The American Lady (The Glassblower Trilogy Book 2) Page 12

  “Do you think that a vine bears more grapes if I sit down in front of it and plead for days on end? Isn’t it better simply to leave it alone to grow?” Franco asked. He reached out and lifted her chin, but Marie didn’t reply to his question. “When you seek and seek like this, you are going about it the wrong way, believe me! Why not just enjoy life? Like today. There are some things you cannot force, so you must simply let them take their course.”

  Marie tore up another piece of bread and threw it to the greedy gulls, which huddled together and squabbled over the crumbs. Maybe Franco was right. All the same something inside her refused to give in.

  “I never had a close friend in my life. Back in Lauscha there was simply no time for friendship; all I ever did was work.” She looked thoughtful. “And perhaps the other women in the village thought I was an odd bird.” She laughed. A woman who sat at the lamp and flame from morning till night, like the men did—certainly they must have found it strange. “But here I have two close friends, three if you count Wanda. They like me, and I like them. And each of them, in their way, is at least as odd as I am. But nobody here seems to find it at all strange when a woman does her own thing. I am always the outsider in Lauscha, even if people have gotten used to my job by now.”

  Franco didn’t answer. For a moment, they were each alone with their own thoughts.

  How could she explain to him that he had no reason to be jealous of Pandora or anybody else? Nothing even came close to what she felt for him. She had never been in love like this. She felt like a girl again. She loved him so much that she never wanted to let go of his hand. She had to make an effort to do anything but gaze at him rapturously, her eyes wide. She wanted to kiss him again and again, his lips, his strong, manly mouth. She loved him so much . . .

  Franco was annoyed at himself. This wasn’t the way to get through to her. He knew exactly what she needed to unleash the forces of her creativity once more: his love. His hands on her body, his kisses on her naked skin. Nights of passion when he could make a woman of her. But he had to keep his desires in check for now—Marie wasn’t like Sherlain, or any of those other women who gave themselves to any man who came along. He knew that she wasn’t a virgin, of course—she had told him about Magnus back home. But the man couldn’t have meant very much to her, given the way she had spoken so indifferently about him. Franco had the impression that she had never truly loved anything or anyone but her art—until now. There was something innocent about Marie, something untouched . . .

  Just as there had been about Serena.

  He cleared his throat. “Pardon me if I have offended you. It’s just that sometimes you seem to care more about these women than you do about me! What do you really know about me?” He raised his hands helplessly.

  “Well, I know for instance that you are my handsome Italian. My jealous, handsome Italian.” Marie kissed his pinkie teasingly, then the other fingers, one by one. “And I know that the de Lucca family wine arrives in crates here by the shipload. That you ship thousands of barrels every year from Genoa to America, and that you have to be here in charge of distribution even though you’d much rather be back home taking care of the vineyards.” She was counting off the points on her fingers now, like a schoolmistress summing up a lesson. “And I know that I have never loved a man the way I love you,” she finished up in a hoarse whisper.

  For a moment they simply gazed into one another’s eyes. Then a waiter came to the table and asked if he could bring them anything else. Franco asked for the check and the waiter hurried off to fetch it.

  “Sending wine all this way—is it really worth it?” Marie asked. “I mean . . . the Americans make their own wine now, don’t they?” It was only as she spoke and saw the expression on Franco’s face that she realized he might take offense at the question.

  “The Americans do, of course, but the Italians who live here don’t,” Franco answered as he reached for his billfold. “You have to be clever in the export business; you have to know exactly which market you’re targeting. We only supply businesses run by Italians, you see,” he explained. “Did you know that there are more Italians living here than there are in Rome? They even say there are more Italians in New York than there are in Genoa, Florence, and Venice put together!”

  Marie frowned and was about to ask how that could be the case, but he went on.

  “Italy is poor. Very few people live as well as my family does. You know yourself that there are hardly any factories in Europe. So how do people live? Anyone who isn’t a landowner . . .” Franco shrugged. “Every Italian who arrives here has already made a great sacrifice. Many families save for years to be able to send even one of their sons to America. They all think that the streets here are paved with gold!” He shook his head. “Well, we both know that it isn’t like that, but most Italians here live pretty well.” Suddenly his face lit up. “Let me show you my New York, so that you can meet a few Italians! There’s a big parade over on Mulberry Street this weekend, the festival of our patron saint, Saint Rocco—I could take you on Sunday afternoon.”

  “A parade for the patron saint, that does sound wonderful . . . I’d love to come! Ruth’s dinner party will have come and gone by then, so I’ll be able to do what I want with my time again.” She made a face. “She wants to go shopping with me and Wanda tomorrow to buy me a ball gown! It’ll take all day, I’m sure. You see that I never get a moment to relax!”

  Franco laughed. “How can a beautiful woman like you be so utterly indifferent to how she looks? I’d tell your sister to buy you ten ball gowns! But each of them has to be fit for a queen.” His eyes shone with pride and love as he reached out and stroked her hair. “This hair of yours is like finest Genoese silk. Please promise me you’ll never have it cut the way your niece has. It would be a mortal sin!”

  Marie felt herself blushing again. She still hadn’t gotten used to all his compliments. She sighed.

  “I really don’t like it when Ruth makes such a fuss over me. If only you could be at the party with me. Can’t you move this business meeting of yours to some other day?”

  His face clouded over.

  “You know how much I want to. But the Malinka puts in on Saturday evening, and I have to be there when it unloads. There’s no way around it. Last time there was an incident that . . . my father . . .” He bit his lip. “There are some things it’s not so easy to explain. Not to mention that—”

  Marie took his hand. “You don’t need to say any more. Work comes first, I understand of course. But then we’ll have Sunday all to ourselves, won’t we?” she said, struggling to keep her voice light. She didn’t want him to feel guilty about having to spend time away from her. She had already changed their plans a few times to go to a reading or a show at a gallery or just to spend the evening with her friends.

  When the waiter came back to the table and Franco paid the check, Marie felt a rush of relief. She couldn’t explain why exactly, but the conversation had taken some wrong turns. First his complaints that she was spending too much time with her artist friends, and then her indiscreet questions about his family business . . . It was a bit strange, but despite that she had never felt such depths of passion for anyone else before.

  She felt a rush of panic as she took Franco’s arm and they walked toward the exit to the amusement park. She didn’t want to go back to the city, back to the burning heat of the asphalt jungle. She wanted to be alone with Franco, far away from all the questions. She wanted to be with him—just the two of them and the passion they shared.

  12

  Despite all her misgivings about the grand party being thrown in her honor, Marie was having a wonderful time: Ruth’s guests were all quite nice, if rather formal and distant with her; the music was lovely; and the ballroom that Ruth had rented on the top floor of the apartment building was magnificent.

  Even getting ready for the evening had been enjoyable; Ruth had hired a French hair
dresser for the occasion. He arrived at nine in the morning with his two assistants and spent hours showing Ruth, Wanda, and Marie how they looked with the latest French hairstyles. While Jacques and his assistants spent hours curling, combing, braiding, and piling up their hair, the ladies leafed through a stack of French fashion magazines. Even Marie was enchanted by French fashion, which looked to her a great deal simpler and more practical than the outfits in New York’s department stores, which were all ruffles and billows. When Ruth happened to mention that there was a French couturier nearby, Marie resolved to visit it as soon as time allowed—she already knew that Franco liked to see her wearing the latest fashions.

  Franco . . . perhaps she had bored Ruth and Wanda a little, she reflected, mentioning his name so much.

  “Franco says that . . .”

  “Franco thinks . . .”

  “Only yesterday, Franco was telling me . . .”

  In the end she felt quite silly—she couldn’t speak two sentences in a row without mentioning his name! But Ruth and Wanda had been wonderfully patient with her.

  The hairdresser was just finishing up when a parcel arrived for Marie, a little box wrapped in dark-blue silk. She shivered with delight when she saw Franco’s name on it. The other two exclaimed as she unwrapped it and took out a diamond tiara.

  She read out the message on the card that accompanied the gift. “For the princess of this evening’s ball—in deepest admiration, Franco.” Ruth insisted that Jacques start all over again with Marie’s hair to show off Franco’s present to best advantage.

  That evening, while a waiter refilled her glass with champagne, Marie put her hand to her head and stroked her hair unobtrusively. She had never expected to wear a tiara in her life . . .

  “No need to worry, you’re wearing so many hairpins it won’t slip out of place,” Ruth whispered, noticing her gesture. She squeezed Marie’s arm. “If only they could see you now in Lauscha!”

  A shadow flitted across Marie’s face. Did Ruth really have to remind her of home, tonight of all nights? She changed the subject hastily. “Your friends are all so pleasant and so . . . interested! I would love to know what you told them about me.”

  “Only that you’re a famous artist, and that you work in glass,” Ruth said, waving at someone across the room. “The Americans are always interested in anything to do with Europe.”

  “I’ve noticed that,” Marie said. “The people I meet down in the Village all seem to think I must know Franz Marc personally. And this evening your friends have asked me about the palace of Versailles and the Botanical Garden in Munich! I may come from Europe, but I’m not an expert on the whole continent!” she said, laughing. “Do they think that Europe’s tiny?”

  Ruth raised her eyebrows in reproach. Then she sighed. “What a shame your Franco can’t be here,” she said. “His present certainly shows that he’s very generous. He must be a fine man.”

  Marie smiled to herself. That was so typical of Ruth! All at once she wanted to hug her sister.

  “Thank you again for such a wonderful party! The flowers everywhere, all the fine food, the music—it’s as though you’d spirited us away to a fairy-tale castle!” Marie waved her hand around in a gesture that encompassed the whole beautifully decorated ballroom.

  “Were you really expecting us to host the event in our apartment?” Ruth giggled happily.

  Marie shrugged. “How many parties like this do you think I’ve ever been to? I can’t be expected to know how they—” She stopped as Wanda leaned across the table to speak to them both.

  “The conductor’s just given me the signal. If you agree, we can have Pandora’s show now.” She tugged excitedly at the ringlets Jacques had put into her hair.

  Ruth opened the cover on her jeweled wristwatch. “Ten o’clock—well, she’s right on time at least,” she said, pleased. “I hired a soprano for Steven’s last birthday, and he turned up ten minutes late, can you imagine?”

  Marie made a suitably shocked noise, winking slyly at Wanda as she did so.

  Pandora had suggested dancing to Smetana’s Vltava, justifying her choice by calling it “an homage to Marie’s European roots.” Ruth had agreed; it was just the sort of romantic, tuneful piece her guests would enjoy. Wanda had breathed a sigh of relief at that. Given that Pandora was deeply committed to expression and feeling in her art, and Ruth was more concerned with the dos and don’ts of high society, she hadn’t expected them to agree on a program so quickly. But now she even thought she detected something like a mutual respect between them. Granted, her mother hadn’t actually gone so far as to seat Pandora at one of the tables in the ballroom, but she had made sure that the dancer was served every course in one of the side rooms. And Pandora seemed truly grateful for the chance to put her finances back on track after the debacle with her landlord, thanks to the very generous fee that Ruth had offered her. For once she hadn’t launched into her usual tirade about the conservative tastes of New York’s upper crust.

  “Mother’s very pleased to have you here,” Wanda whispered to her friend. “She thinks that your performance will give the evening a certain Bohemian touch.”

  As the music struck up, Wanda congratulated herself on killing two birds with one stone; she had done her bit to make Marie’s party a night to remember, and she had helped her dance teacher out of a hole.

  Pandora came into the room wearing a shimmering silver gown. Or rather: she was just there, all of a sudden, so quiet on her bare feet that nobody had heard her come in. The guests had been told that there was to be a dance recital and greeted her with polite applause but without great interest. They were well fed from the eight-course banquet, and they had had their fill of art as well. Hardly a week went by when there wasn’t some performance or recital or soiree.

  Pandora bowed in front of Ruth’s table. Then she removed two hairpins with a theatrical gesture, shook her hair free, smiled beatifically, and began to dance.

  “Doesn’t she look beautiful?” Wanda whispered to Marie with something approaching maternal pride. “Like a bird of paradise!”

  “She does indeed, but I don’t think she’s wearing a corset underneath that gown. Or even a slip,” Marie replied, grinning. “Does she think that’s how we do it in Europe?”

  Now Wanda noticed as well; every time the glittering gown swung open she could see Pandora’s legs, all the way to her thighs. This would mean trouble. And there was worse to come: Was she imagining things, or had she seen a nipple?

  Wanda glanced over to where her mother sat, but Ruth’s expression revealed nothing. Either she didn’t find Pandora’s outfit so scandalous after all, or she was making an effort not to show her dismay.

  The strains of the orchestra wafted through the room and Pandora swayed gently in time with the music. Wanda watched the other guests for their reaction. All eyes were on the dance floor now, the conversation had subsided, and cigars smoldered unattended in the ashtrays. Even Harold, who just a moment before had been absorbed in discussing financial matters with Steven, was staring dead ahead.

  Wanda relaxed a little. Everything was fine. She didn’t want any scandal or uproar. Not today.

  Pandora danced as though in a trance. Soon the instruments could no longer keep up with her wild movements as she swung her legs ecstatically and her breasts bounced beneath the gown. The music sounded tame by comparison. But then, who was listening to the music by now?

  Harold let out a short but shrill whistle. Wanda was horrified to hear some of the other men do the same.

  “Is this really supposed to be a musical portrait of a river? It looks more like the Niagara Falls!” He reached for Wanda’s hand and his fingers were hot and sweaty.

  Angry, Wanda snatched her hand away. Whenever Pandora came near her table she tried to signal to her. Slower! Tone it down a little! Dear God in Heaven, help us please!

  She suddenly had the
feeling that she was watching an obscenity, but she wasn’t sure exactly whose behavior was obscene—the dancer’s, or the guests’, who were gazing upon her with such lust in their eyes. Wanda felt a knot in her stomach that pressed up against her lungs. She found it hard to breathe.

  By now Pandora had danced herself into a frenzy. It didn’t seem as if she noticed the audience at all—not the lust on the men’s faces or the expressions of utter shock on the ladies in the front row. And she didn’t seem to see Ruth sitting there, stone-faced.

  Pandora stopped dancing as suddenly as she had started. Then she nodded vaguely toward the audience and left the ballroom without so much as a bow or a curtsy.

  The applause that followed was scattered and distracted, though Marie and Wanda did their best to keep it going. Most of the guests were looking over at Ruth and Steven as if to ask, What do we do now?

  Ruth held out her champagne glass to Steven with a look of serene indifference on her face.

  “Darling, I think that the waiter is neglecting us dreadfully. Would you be so good as to pour me another glass?”

  The whole crowd seemed to exhale at once. They silently agreed to behave as though the dance performance had never even happened. Here and there guests discreetly wiped the sweat from their brows or fanned their cheeks.

  Wanda couldn’t stay in her seat any longer. She ran out of the room after Pandora.