Scent of Triumph (27 page)

Every night when I close my eyes to sleep, I feel your arms around me. I replay our last moments in Grasse together, I can smell the sweet scent of your skin, feel your silky hair in my fingers, I can taste your lips on mine, feel your breath on my skin, hear your last whispered words. I knew you were grieving for Max, but I wanted to comfort you, to show you that you are still loved. I hope you didn't think my actions inappropriate, Danielle, but I simply couldn't conceal my feelings for you any longer.

I wish this war were over, and that I could turn this ship toward America to see you. But I can't, I have a duty to do, and God knows when this mess will be over. However, Abigail told me of your circumstances, and I can't bear the thought of your being alone. I have given this great thought. Will you come to London? I know my parents would welcome you and your family into our home, and we could see each other when I have leave. Please think about this, Danielle. I love you. Let me know when you can come. I'll make all the arrangements for you.

With all my love, Jon.

Slowly, Danielle folded his letter, her hands shaking.
How many times have I, too, replayed our days together in Grasse in my mind?
She moistened her lips and touched them, closing her eyes.
How many times have I tasted his kiss again?
She felt a great surge of happiness course through her and a smile danced on her lips.

She slipped his letter into her pocket. She glanced up at the window where her family waited for her. They seemed to be settling well in Los Angeles.
How would they feel about going to England?
There were so many things to consider. With a thoughtful sigh, she rose to go upstairs.

The Silverman Motion Picture studio lot stretched across three hundred and sixty acres situated in the center of Los Angeles County. From a hilltop perch at the farthest northern boundary of the studio, Abigail could see clear out to sea. On the other side, beyond Hancock Park and Boyle Heights, loomed downtown Los Angeles, the city lights twinkling beneath a fine mist of ocean haze. The view in the evening was reputed to be one of the best shows in town.

Abigail stood mesmerized at the full length, plate glass window, her fingertips lightly touching the cool surface, while Louis V. Silverman concluded his telephone call.

She glanced nervously around his spacious, well-appointed office. In her fundraising efforts, she had come to know many of the Hollywood power brokers, but Lou Silverman was, by far, the most curious of the studio bosses. He held himself above the Hollywood fray, donated vast sums to medical research, held nearly a dozen patents, and published poetry under a pseudonym. Abigail smiled to herself. He was a true Renaissance man.

On behalf of her work for the Red Cross, she had met many stars and executives in the movie industry, had cajoled and flirted and bargained, even begged for the funding needed to ease suffering in far flung corners of the world. She was proud of her success, passionate about her mission. Few people could resist her well-planned requests.

But Lou Silverman was no pushover; he was one of the most formidable and respected members of the Hollywood club. She stole a glance at him. He had already been exceedingly generous with her, having donated the princely sum of fifty thousand dollars to the Red Cross at her spring gala at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Yet, despite their favorable history, Abigail was nervous. Lou Silverman was the biggest of the big fish.

“Thanks, Erica,” Lou said into the phone. “We’ll talk more about the new movie later. You’re perfect for it, and I know you’ll love it. But think twice about Cameron’s part, will you?
Çiao
, darling.” He returned the phone to its burl wood cradle and swiveled in his massive, wine-colored leather chair. “Excuse the interruption.” Lou rose and stood beside her, his astute, penetrating eyes admiring the view below.

Abigail took a small step away from him, so forceful was his mere presence. And yet, he had a dignified air of casual sophistication. The faint aroma of a fine cigar, mingled with Bay Rum cologne, emanated from his skin.

Lou turned to her. “Now, where were we?”

“Such a beautiful view,” she began. “From this distance, it’s difficult to imagine suffering in other parts of the world.”

He shook his head. “For anyone who has ever witnessed devastation, the image of it lives within them, and is impossible to shake.”

“You sound as if you speak from experience.”

“Perhaps. In the forgotten corners of our souls, we all harbor a collective experience, if we chose to journey inward and acknowledge it.” A clock chimed in the background. “Ah, it’s cocktail time,” he said, smoothly changing the subject. “What will you have?”

Abigail’s face grew warm. “I don’t mix business with pleasure.”

“Pity.” He inclined his head. “All right then, have a seat. We’ll get down to business.” A faint smile played on his lips. “What is it now, Abigail? Which of your many causes brings you here so late in the day?”

A lamp threw a shadow across his face, illuminating his deftly cut cheekbones. In his early fifties, Lou Silverman had a dignity and refinement that was rare in Hollywood, a remnant from his youth spent in part, Abigail knew, in the Russian court, where his father had served as a diplomat for the Romanov regime. With his silver hair, ruggedly creased bronze skin, and piercing blue eyes, Lou exuded power. And he’d wielded his power well in the years since he and his family had fled Russia in the midst of the rebellion.

Abigail seated herself demurely in front of his imposing desk, smoothing her mahogany brown velvet suit.

Lou continued to stand, obviously appraising her from his vantage point.

She felt his intense eyes upon her. Abigail was shaking like a schoolgirl inside. She tucked a stray hair into her sleek chignon. This was a brand new project of vital importance, and very dear to her heart. Abigail lowered her head for a moment to gather her thoughts.

She clasped her hands and raised her eyes to him. “It’s about children, Mr. Silverman, displaced and orphaned children from Europe. If they are to survive this war and have decent opportunities, we must rescue them.”

He listened and nodded. “Call me Lou.” He remained standing. His eyes roamed over Abigail. “Tell me more.”

“I’ve started my own charity, and I call it Operation Orphan Rescue.” Abigail went on to plead her cause. She had crafted countless pitches in the course of her work, but she still harbored butterflies deep in the pit of her stomach.

“So that’s the story,” she concluded, slightly winded. But hadn’t she forgotten something? She pushed the thought from her mind. “We need your help. Surely you can sympathize. You have children yourself, don’t you?”

“No. And no.”

“I, I don’t understand,” she stammered.

Lou shrugged. “I don’t have children, not my choice really, just circumstance. And as for your plea, as noble as it is, I didn’t hear a solid long-term plan.” He remained standing, his arms crossed, his expression resolute. “I don’t fling good money toward pie in the sky plans, Abigail, no matter how attractive the messenger. You should know that.”

Abigail’s mouth dropped in horrified embarrassment as she realized her mistake. How could she have left out the most important, salient points of her argument? “I do have a plan, Mr. Silver—”

“Lou.”

“Lou.”

“Look, Abigail, I hate to cut you off, but I’m afraid our time is up.” He strode to the door. “I’ll show you out.”

Taken aback, Abigail stood on wobbly knees. She couldn’t believe she had mangled such an important pitch. She desperately needed Silverman behind the project.
How could she salvage the meeting
? Her mind raced. “Please, can’t we meet again soon? I’ll show you a detailed business plan.”

He turned to her, a benevolent expression on his face. “No, I’m sorry. Good day.”

“No, wait, Mr. Silv—, Lou. Just ten more minutes, please.”

He waited by the door, his hand on the knob. “My schedule is full, Abigail.”

“Haven’t you any free time this week?”

“Not really. Unless....”

“Yes?”

“Look Abigail, I understand your strict rule about not mixing business and pleasure. That’s a fine rule. As a bachelor, my only free time is in the evening after I’ve reviewed daily rushes. If you were willing, we could meet in the early evening. I certainly wouldn’t want you to think I’m imposing on you.” He opened the door. “Strictly a business meeting, over a brief dinner.”

Abigail caught her breath, but before she could respond, he went on.

“On second thought, I shouldn’t impose my schedule on you.” He stroked his smooth chin. “You’re young and popular, with dozens of dates, no doubt.” He waved his hand. “Sorry I mentioned it. Forget it.”

“No, that’s a marvelous idea,” she exclaimed.

“Wouldn’t be prudent, my dear Abigail. The media is always watching me.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t expose you to such gossip and speculation. No, it wouldn’t do. Come on now, out with you, before I change my mind.” He snapped his fingers. “Gladys, please see Miss Newell-Grey out.”

His secretary appeared at his command.

Lou turned back to Abigail, his gaze resting coolly on her. “Good luck with your project,” he said as he shook her hand.

Abigail panicked. “How about dinner tonight, or tomorrow evening?” She bit her tongue as soon as her words tumbled out.

“Why, Abigail, you surprise me.”

“Or next week. Whatever is convenient for you.” She wanted to sink through the floor, she was so embarrassed. She realized she had just asked the chairman of Silverman Studios out to dinner, against every social rule for women of her class and upbringing, and definitely against her better judgment. But this was business.

Lou hesitated for a brief moment. “Only if you insist. I think I might have next Wednesday evening available. Eight-thirty. Gladys will confirm the details with you.”

Abigail followed Gladys to her desk, where the woman consulted his schedule. She peered over her reading glasses at Abigail. “Let’s see. Next Wednesday. Eight-thirty appears to be fine. Where do you live?”

Abigail felt herself flush. “I’ll meet him at the restaurant. It’ll be much easier for Lou, I mean, Mr. Silverman.”

Gladys appeared to suppress a smile. “That’s fine, miss. But here’s the way it works. A car will pick you up and take you to the restaurant. This way, you won’t get lost, forget, or leave him waiting. Besides, he seldom knows where he wants to eat until seven or eight o’clock. Fortunately, he has a standing table at most every restaurant in town. And if I were you,” Gladys added with a kind smile, “I’d dress for Chasen’s. Something elegant.”

* * *

The next morning, Abigail arrived at Clara’s boutique to peruse the new fall fashion arrivals. “I need something for a dinner meeting,” she explained to Clara, who was putting the final touches on an autumn-themed display window. “Something serious, capable, and sophisticated. Marvelous, but not too sexy. For business of course.”

Clara propped a feathered hat on a mannequin. “Who’s the lucky man?” she asked with a smile.

Abigail glanced around, ignoring her question. “Is Danielle here?”

“No, she and Esmeralda went to Miss Crawford’s home for a private wardrobe consultation and fitting.”

“Crawford? As in Joan?”

“You got it. Her Highness fell in love with our Danielle.” Clara put her hands on her hips and frowned. “That’s the only thing that kept me from firing her after that stunt she pulled the day of the fashion show.”

“What stunt?”

“I think she broke that perfume bottle on purpose.”

“What?” Abigail said, feigning surprise. “You mean, ‘the fragrance to make love by,’ as Hedda Hopper wrote in her column? ‘Available exclusively at Clara’s, and made by the French woman who has captured Cameron Murphy’s heart?’ You’re right, that simply can’t be good for business.”

“So who knew it would be such a huge hit? And where did Hedda get that story about Cameron?”

“Who cares? It’s certainly not true. Unlike most women, Danielle hardly gives him the time of day.”

Clara fluffed a scarf on the mannequin, then stepped back to admire her handiwork. “Only because Danielle is stuck on someone else.”

“Max, of course,” Abigail said. “The poor dear, she’s still grieving for him.”

“Max isn’t the one sending her love letters,” Clara said with a pointed look. “Wait here, I have something for you.” She disappeared into the back of the shop.

For a moment Abigail wondered what Clara meant about Danielle, then Clara returned, bustling in with an armload of sumptuous clothes.

“Here, these just arrived. You can have first choice. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to get merchandise out of Europe. When this lot is gone, I don’t know what we’ll do until the war ends.”

“Oh Clara, these are gorgeous.” Abigail picked up a delicately embroidered ivory silk blouse and paired it with a floor length, sweeping black velvet skirt. She held the outfit to her and swirled to face the full-length mirror. The creamy shade blended well with her chestnut hair and ivory complexion, she decided. Sophisticated, yet understated. Conservative, yet alluring. Yes, it would do nicely for dinner at Chasen’s.
Business meeting
, she corrected herself.

Clara grinned. “Try it on.”

Abigail emerged from the dressing room and turned to the mirror. The blouse skimmed her well-toned figure, and the black velvet skirt accentuated her narrow waist and hips.

Clara let out a low whistle. “Abigail, how do you stay so slim?”

She laughed. “I swim five days a week at the YWCA. You should join me sometime.” She turned slowly. “This is breathtakingly beautiful,” she exclaimed, admiring the lace that fell in dramatic folds from the high collar and long sleeves.

“Belgian lace. It’s among the best.” Clara sighed and shook her head. “I can’t get any more now that Belgium has been invaded. Most European designers have closed their shops, as well as the women who provided my hand-crafted items. Someone has to run the farms while the men serve in the military.”

“Women are also serving their countries, staffing hospitals, and more.” Abigail paused. “I can’t believe what’s happening in Europe. Every day I pray for my brother. Jon’s right in the thick of things, you know.”