An Improbable Pairing Page 9

  As they were finishing breakfast, the telephone rang, and Desirée answered. Covering the receiver, she whispered to Scott that it was Louise. “Didn’t we have a good time? I’m so glad you and Jon were able to come. . . . Of course, darling. He’s nice, isn’t he? And so intelligent.” Scott continued with his breakfast while Desirée, clearly enjoying his discomfiture at being discussed within earshot, prattled on with her friend. More small talk ensued; then, laying a hand on Scott’s arm, she said in a confidential tone, “Louise, I think I’m in love. No, I know I’m in love, because I haven’t been in love for a long time. But you mustn’t tell anyone. Promise?” She blew a kiss toward Scott.

  That was quick, Scott thought. Desirée’s declaration put him on unfamiliar and dangerous ground. Of course, he was happy that she was so thrilled with him. The feeling couldn’t be more mutual, but he felt a nagging anxiety. He couldn’t help thinking of Marlyse—he’d have preferred the countess come to love more slowly. Could her feelings disappear as quickly as they’d arrived?

  When she hung up, he said, “Desirée, I know you are not naïve. You must have another motive, because that woman will surely tell everyone who was at dinner last night that you’re in love.”

  She smiled sweetly at him and took a sip of her coffee. “Of course, my prince; I’m counting on Louise to share not only with them, but also with many others. In fact, I would bet she’s on the line now. Don’t forget; I’m coquette.” Scott laughed as she exaggeratedly batted her eyelashes at him. “Let’s go to mass and then lunch.”

  “I didn’t know you were religious,” he said and thought silently, There’s a lot about you I don’t know.

  ST. JOSEPH, GSTAAD’S CATHOLIC CHURCH, WAS A RELATIVELY small, white stucco structure with a high-pitched roof and a Byzantine steeple. Desirée and Scott sat near the front, and he passed the time by idly watching the parishioners take their seats; a mix of townspeople in their Sunday best and seasonal visitors in their casual finery filled the unforgiving pine pews. The priest, Scott learned, was an old friend of Desirée’s. He’d been helpful during the time she was separated from her husband and ultimately seeking an annulment. The mass passed slowly, and Scott was happy when they finally stepped out into the crisp air and bright afternoon sunshine.

  Over lunch, Desirée commented, “My darling, you are not Catholic.”

  “You noticed.”

  “But are you religious?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Did you ever go to church?”

  “Yes, when I was a child, and up to the time I went to college. My parents and I attended a Baptist church; I was even baptized.”

  “Once you escaped Mommy and Daddy, you didn’t go anymore?”

  “That’s what happened,” he said. “Does my religion matter? To you, I mean.”

  “Of course not, I wouldn’t go either, except I feel I must. Guilt remains, if taught early enough.”

  A debonair man approached their table. Curious as to who this interloper might be, Scott frowned at the interruption when the man spoke to Desirée in Italian. Shifting politely into French, Desirée was quick to introduce Scott to her old friend, Francesco, and include him in their conversation. Francesco was dressed impeccably, as only Italian men know how to do, and he flashed an inscrutable smile before exchanging a few pleasantries with Scott.

  “What brings you to Gstaad, Francesco?” Desirée inquired. “I thought you couldn’t be pried from Cortina this time of year.”

  “Can you imagine I became bored in Cortina?” he said. “The snow was not good, and . . . well, now I’m here.” Francesco studiously kept his eyes on the countess. “I saw Louise Goosens this morning, and she mentioned they dined at your chalet only yesterday.”

  Arching an eyebrow, Desirée smiled up at her friend. “It’s too bad I didn’t know you were in town. I would have invited you.” She reached across the table to cover Scott’s hand with hers. “We always have room for one more.” The gesture was not lost on Francesco.

  “You are too kind,” he said. “But you see, I only arrived late last evening.”

  “I’m surprised Clarissa is not with you,” Desirée said with an innocent look of surprise.

  “My dear Desirée, I’m sad to say that you have put your finger on why the snow is so bad in Cortina. From time to time, conditions deteriorate—the weather turns frigid and inhospitable. Very unfortunate. Relationships, too, have their moments; they come, then poof, they go, and we, poor souls that we are, must trudge on and make the best of it. Così, è la vita.” Francesco lifted his hands, palms up, in the classic gesture of complete innocence and world weariness.

  “You poor boy,” Desirée cooed. “Perhaps I should check with Clarissa to better understand the outlook in Cortina.”

  “I’m not sure conditions would be improved by such an inquiry.”

  “I thought as much,” Desirée said. “Let us change the subject. Are you staying long?”

  “Just through next weekend. I believe you know Celine Montaigne. She invited me to attend the Sleigh Ball next weekend. Are you to attend? Will Signore Stoddard accompany you?”

  “Celine is a dear friend. I have known her since we were in school together at the Lycée de Paris,” Desirée said. “You be nice to her.” Scott noticed that Desirée had deftly sidestepped Francesco’s questions regarding the ball. The handsome Italian reacted to her chastisement in mock horror: “Desirée, you embarrass me.”

  “Not at all, my dear Francesco. You embarrass yourself.” And with that, she signaled the conversation was over. Francesco said his goodbyes and sauntered off. Desirée turned her attention to her champagne as Scott contemplated the encounter; in this small, cosmopolitan society, gossip was the coin of the realm, and he had become one of the commodities of barter.

  “Francesco is an old friend?” Scott asked.

  “My ex-husband’s best friend and business partner.”

  The Count de Rovere. What did Scott know of his standing with Desirée? Now was as good a time as any to ask, “Are you on good terms with your ex?”

  Desirée folded her hands in her lap, straightened her shoulders, and held her chin up. “My relationship with Stefano is as good as could be expected,” she said crisply. “In the end, he didn’t want the annulment, but he should have thought about it before his dalliances. I knew he was a playboy—just like Francesco—but I thought I could be the center of his life. It was a mistake. My brief marriage was annulled. Is that enough history, or do you want more?” Her blue-green eyes glinted as she dared him to delve deeper.

  “Just one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Is the count, Stefano, still in love with you?” How could any man put Desirée out of his mind and heart? Scott was sure he knew the answer, but it was Desirée’s delivery that mattered.

  “More than ever. But it is pour rien. Do you know this expression?”

  “I believe the translation is for nothing.”

  “Literally, yes. But it really means there’s no chance.” Scott was pleased to see that, beyond a bored exasperation, Desirée was clearly unmoved by her former husband’s continuing infatuation.

  “Does it bother you that Francesco has already heard of us? That Louise has so quickly spread that you’re in love?”

  She gave him a knowing look, and he was reminded of his relative inexperience. “Do you think I want to sneak around with you, playing hide-and-seek, pretending, lying?”

  “What happened to discretion?”

  “Discretion is such an inconvenient and confining idea. Besides—why should you worry? You don’t know any of these people.” She shook her head. “It’s ironic that you’re the one worried about your reputation.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not worried about my reputation. I’m worried about yours.”

  “Well don’t. I am the Countess de Rovere, and I have been managing my reputation quite handily for some time.” Shaking off the serious tone, she lifted her glass of
champagne toward Scott and gave him a sultry once-over. “And, please; tell me how can being in love with you—a handsome, young American; a fresh face on the scene; someone tall and athletic, with manners and style—how can that hurt my reputation?” She laughed in delight. “Why, you, my little mystery, can only improve it! And this reminds me; will you be my escort to the Sleigh Ball next weekend?”

  Still reeling from the countess’s list of compliments, Scott paused, incredulous at what he was about to say. He asked, “Do you remember that I have school?”

  “Oh yes, school. But the Sleigh Ball is one of the most important events of the season. You must stay and go with me.”

  “What if I get up early tomorrow, go back to Geneva, attend my classes, and then come back for the weekend?”

  “Let’s compromise. You go back on Tuesday morning and come back Thursday afternoon.”

  “I better agree now, because one more back and forth, and I’ll not be going back at all.”

  An uncomfortable silence ensued, and Scott wondered what Desirée could be scheming. He hated to interject reality into their romance, but university was the reason he was in Geneva. Romance was not an acceptable reason to miss graduate classes. Right now, it was the Sleigh Ball—and this was just the beginning. At this pace, he would only be attending class fifty percent of the time, with even fewer hours devoted to study. He could feel the cold glare of his parents’ disapproval from across the ocean, and Scott squirmed at making a choice between disappointing them or saying no to Desirée.

  Desirée filled the silence with a suggestion. “Why don’t I drop you off at the hotel so you can collect your things and check out? You’ll stay at the chalet. Shall we plan a quiet dinner at home this evening? Helena and Gustav have Sunday evening off.”

  Her wish was his command; soon, Scott was checked out of the hotel and in the car heading back to the chalet. In her bedroom, Desirée threw open the closets as she busily explained where he should put this and that (in awe at the volume of clothing, he wondered just how many pairs of Bogner ski pants she had, not to mention the endless stream of cashmere turtleneck sweaters she coordinated with them). Scott placed his suitcase on a luggage rack set up for the purpose and then took her hand. Pulling her close, and then closer, he slid his other arm under her arm, embraced her, and kissed her over and over. His breath escaped in gasps of anticipation, and his hands rushed to find those places that elicited the most response. Soon they settled to the floor, renewing their passion of the night before.

  LATER, THEY WENT DOWN TO THE GREAT ROOM WHERE GUStav had laid a fire. A match struck and inserted in a few places had flames leaping into a warming glow. Scott and Desirée reclined on cushions; she in a pink cashmere jumpsuit with silk satin slippers; he in black corduroy pants and a camel-colored silk and mohair V-neck. They were enjoying what Desirée termed an evening snack—smoked Norwegian salmon; Beluga caviar from the Caspian with toast points, trimmed of their crust; capers; diced hard-boiled egg; dollops of crème fraîche; and a bottle of vintage Veuve Clicquot. Soft music crooned in the background.

  “Are you happy, my darling?”

  “Very,” he said.

  “Do you love me?” she asked.

  Firmly and without a moment’s thought, he replied, “I love you.” Scott knew any kind of qualified response or mumbled hesitation was not what Desirée wanted to hear. Nor was it what he wanted to give. But he would have preferred that she hadn’t asked, that she could have waited for him to tell her on his own terms. He was certain he would have told her he loved her.

  DESIRÉE WAS ON THE PHONE AGAIN AS SCOTT STROLLED INTO the breakfast room the next morning. She looked at him with a knowing smile, and he bent to whisper in her ear, “I love you, mon petit chou.” He could tell she liked the French touch by the way her eyes sparkled. Without missing a beat, Desirée continued her conversation.

  “But you won’t have time for me. I know how you adore those royals. All right then; it’s Wednesday for lunch. Au revoir.”

  She hung up the phone. For a moment, she was deep in reflection. She turned to Scott and said, “That was my mother.”

  “I couldn’t help but overhear you’re meeting her for lunch,” Scott said.

  “Yes, there’s no way around it. She’s coming to Lausanne to see a friend and will be in Geneva on Wednesday to catch the afternoon train to Nice. She spends her winters in Cannes.”

  “It will be nice for you to spend some time with her,” Scott ventured.

  “No, it will not.”

  “You don’t like your mother?” Scott, reflecting on his sometimes-strained relationship with his own mother, was more curious than surprised.

  “We like each other so much that we don’t get along. We are too much alike.”

  “As someone who finds you absolutely divine, knowing there’s another like you sounds pleasant. Tell me—are you going to tell your mother anything about us?”

  “I won’t have to. Why do you think she is turning up for lunch?”

  “Are you joking?” Desirée had professed her love to one person yesterday morning, and the news had traveled across countries. Scott was both impressed and appalled at the legs on society gossip. At what point would this juicy item travel across the sea to his parents’ ears?

  “No, my dear. The Mossad calls my mother when they are stumped.”

  eighteen

  THE BLACK MERCEDES WAS ON THE ROAD TO GENEVA early the next morning. Gustav’s more direct politeness and deference revealed Scott’s new status; in the spacious back seat, he and Desirée lounged under a fur throw, sipping hot chocolate from a silver thermos. The steady hum of the car’s vibration slowly induced a kind of sleepy reverie. Desirée leaned against him, her head resting against Scott’s shoulder, and they napped during the three-hour drive.

  “Madame and monsieur. . . .” Gustav’s gentle voice announced they were close to Desirée’s estate, fifteen kilometers outside the city. Although Scott well remembered the opera gala, his visit to the countess’s lakeside estate had occurred in the dark. Now, in the bright light of day, he could fully appreciate its grandeur. Some twenty-five acres extended from the lakeside road to the top of a long slope carved by the same Rhone glacier that, eons ago, had formed the lake’s contours. At the summit, stood her large two-story home. Fruit trees, now dormant, dotted the undulating, snow-covered pastures. A concrete and pea-gravel driveway curved up through the property to a grand turnaround, which also served as a lookout over the lake. Iron-forged benches shaded by plane trees, all expertly pruned for the winter, had been strategically placed to take in the view. Scott remembered the stone walls and steep roof, generous overhanging eves, stout chimneys, and windows with inner and outer shutters, and he had a new appreciation for its thoroughly Swiss architecture. A Porsche painted in British racing green was parked in the turnaround.

  When he’d last visited, throngs of guests had obscured the dark green front door (or perhaps Scott had simply been too nervous to notice the unique, antique specimen, with its impressive brass knocker). The public spaces looked much different without crowds of guests, though Scott remembered exactly where he and Desirée had exchanged their first words alone. Desirée’s personal quarters on the second floor, however, were uncharted territory, and Scott ascended the stairs with a thrill. Along the south side of the house, expansive windows were positioned specifically to catch the view, and her bedroom and day room took advantage of the prime location. With a start, Scott looked at his watch and realized that he would be late to class. He quickly interrupted their leisurely tour: “Desirée, I need to go. If I leave in the next few minutes, I can still make my afternoon classes.”

  “Oh all right. If you give me a kiss, I’ll give you the key.”

  “The key?”

  “To my Porsche. It’s my plaything.”

  “I thought I was.”

  “Are we meeting for dinner on Wednesday? Maybe by that time, I will have recovered from being with my mother.”

&
nbsp; There was no way to refuse her and no way to refuse his desire for her. Scott hadn’t thought about his books in more than a week; if he didn’t get away soon, it appeared this week’s schoolwork was in jeopardy as well. He kissed her, then kissed her again more passionately. God, she was maddening. Breaking the embrace, she reached for the key. Placing it in his hand, she said, “We could meet tonight, after your classes,” she said.

  Scott bounded down the stairs and flung himself out the door. Despite his haste, he had to stop before the Porsche—it was every young man’s dream car. Gustav opened the driver’s side door and, as Scott climbed in, he offered a silent prayer—God forbid anything should happen to this car while I am driving.

  Turning the key produced the unmistakable, signature sound of a Porsche engine. To an aficionado, cars like a Porsche or Ferrari and boats such as the Riva, the Italian Chris Craft, produce distinctive, sweet music to the ear, and Scott enjoyed a full thirty minutes of mechanical serenade before he parked near the university and climbed the steps to International Alliances and Unions of Southeast Asia, his Tuesday afternoon class.

  Professor Blount commented on Scott’s tardiness (all of two minutes) and mockingly congratulated him on attending. Any illusion Scott had entertained about professors not keeping track of his absences was dashed. They were, and his classmates enthusiastically enjoyed the docteur’s public reprimand.

  As he quickly slid into one of the empty seats, Scott glimpsed Marlyse on the other side of the classroom, away from the door. My God, how he had moved on! Though he still found her pretty (even prettier when she smiled), the passion he’d felt for her seemed so long ago; his time with the countess was another world, so distinctively and seductively different. Throughout the long hour, he could feel Marlyse’s eyes square on his back. At the end of the lecture, she was lying in wait outside the classroom door. There would be no smiles today.