Leonie (48 page)

“Doña Xara,” greeted the saleslady, “we haven’t seen you for a long time.”

“No, Marcella, you haven’t, but today I’m making up for it. Take a good look at me … look at these drab colors, these out-of-style garments. I’ve become a cross between a country cousin and a weary widow. I need
change
, Marcella. Change me,
please
. I need
color
, pink and yellow and turquoise, and white silk stockings and pretty shoes with flirty little bows on their toes! I want lacy blouses and ruffled swirling skirts. Marcella, you don’t have to
sell
me anything, just bring it all out and I’ll buy it!”

Marcella laughed. “Very well, but remember, it’ll be very expensive.”

Xara sighed. “I’m a rich, childless widow and I’m twenty-six years old. What else is there to spend it on?” She sank into a deep velvet chair with a frown. You’re not to think of the past, she reminded herself. This is the day of change, remember?

Young assistants were pressed into action and garments paraded in front of her: day dresses in the finest linens, cool and crisp, in banana and strawberry and pistachio, with the very latest long, lean lines; blouses in handkerchief linen, in peach and vanilla, with matching skirts that swung in layers of tiny points above creamy silken legs. She bought them all, and the little white and blue jackets and skirts for traveling, and the matching shoes and strappy little sandals with a glitter of colored beads across the front for evening, and the long straight white silk sheath that fit as though it were poured over her, banded with a delicate glimmer of crystal at the hem, its wispy fling of silk shawl ready for needless protection against the tropical night air. But her favorite was the scarlet taffeta, tight bodiced and ruffled skirted, sexy as a Spanish gypsy dancer’s dress.

It was an orgy of buying, she thought, looking happily at her purchases as they were packed carefully in boxes by the dazzled young assistants; it had purged her of widowhood at last. And the nicest part was that José would have wanted her to do it; he wouldn’t have wanted her to be buried, like him, at the Vega Flor de Sevilla.

“Send it all round to the Santa Isabella, Marcella,” she called. “I’ve got several more stops to make before siesta.”

The lingerie store sold the slitheriest, silkiest, most heavenly undergarments imaginable, and her hands ran riot in the pastel softness of chemises and slips, of lace-hemmed knickers buttoned at the waist in pearl, of nightdresses in virginal white and less virginal rose and taupe, and even scarlet to match the taffeta
dress. Silk stockings and satin slippers with puffs of swansdown and pearl buckles. She sighed with satisfaction. What an absolutely perfect morning this had been. There was only one question, she thought, as she sank thankfully into a chair in the fountained marble coolness of the Café Dominica. Where am I going to wear it all and—even more important—for whom?

Staring into the swirl of dark coffee, she stirred it pensively. It wasn’t going to be an easy question to answer. Why, oh, why, couldn’t some tall dark stranger come into her life and sweep her off her feet?

Those ankles, thought Edouard, peering beneath the palm fronds that stood between him and her, were very nice ankles. They were trim and wore silk and ended in slender feet in pretty Paris shoes with flirty little bows on the toes. If he edged his chair slightly to the right, he could probably see more, but then it might spoil his fantasy. She’d probably be some plump Spanish matron waiting for her husband to take her to lunch after a hard morning’s shopping. Wasn’t it better just to sit here and enjoy the sight of the pretty feet beneath the palm fronds—and they
were
pretty, especially when she crossed her legs like that, giving a man a glimpse of nice silken calves. Ah, well, he thought, signaling the waiter for his bill, I’ll keep my dreams.

Now that, thought Xara, sipping her coffee, was a very nice back. Pity he was leaving, now she’d never know what the front was like, but she liked the back. He was tall and lean and he wore his brown hair a little long, so that it curved into his collar. It looked thick and strong; it would feel soft under your hands. He walked with a touch of arrogance, striding through the crowded tables with his white jacket tossed casually across his shoulders. Xara sighed as she called for her bill. Now why couldn’t she meet someone like that? Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself firmly, he’s probably a married man with a plump provincial wife and four children waiting at home while he goes off to visit his little lady friend at some too-hot apartment. As she thought about the lady friend she felt a little pang of regret—or was it envy? She wished she hadn’t invented her.

The baroque, rose-colored building that was once the palace of the counts of Santavenia was now the Hotel Santa Isabella, run by
an American from New Orleans, and its marble-tiled hall was deserted. Edouard rang the bell on the desk with a sharp ping and waited. The only sounds were the gently splashing water in the pretty blue-tiled fountain and the lethargic whirr of two long-bladed fans strung from the soaring, beamed ceiling. A cage of songbirds, doubled by the reflection in an ornate gilt mirror, remained silent as if they, too, were taking their siesta. He pinged the bell again, impatiently.

A boy appeared, buttoning his white jacket hastily, obviously not expecting guests to arrive at siesta time, but he cheerfully showed Edouard up the galleried staircase and across a hall to a wide airy room whose shuttered windows overlooked the now-silent square. Well, if all Havana were sleeping, who was he to be different? Edouard lay back in the big brass bed and closed his eyes. I wonder, he thought as he drifted into sleep, I wonder if the rest of her was as pretty as her ankles?

Xara took stock of herself in the long mirror on the door of the vast armoire in her room. The face wasn’t
too
bad, she decided, but then she was used to looking at it, so how was she to know? She ran a finger along the slope of her cheekbone; did it slope too sharply? And were her eyes just a little too slanted—wouldn’t they be nicer as a bright sparkly blue rather than this glossy brown? Why hadn’t she inherited some of her grandmother’s Irish coloring instead of this cream-colored skin with its olive undertones? And her hair? She lifted the shining blue-black mass that fell smoothly almost to her waist; perhaps she should have it all cut off and try some new, more interesting style? Her teeth were pretty, though, she admitted that; they were white and even and if she ever had someone to smile at, he would surely be dazzled by her teeth!

She flung off her robe with a sigh and looked at the rest: a tall slender body. Was she too tall, too slender? High pointed breasts, long legs—at least her legs were nice—trim ankles and pretty feet. How did she look to a man? It had been so long, she had no way of knowing. She’d married José when she was seventeen and he had been more than twenty-five years older. Might not a stranger—some other man—find flaws? Things about her that she hadn’t realized? She put a tentative hand on her breast. How would she feel to a man, under a man’s hands? She put her robe back on with a frown. That was the problem. How did a young Cuban widow
meet a handsome, eligible man—and not someone she’d known all her life?

The boxes from the Boutique Oberon with their ransom of Paris-labeled clothes were piled unopened on the bed and she looked at them longingly. They were so pretty, they were meant to adorn some wickedly witty woman traveling alone on a long sea voyage who would be a constant lure to all the men on board and the cause of endless speculation and comment. They were clothes for a daring woman.

She began to unpack them, tossing them onto the bed in a flurry of pleats and flounces and splashes of color. Yes, the red taffeta was definitely her favorite. She longed to wear it. She took it to the mirror and held it in front of her. If she wore her hair pulled back, Spanish style, and the ruby earrings—“Damn it, Xara,” she said to herself, “you’ll wear it tonight. You’ll dine at Velasquez and you’ll dine alone.”

Edouard opened his eyes and took in the strange room. Padding across to the window, he flung back the shutters onto a rose-tinted world. The sky was a dazzling red curtain suspended like gauze over the bustling square, where café terraces were already filling up with people ready to enjoy what the evening might offer. And what, he wondered, would it offer him? Well, first a bath, and when had he last eaten? He had had nothing on the ship last night, a cup of coffee, a beer; he was starving! That was it. He’d find the best restaurant in town and he’d dine in style—alone.

The scarlet taffeta rustled pleasingly as Xara walked along the gallery toward the stairs, and she smiled. She felt the way she had when she was a small child and her mother had dressed her in pretty flounced lawn. Tying the pink satin sash tightly and turning her around to look at her, she’d said with a smile, “How pretty you are, Xara”—and to this day she could remember
feeling
pretty. Well, tonight she felt pretty again and it added an extra lift to her chin, a provocative languorousness to her walk.

She looked, thought Edouard d’Aureville, waiting in the hall, like an aristocratic gypsy girl on her way to an assignation. Lucky man, he thought enviously as she walked toward the door. Oh, yes, whomever she was meeting, he was a very lucky man.

The night air was warm and Xara breathed it in eagerly. This is an adventure, she told herself as she waited for a cab, well-brought-up
Cuban girls don’t go to restaurants alone, they go with their fathers or brothers or cousins or husbands; there’s still time to go back, a small voice inside her added doubtfully. You could have a quiet dinner in the hotel dining room. After all, the Velasquez is a very smart restaurant, you never know whom you might see there, think of the talk. “No,” she said firmly, “I’m going to do it.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Edouard, standing next to her.

“Oh, I’m sorry, it was nothing, I was just talking to myself.” Xara climbed into the cab. “The Velasquez,” she said, turning to look at him out of the window. Their eyes met for a moment—were his gray, she wondered, leaning back against the seat, or were they silver? Or maybe they were transparent like glass, so you could see into his soul—if you were close enough? Who was
he
going to meet tonight? Probably some lovely foreign woman, cool and blond and British, or maybe some elegant American—whoever she was, she was a very lucky woman.

Edouard speculated on those brown oblique eyes. Had she smiled at him, a sort of half-smile? The fragrance of the gardenias she wore in her hair lingered tantalizingly. The Velasquez, she’d said. He had meant to go to the Habanera. He hesitated for only a second. “The Velasquez,” he instructed the driver.

The restaurant was quieter than Xara had expected and if the maître d’hôtel was surprised that she was alone, he didn’t show it. He escorted her to her table in an alcove by the ornately tiled Spanish fireplace, banked tonight with flowers instead of flames. “Señora,” he said, casting the huge crisp white linen napkin across her knee and presenting the menu. “Would you care to order something to drink?”

“Manzanilla,” she said with a smite—a dry sherry was appropriate as she was so very Spanish tonight. She looked around disappointedly, the alcove held just two tables directly opposite each other, and only by pushing her chair around slightly could she see the main part of the restaurant and the other diners. Damn, she thought, I wanted to be the observer, to see people together, the married couples and the lovers. I wanted to watch their happiness, to catch up on life, if only vicariously. She sipped the thin, dry Manzanilla sadly.

Edouard glanced around the restaurant. She wasn’t there; could he have made a mistake? Was this the wrong restaurant?

“Señor,” the maître d’hôtel ushered him into the alcove by the
fireplace. There were just two tables and the girl in the red dress sat alone at the other one. Edouard nodded politely to her as he took a seat. Her lover must be late; obviously she was waiting for him. He could smell the fragrance of gardenias again.

Xara peered at him from beneath her lashes—it was him! Oh, this was awful; she’d have to sit opposite while he dined with his lover. The tables were so close she’d be able to overhear their most intimate conversation, see their faces as they gazed at each other, glimpse their clasped hands beneath the table. She sipped the Manzanilla nervously.

Edouard studied the menu, glancing over its top at the scarlet lady. Who could she be? And what sort of man would keep her waiting? Only a fool, he answered regretfully, the man must be a fool to waste a single minute without her. Her shoulders are like cream next to the berry-red dress, and her blue-black hair shines like a blackbird’s wing.

“Sir?” prompted the waiter.

“The swordfish—and a bottle of Roederer Cristal.” This might prove to be a long night. He hadn’t intended to have such a firsthand view of his scarlet lady and her lover. Why do I think she’s meeting a lover, he wondered suddenly. It could be her husband, her brother. No, he knew it wasn’t. This woman had dressed for a lover, her scarlet taffeta rustled with promise. She looked like a flower amid the petals of her skirt, a gardenia flower.

Xara studied the tablecloth nervously. He’d ordered. He wouldn’t do that if he was meeting someone; he would wait. Could he be alone? Why don’t you invite him to join you? After all, you came out looking for romance. How can I do that? she asked herself in panic. I can’t do that—can I?

“Señora?” She looked up at the waiter. “Will you be having any wine?”

“Wine?” She glanced at the cooler with the bottle of champagne on his table. “Champagne, please.” Perhaps it would give her courage; she wanted those silver-gray eyes to look into hers.

She must be alone, thought Edouard in surprise. A woman like her—dining alone? But why? Don’t ask why, you idiot, he told himself, she’s here alone, and so are you; ask her to join you. There was probably an irate Cuban husband around the corner ready to shoot him, but the hell with it, it was worth it.

“Excuse me,” he said.