An Improbable Pairing Page 7

  When Marlyse called the next morning to say she wanted to see him off, Scott was incredulous. Why? It made no sense. He tried to persuade her not to—another goodbye would be difficult for them—but she insisted. Scott had the taxi pick her up, and they rode in silence to the train station. Waiting on the platform, she asked, “Have you thought about what I said?”

  “I’ve thought of little else.”

  “So, what do you want from me, Scott? You know what I want from you.”

  “Marlyse, be reasonable. We can’t go back and pretend that night didn’t happen.”

  “But we could make it right. We could get engaged.”

  Ultimatums are a bad way to start a relationship and an even worse way to continue one. Had Marlyse orchestrated this melodramatic scene simply to work his feelings? As Scott boarded the train, he wondered—was he doing the right thing by standing fast and refusing to be manipulated? The train departed the station, and he looked back to see Marlyse standing there, emotionless except for a frown.

  IN ROTTERDAM THE NEXT DAY, THE CAR PICKUP WENT WITHout a hitch. Scott had prepaid, so it was just a matter of signing for receipt, packing his luggage, and speeding off through the low country into Belgium. His next stop, the Hotel des Marronniers in Paris’ 6th arrondissement, a familiar haunt. He and Jean had stayed there several times, so he knew the neighborhood well. Dropping off his bags, Scott made his way to Le Bilboquet, a fashionable restaurant and jazz bar where young professionals relaxed after work. He stayed until late in the evening.

  Paris in winter is often cold and wet and disagreeable, and it rained for several days. Scott’s enjoyment was dampened; the city wasn’t quite the same when alone. On the spur of the moment, he headed back to Geneva, although he knew his loneliness was sure to continue there. When he arrived at his apartment, it was clear Marlyse had used her key and his time away to clear out the few items she’d brought over. He knew what that meant.

  Still hoping to repair things between them, he called Marlyse at her parents’ home in Basel on Christmas Day, but their holiday wishes were perfunctory and abbreviated. There were long pauses as they searched for the right thing to say. He knew what she wanted to hear. But he couldn’t say it.

  The sound of a heavy sigh filled his ears. “Scott, you know it’s over,” Marlyse said. “I think you were only in it for the sex, anyway.”

  “Please, Marlyse. You want something more serious and more permanent than I can give. You’re trying to make me prove how much I love you.”

  “We went too far,” she said, unmoved.

  “We’re too young to get married. We’re students; be practical.”

  She hung up.

  The relationship was truly over. And given Marlyse’s seriousness and temperament, she would be hurt and angry for a long time. Angry at the thought he’d led her on, which he hadn’t intended to do. Angry that she had allowed herself to fall in love.

  Nevertheless, Marlyse had been right to insist on the time away. Being apart from her had cleared up the ambiguity gnawing at Scott. He was acutely aware that disappointing anyone was very difficult for him—his parents had made sure of that. Marriage was a big, irreversible step. He wasn’t ready, no matter how much he cared for and hated to disappoint Marlyse.

  THE HOLIDAY ENDED, AND CLASSES RESUMED. SCOTT’S FIRST class was an art history course he was auditing. Next, he climbed the stone steps to the second floor of one of the oldest buildings at the university for a history course on the French Revolution. As he entered the classroom, he saw Marlyse talking and laughing with a group of her Swiss friends. She didn’t acknowledge him.

  He sat a few rows behind and to her left, but she never looked back—not even for a discreet glance. When the class was over, she sprang from the room, scurried down the steps, and disappeared into one of the side streets in the old town.

  Scott was realistic. He hadn’t anticipated a warm welcome, and, while disappointing, Marlyse’s distance was expected. Deep down, however, he knew Marlyse was not one to give up. Anyone who knew her the least little bit understood how willful and determined she could be. Underneath that ingénue exterior was a woman who knew what she wanted. And he wondered if she might try again to get what she wanted from him.

  fifteen

  IT WAS TIME. SCOTT OPENED HIS ADDRESS BOOK TO THE page listing Countess de Rovere’s name and telephone number. He was now faced with the cold reality of calling her rather than just fantasizing about it. He procrastinated awhile, hoping that some inspiration would allow him to glibly call her in high spirits. He wanted none of the doldrums he’d been experiencing after his fallout with Marlyse. Scott worried; what if she could detect something in his voice, defeat perhaps, or worse, sadness? He didn’t want her to think she was a consolation prize.

  Finally, he dialed her number. Two rings and the call was answered by one of her staff, who informed him the countess was away and took his number.

  Later that afternoon, the telephone rang. “Monsieur Stoddard, I thought you were too busy to call,” she said.

  “That’s over,” he said.

  “So, you’ve ended things with your beautiful young friend?” Scott felt a subtle shift in the countess’s voice. “How sad for her. Or did she break your heart? No matter—what is it they say? All’s fair in love and war. Perhaps you need to pick on someone your own size.”

  He took a sharp breath. “Are you my size, Countess? Perhaps you have some idea about how this investigation should proceed.”

  “Why don’t you come to Gstaad for a few days? You can stay at the Palace. A change of altitude will surely do you worlds of good.”

  “You’re not counting on oxygen deprivation to. . . ?”

  “I’ve never found deprivation of any kind to be all that beneficial.”

  Scott’s head swam. An invitation, from the countess—he’d imagined a few pleasantries at best. “I think you’re teasing me,” he replied, hesitantly.

  “Oh, don’t be so American,” she laughed. “Can’t you flirt a little bit?”

  “Sadly, I seem to be out of practice.”

  The countess paused on the line, a long pause. Finally, she said, “Do you know the best cure for a failed affair?”

  “No, but I’m sure you can advise me.”

  “I can. Come visit for a few days. It will help you to get away, and who knows . . .” The countess’s voice trailed off seductively.

  “I must warn you; I don’t ski all that well.”

  He loved the sound of her musical laugh. “Scott, dear—we cognoscenti don’t ski; we après-ski. Let’s have a little fun.”

  “The Gstaad Palace,” he said, falteringly. How Scott hated to remind her of his lowly student status. “That’s expensive, isn’t it? Perhaps I should stay elsewhere.”

  “Scott, are you poor?”

  “I’ll be there Friday afternoon,” he said.

  It was already Wednesday, and Scott burst into a flurry of activity. He called the Palace and reserved a room for the weekend. The next morning, he shopped at Schaffer Sports, buying all the fashionable ski gear and warm clothing he thought necessary for Gstaad: après-ski boots, cashmere sweaters, a shearling coat, fur-lined gloves, scarves, heavy socks, various hats, and thermal underwear. Though he might not ski well, at least he would look good and stay warm.

  FRIDAY, WHEN HE TURNED THE KEY IN THE AUSTIN-HEALEY’S ignition and started his drive to Gstaad, Scott was close to jubilant. Was it truly possible he was on his way to the moment he’d been dreaming of and anticipating for months? Finally, he’d have time alone with the countess—the exact circumstances he’d longed for.

  The car was a dream to handle, and the drive passed quickly. In roughly three hours, Scott saw the sign: “Gstaad, 1050 m. elev.” Scott’s American mind quickly converted meters into feet; at 3,445 feet, he’d climbed more than 2,000 feet from Geneva. It had snowed the night before, and the roadway was hard-packed, but the Austin-Healey, equipped with Pirelli snow tires, found traction, and Scott
entered Gstaad in no time.

  Streets, shops, and cafés were filled with skiers, vacationers, and tourists wearing the chicest sportswear in bright yellows, reds, and oranges—attention-getting colors. As he drove by the small train station, he passed the Palace’s signature buttery-cream vintage Rolls-Royce waiting to ferry clients to the hotel. The next left turn sent him up a trailing narrow lane, and there was the Palace.

  The Palace was an iconic structure, and Scott gaped at the storybook castle. He’d seen its façade many times on postcards, but those images gave little credit to the actual vista. A bellboy showed him to a third-floor room, one with the preferred, south-facing view overlooking the scenic village below. Snow-dusted evergreens dotted the slopes, encircling the many private chalets nestled to the east of the village.

  He dropped on the sofa, before noticing an exotic flower arrangement and bottle of champagne on the coffee table. There was a handwritten note in beautiful script: “Welcome to Gstaad. Call me when you arrive.”

  Finding her number in the note, he telephoned. When he heard her say hello, he simply said, “I’m here.”

  “See, that wasn’t that difficult now, was it?”

  “Thanks for the flowers and the champagne. And the note.”

  “I thought perhaps you might change your mind and not come.”

  “It never occurred to me.”

  “This is a good beginning. You see, the altitude is already working its magic.”

  “Yes; as they say, I’m yours, Countess.”

  “A good place to be. Now, please, call me Desirée. Dinner is at eight o’clock. I’ll meet you in the hotel bar at half past seven. I’ll tell you about dinner when I see you—it’s no fun knowing everything all at once.”

  “As you wish, Countess . . . ah, Desirée.”

  Scott arrived at the bar a few minutes early. He expected to wait; beautiful women are seldom on time. He ordered a drink, trying to appear nonchalant when everything about him was screaming in anticipation. When she swept in, it was with a flourish, effortlessly floating through the doors of the bar, swathed in gray chinchilla and gold lamé. The maître d’ hurried to take her coat, and it was then she spied Scott.

  Gliding toward him, Desirée was exuberance itself. Her face glowed with pleasure, and Scott admired her casually tousled but expertly coiffed hair, silver-patina lipstick, and crystal blue eyes. They embraced, and she kissed him on both cheeks like a lover, which emboldened him to hold her a little longer, with a touch more resolve, until she pulled away. “I’m so glad you came,” Desirée said.

  “Is it all right if I say you are stunning this evening?”

  “It’s more than all right. It is absolutely mandatory.”

  “Then I’ll say it again. You are beautiful.”

  She tilted her head to look up at him playfully. “Does this mean you’re not pining for—now, what was her name—Marianne?”

  “Let’s talk about anything else. Now, where are we going to dinner?”

  “Okay, my darling. We are going to Le Chesery. You’ll like it; it’s definitely your style.”

  Scott was curious. “What is my style?” he wondered aloud.

  “That’s the beauty of it. Your style is my style, darling. Haven’t you noticed?”

  While they sipped two splits of champagne, the bar slowly filled with hotel guests and residents of Gstaad. During December, January, and February, the Palace was their social annex. Both groups shared a single defining denominator—wealth. Scott found it easy to pick out the few who knew they didn’t belong by their uncomfortable body language, and he steeled himself not to show any tentativeness in Desirée’s presence. A quiet, dignified manner was without doubt his best course. And, naturally, he had a leg up; anyone seen with the countess had temporary approval—at least, until other more definitive judgments could be made.

  The bar, more reminiscent of a club than a ritzy hotel bar, was luxuriously homey. Fat chairs upholstered in velvet and soft leathers, intimate tables scattered, the glow of soft lights on elegant and studied accessories of silver, porcelain, and hand-painted ceramics completed the décor. Although Scott and Desirée were seated at a discreet table, the countess was constantly being spotted and buttonholed by an array of friends and acquaintances. And the curious expression on their jaded faces indicated that, while interested in being acknowledged by the countess, they were equally inquisitive as to the young American she had in tow. Of course, Desirée was coy to the point of being maddening with details of Scott’s provenance.

  At last they escaped, and it was a short trip down into the village for dinner. The white stucco chalet housing Le Chesery, one of Gstaad’s oldest, most expensive, and best restaurants, had various rooms paneled in dark wood and featured multiple fireplaces, with nooks that afforded privacy and decorum. Le Chesery boasted one of Switzerland’s most extensive wine lists, bound in a well-worn leather binder, the domains and vintages noted in detail, and the prices commensurate to their rarity. Near the hearths, large, shiny cooking and serving vessels hung from racks; everything about the décor reinforced that Le Chesery was a serious eating establishment.

  Walking into the dining room with Desirée was like walking the red carpet. All eyes turned their way. She knew everyone, and everyone knew her. As Scott watched her effortlessly and gracefully greet her many admirers, he marveled; she was thoroughly lovely. There were the superficial things, the obvious—her physical beauty of face and figure, her extraordinary taste in clothes and jewelry—as well as character traits that showed refinement: her elegant and sophisticated gestures and mannerisms and an unconsciously aristocratic bearing, learned early. All completed the vision known as the Countess de Rovere.

  It was not by chance they had the perfect table.

  Scott ordered the Charolais tenderloin: Desirée had the brook trout, steamed, with a lemon butter sauce and pommes vapeur. Together, they decided on dessert: Black Forest cake, paired with the ever-flowing champagne.

  Wholly absorbed in each other and the fine meal, two hours flew by. Desirée excused herself; while she was away, Scott asked for the check. The waiter left and returned with the maître d’, who whispered that everything had previously been arranged.

  “Is something wrong?” Desirée asked when she returned to the table.

  “Yes. You embarrass me by paying for dinner without telling me.”

  “If I had told you, you wouldn’t have let me pay. Let’s not get into some crass discussion about money. After all, it’s more fun to spend than to save.”

  “Did you think that I might’ve enjoyed that particular fun? I may be a student, but I’m not so poor that I can’t take a beautiful woman out to dinner.” Scott couldn’t help feeling that his masculine pride had been wounded by the countess’s generosity.

  Desirée smiled sweetly at him with the practice of someone who’d had to deal with financial inequities before. “Sometimes I think about ungrateful young Americans who don’t know the first thing about fun,” she teased. “Oh darling; it’s my treat. I invited you here, so let me enjoy this.”

  Scott was immediately contrite. The last thing he wanted to do was diminish Desirée’s enjoyment of his company. “Look, I’m sorry. I was caught off guard. I’m not trying to ruin the evening. What’s next, then?”

  “If you are in the mood, we could go to the GreenGo, the discotheque in the Palace.”

  “I don’t believe we have ever danced together,” he said.

  “I can tell you we haven’t,” Desirée said, biting her lip. “I’ve always had to watch you dance with someone else.”

  Gustav, her driver, was waiting with the car, and in five minutes, they were at the GreenGo. Lines of hopefuls (the young and not-quite-so-young, fashionable and even more fashionable) waited in the cold for their chance to be admitted to one of Europe’s best discotheques. There was no line for the countess. Uniformed doormen parted the sea of people and cleared a path for her. Though the place was already jammed, Desirée and Scott
were ushered to a table for two, where an ice bucket and bottle of champagne awaited their arrival.

  The music was eclectic, borrowing heavily from the United States, Italy, and Brazil. Bossa nova and samba played over and over, and Scott recognized The Girl from Ipanema. Etched glass panels of aquarium scenes combined with the green glow of the hotel’s indoor-outdoor perimeter-hugging pool were reminiscent of Jules Verne’s 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. The crowd of beautiful French, Italian, German, and white-blond Scandinavian revelers was framed by expensive wall coverings and tiled bars and tables. The GreenGo was a beautiful place, full of beautiful people.

  When the strains of the popular Italian ballad, Sapore di Sale, rose, Scott brought Desirée to her feet for their first dance. The lyrics, with their pleading and desire, were set to the beat of slow sex. Scott couldn’t have chosen a more perfect song to take Desirée into his arms, and he clasped her hand in his. By the end of the song, his hand was at home in the small of her back while the contours of her body had gradually molded to his. Her warmth and feminine softness was bliss. From time to time, Scott pulled back to look directly into her eyes—could he read her thoughts? She returned his gaze, and he wanted desperately to be right about what he believed he saw in her eyes, a trace of something good.

  The dance floor seemed to be the only place where they could be alone, and so they prolonged their embrace. One dance led to another. Whenever they returned to their table, the stream of people resumed, telling their stories and laughing at their own jokes. Scott wasn’t in the mood to share the countess.

  Around one o’clock, they left the discotheque. As Desirée settled into the luxurious leather of the Mercedes’ rear seat, Scott leaned through the window into the car. He wasn’t so inexperienced that he thought he’d be invited for a nightcap. His role was to be patient, not act his age and be so juvenile as to insult her. He could wait. She’d be the one to say “if ” and “when,” and Scott knew Desirée loved exercising that control. But once she did, Scott would see if he could drive her mad with passion.