without having to overly concentrate on driving.

  A little over three weeks had passed since Desirée returned his call. In that short time, he’d fallen in love with this strong, mysterious, surprising, and delightful woman. A more improbable story could not be imagined, but Scott was not going to pinch himself. If it were a dream, he wanted the dream to continue. On his drive back to Geneva, he promised himself he wouldn’t be the one to break the trance.

  As the miles sped by, he failed to find any ideas to counter Desirée’s mother’s opposition or Stefano’s jealousy. Resignedly, he decided that, if their relationship was to survive, it would be up to Desirée. She’d have to reject the naysayers and embrace Scott completely. He then thought of his parents. They wouldn’t be pleased, but for different reasons; once they discovered Scott was neglecting his studies, the Stoddards wouldn’t care one whit who or what was diverting his attention. Christ, he hated to disappoint them. He found strength remembering Desirée’s words: These rough spots will be easier if you can see the situation as ours rather than just yours.

  His reverie carried him into the environs of Geneva. There was just enough time to drop by his apartment, take his bags up, and check the mail before he
went to class. He stopped, confused; the door to his apartment was unlocked. Scott was certain he’d locked it when he left. No one else had a key; Marlyse had returned hers, and he doubted she would have made a duplicate. Perhaps the building’s concierge had entered during his absence to check on the radiator or the plumbing.

  Entering, he surveyed the apartment and noticed the closet door was open. Scott’s military prep school upbringing had trained him well; he never left anything out of place—doors closed, bed made, and clothes neatly folded—first, from following orders; later, out of habit and pride. Strange; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d left his closet door open.

  What didn’t surprise him was a small stack of mail in his box, including two letters from his mother. There was her familiar handwriting on the blue engraved Crane stationery, the envelopes bulging. He would read those later, knowing already their copious contents: demands to know all about his activities, reprimands for not writing, and probing inquiries (one part caring, the other supervisory, wanting to make sure he was always on track).

  The telephone rang; he thought it might be Desirée, but it was Jean. “Bonjour my friend! I knew you had to come back to Geneva some time. I’ve been calling you for over a week. Where have you been?”

  “In Gstaad,” Scott said.

  “Uh-oh, I know what that means,” Jean said. “The countess wouldn’t have anything to do with Gstaad, would she?”

  “Haven’t you heard what happened to the curious cat?”

  “I know about the cat, but my curiosity is irresistible. Can we have dinner this evening? I want to know everything.”

  SCOTT DECIDED TO WALK FROM HIS APARTMENT ON THE LEFT bank to Le Relais de l’Entrecôte—it was only across the bridge and up the little square not far from the train station. The moments in the fresh air gave him time to think. He arrived a little late at the bistro; though unpretentious, with wooden tables and chairs and a plank floor, it was one of the friends’ favorite spots. The waiters wore traditional white and black uniforms, and they bustled among the tables covered in white linen and set with silver sterling. Oh, the food! The specialty of the house was steak in many different cuts with various sauces (Scott and Jean had agreed long ago that the maître d’hôtel sauce, a garlic butter concoction, was the best). The main attraction, however, was the golden, crunchy pommes frites that still tasted of potato.