If the Shoe Fits (30 page)

If the folly in question was not her brother-in-law, Bronte would be the next obvious info-dumpee choice. Bronte had endured her share of relationship woes, and she would tell Sarah flat-out whether or not corporate spying (albeit—one hoped—motivated by altruism) was grounds for never trusting someone with your heart.

Said heart stumbled a bit at that thought. She started to worry that she might forgive Devon anything.

Sarah sat in the single white desk chair, resting her elbows on the worktable, and looked out the wall of renovated square windows that now gleamed from floor to ceiling out over tiny Bruton Place. The raw structure of her office was starting to shape up: polished concrete floor, exposed brick walls on the east and west, and a wall of concealed built-in storage framing the frosted glass door to the stairs behind her. Devon had whipped those lazy workmen into a crew of avid craftsmen. The store was going to be beautiful.

He’s not all bad!
her Devon-loving half yelled in her mind.

Devon had convinced her to splurge on the glass wall of windows in order to retain the original steel frames (which had also required complete refurbishment). The glass-pane order probably accounted for the glazier’s entire year’s profit, but it was worth it. Sarah looked down toward the street, as if through a kaleidoscope of crisp, one-foot-by-one-foot jeweler’s loops. The effect was superb. The beams of the early morning sun came through in a beautiful, fractured array. One of the young women who worked in the adjacent gallery was walking to work, chatting animatedly on her cell phone, large brown leather purse slung over one shoulder, paper coffee cup in the other hand.

It was good here.

London made Sarah feel alive and vibrant and part of the throbbing urban beat, like she did in New York, but also safe and protected—at home—like she did in Chicago. But while Manhattan was blocks and blocks of urban grid and Chicago had an urban center that gradually segued out into tree-lined neighborhoods, London somehow managed to tuck bits of country right into the weft of the metropolis. She sighed and tried to shake off the feeling that she wanted this to be her home.

She wanted this to be her home with Devon.

Her stomach fell at the involuntary direction of her thoughts.

Damn it! She’d been so busy being furious at him—at his stupid, obsessive meddling—that she had very handily avoided considering how much she loved him.

She was not meant to fall for a defective hero.
Her
hero was supposed to be flawless. Geeky, late-night, internecine Internet sabotage was definitely
not
part of the equation.

Her heart started pacing a nervous beat. She needed a distraction.

Sarah called her grandmother.

Cendrine, the nonmaid maid, picked up on the second ring. They spoke in rapid French.

“You might as well stay on the line, Cendrine, to save Letitia the trouble of having to tell you everything all over again. Go wake her up and tell her I need a shoulder to cry on or to be told to quit crying, as the case may be.”

Cendrine carried the cordless phone and walked back into Letitia’s bedroom. Sarah smiled as she heard the two old biddies begin another day of friendly skirmishes.

After barging in on her employer, Cendrine spoke in sharp, clipped French, without ceremony. “Pick up the phone, Letitia. Your granddaughter needs to impose upon you for maternal succor… I know, I told her that sentimental rubbish was not your area of expertise, but she seems to think you might have some sort of advice to offer.”

The other line picked up with a crackle, and Sarah grinned as she envisioned her grandmother in some pink chiffon dressing gown over some highly age-
inappropriate
negligee and perfectly manicured, arthritic, bejeweled fingers holding the antique white handle of a telephone right out of a Zsa Zsa Gabor movie. Sarah used to tell her grandmother that if Marie Antoinette had ever had occasion to use a telephone, it would have looked exactly like that: gold mouthpiece and earpiece that connected with an antiquated fabric-covered cord to a delicate gold receiver above a white rotary dial.

Letitia spoke in arch, Bostonian English: “Sarah darling. It is before ten o’clock so I can only assume you are dead.”

“Very funny, Letitia. I think I may be in a bit of a muddle with The Earl.”

“It cannot be so! I am looking at the two of you in
Paris
Match
and
Hello!
right this very minute and you are blissfully happy. It says so right here: ‘The delightful couple shares a magical moment courtside.’ Although, the yellow dress at Wimbledon was completely ill-advised—”

Sarah laughed through her interruption. “Letitia! This is not a fashion call! You are relentless.”

“That’s why you called, isn’t it?”

Sarah smiled. “You’re probably right. I wanted to hear your unique take on the whole situation. I do adore him.” Her face heated at all the ways she had adored him… on every damned inch of his perfect body.

“Oh, darling. That’s a complication.
You
are supposed to be the adored. If you adore
him
, I fear your options are necessarily limited. Try not to be too foolish when you forgive him for all of his atrocities. You might retain a shred of power if you at least wait a few days for him to beg, but he will probably know you are only stalling until you simply must dive back into his arms.”

“But, Letitia, he was so
bad
.”

“Did he
hurt
you, darling?”

“No, never. He’s—it was nothing like that. He violated my trust. He has been spying on me—”

“Oh, how delicious! He’s jealous!” Letitia sounded like a teenager. “I take it back about that shred of power. He’s all yours, darling. Was he following you? Is he skulking around dark corners?!” She sounded excited. “I remember when your grandfather used to follow me around Boston—”

“No! I mean, well, maybe, in a way, if the situation were taking place back in the day, when Grandfather and you were courting—”

“Now, Sarah! You don’t need to say it as though we were living alongside Paul Revere!”

“You know what I mean. Well, I suppose the details are unimportant, but he was trying to sneak around some of my business dealings to help me figure out a potential threat to my corporate—”

“What?! I thought we were talking about matters of the heart, darling. Why are you talking about business? You know I don’t care about any of those petty, bourgeois details.”

“He—well—it’s still
me
after all!” Sarah tried defiantly. “Whether it is business or the depth of his feelings, he lied to me. Doesn’t that signify?”

“Of course it
signifies
. But was it both business
and
the depth of his feelings that he lied about, Sarah?”

Sarah’s silence was answer enough.

“No one wants to live in a minefield of treachery, I agree, but it sounds like you already know that he hasn’t lied to you about anything of real
importance
, has he?”

“Such as?”

“Do you know how he feels about you? Unequivocally? Does he look at other women when he is with you or does he make you feel like the most beautiful woman in the room? On earth? Is he affectionate with you in front of his family and friends or only à deux? Has he introduced you to his
mother
?”

Sarah stared blindly out the wall of windows. She supposed she always knew to be careful what she wished for when she called Letitia for advice, because she would surely get it.

“Sarah?”

“Yes, I’m still here.”

“Well, it is so unlike you to allow me to finish an entire sentence without interruption that I thought perhaps the line had gone dead.”

“Oh, Letitia. What am I going to do? I’m a mess.”

“No, you’re not, darling. You are quite the perfect granddaughter.” Sarah felt a tightening in her throat at her grandmother’s rare articulation of genuine affection before Letitia continued, “Do you want me to come to London?”

Sarah couldn’t hold back the grateful tear that came down her cheek in a quick drip. Her grandmother had never offered to come to her. Sarah had never asked.

“Yes?” Sarah whispered, with a mix of hesitation and longing.

“Oh, darling, why didn’t you just say so?” Then turning her voice away from the phone, Letitia began circling the wagons. “Cendrine! Isn’t it fabulous? We are going to London. Go tell Jacques to wipe that mopey Paris grimace off his face and to pack up a few paints and brushes. I want that suite of rooms at Claridge’s that we had right before we were married… oh, I don’t know, probably best to take it for a month. I can’t be bothered to travel for a shorter amount of time than that… oh, remember that visit, Cendrine, it was so romantic, sneaking around London with Jacques. And Elizabeth and Nelson being all
appropriate
down the corridor, and you were there, Sarah, of course.” Her voice turned back toward the mouthpiece. “You must have been about four or five and your mother had you all dressed up in shiny black Mary Janes with white tights and that red wool coat with the velvet collar and that adorable oversized red grosgrain ribbon in your silky blond hair, and I—”

“Letitia!”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.” The words were quiet, and Sarah had the feeling that she had never fully meant them as much as she did at that moment.

Letitia’s short “You’re welcome, dear” held an ocean of love.

***

A week later, Letitia and her small entourage arrived at Claridge’s with the pomp and circumstance usually reserved for dignitaries and despots. As she always did when traveling within mainland Europe, Letitia was happily ensconced in the comfort of her 1958 Corniche. All of the luggage (“and other bother”) was sent ahead with a bustling, bossy Cendrine in the comfortable if utilitarian Mercedes van, while she and Jacques rode in the buttery leather comfort of the Rolls Royce. The Channel Tunnel was a pleasant change from her previous trips aboard the ferries from Calais, making the trip even more seamless. Luckily, Letitia’s chauffeur had joined the modern age and finally acquired a cell phone. He’d called Sarah to let her know they were nearby, so she was already waiting for them in the lobby when they pulled up.

Letitia stepped out of the car as fresh as if she had just been driven from a salon across Paris to the Île Saint-Louis, rather than across countries. Her small frame was draped in a silvery gray fox fur stole (small pointed head and beady eyes intact, resting on one shoulder) over a vintage Chanel traveling suit of bouclé wool in a pale rose and gray coarse weave. And the gloves! The pale gray kid gloves. Sarah almost sighed to see a woman in her eighties have such perfect style. There was no irony, just simple, perfect class.

“Sarah, darling!”

People along the Mayfair sidewalk slowed their paces slightly, as if witnessing a sociological artifact come to life, which, Sarah supposed, her grandmother was.

Sarah thought she might crush Letitia’s tiny frame with the enthusiasm of her embrace.

“There, there, Sarah dear. All will be well.”

Sarah held back the tears of gratitude that threatened and gave her grandmother a shining smile instead.

“You’ve never been a crier, dear. That’s better.”

Jacques was standing near the curb, slightly behind Letitia, stretching his back and taking deep, happy breaths of the cool, moist summer air. “Aaaah,
Londres
!”

Sarah gave him a hug and welcomed him in French. “
Merci
! Thank you for coming, Jacques… I know the disruption and—”

“Ah,
non
! I am so pleased that your grandmother can still be bothered. Thank
you
.” He gave Sarah a quintessentially Gallic wink of appreciation as he let one arm fall over her shoulder. He paused, holding Sarah back a step, and the two of them watched as Letitia began gathering every porter, valet, and concierge of the hotel into her thrall: directing this one toward the back of the car to retrieve her jewelry, that one to bring high tea to her room, another to make an appointment for a hair stylist to arrive in her room at eleven each morning, until it seemed that every employee of the grand establishment was hurrying off to do her bidding. The beauty of her dominion was how she managed to bend everyone to her will while somehow making them
eager
to do so. She lived in an orbit that others found so captivating, they were more than willing to scrape and bow just to be a part of it. It was enchanting there.

When they got up to the suite of rooms and Letitia was settled in a lovely, pale yellow silk-upholstered fauteuil chair, Cendrine was pouring tea, and Jacques was in his room taking a short nap, Sarah breathed a deep sigh of appreciation that they had all came to her aid.

Letitia spoke with abrupt authority into the silence: “I want to meet the mother.”

“What?” Sarah blinked.

“I want to meet the mother of the earl. I presume she lives in Mayfair and I may send a calling card to her?”

“Letitia. This is not… I mean… I’m not sure that is the best way to go about it.”

“Do you love this man or not, Sarah? And don’t give me any impertinence about
Internets
or counterfeit
shoes
.”

Sarah looked out the window. She and Devon had gone so deep, so fast. Maybe this antiquated, convoluted form of imposed grandmotherly meddling was something to consider. If the combined forces of Letitia Fournier and the Dowager Duchess of Northrop could not set things to right, nothing could.

“Yes.” Her voice was barely audible.

“Congratulations.” Letitia gave her granddaughter the tiniest hint of a smile and took a sip of tea. “At least we have that established. Cendrine, please bring me my stationery.”

A few minutes later, Cendrine returned with an antique wooden lap desk. It was a finely hewn wood that gleamed from many decades of use. The top was inset with hand-tooled, dark green Italian leather, beautifully worn in one place where Letitia’s hand always rested while she wrote. Cendrine set it down on a delicate writing table that was placed in front of French windows overlooking Davies Street.

Letitia got up from her seat, walked across the room, and sat down to her task. She lifted the lid, removed a silver fountain pen and a few sheets of pale blue stationery with her initials scrolled in an engraved navy-blue design at the top, and looked out the window in a brief moment of contemplation. Then, the scratch of the pen nib against the thick cotton grain of the paper filled the room without interruption for many minutes.

Sarah felt like a wisp of a girl, watching her future play out in the ink and purpose of her grandmother’s motions across the paper. She caught the final flourish of Letitia’s hand as she drew her signature across the bottom of the second page.

“May I read it?”

“Of course not! All of my correspondence is private. Including what I write to you, so you should be grateful.”

“But, Letitia, what if—”

“What if
what
, Sarah?” The older woman looked at her over one shoulder, waving the sheet of paper to ensure the ink dried before she folded it and put it in the envelope. “Cendrine, please call a porter or go down to the lobby and ask for someone to deliver this.” She folded it quickly, put it into the stiff envelope, and wrote “The Dowager Duchess of Northrop” across the middle of the front, then, in a smaller script at the lower left, “By Hand,” then handed it to Cendrine.

Letitia turned her attention back to Sarah. “What if what? What if you are embarrassed? What if the Dowager Duchess of Northrop thinks you a fool? Or, maybe, what if you get everything you ever wanted? What then?”

Sarah’s heart lurched. Her very cool grandmother was very warm indeed.

“You think because I am this old”—she gestured absently at herself from head to toe—“that I forget passion? Just one look at you and I can see how you yearn for him… and what has it been since you’ve seen him, a week?”

Sarah tried to hold her grandmother’s gaze but faltered and blinked at the truth of her words. “Eight nights,” she answered sheepishly, since Letitia seemed to be waiting for an answer to what Sarah had originally hoped was merely a rhetorical question.

“And how many hours?” Letitia asked, almost cruelly, but as Sarah started to answer, her grandmother held up a hand. “Don’t answer that! I’m only making a point. Let the cunning old ladies take care of it, Sarah. You go back to work or at least go sit there and pretend you are working, and I will let you know when I hear from the duchess.”

“It’s already late afternoon. I only have a few more hours of work to do. Shall I return later and we can go out for dinner tonight?”

“I’m a bit
fatiguée
from the journey, dear. Let’s meet for lunch tomorrow. Pick me up at one o’clock.”