Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
forevermore
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
About the Author
Also by Danielle Steel
Copyright
Also by Danielle Steel
THE MISTRESS
THE AWARD
RUSHING WATERS
MAGIC
THE APARTMENT
PROPERTY OF A NOBLEWOMAN
BLUE
PRECIOUS GIFTS
UNDERCOVER
COUNTRY
PRODIGAL SON
PEGASUS
A PERFECT LIFE
POWER PLAY
PURE JOY: The Dogs We Love
WINNERS
FIRST SIGHT
UNTIL THE END OF TIME
A GIFT OF HOPE: Helping the Homeless
SINS OF THE MOTHER
FRIENDS FOREVER
BETRAYAL
HOTEL VENDÔME
HAPPY BIRTHDAY
44 CHARLES STREET
LEGACY
FAMILY TIES
BIG GIRL
SOUTHERN LIGHTS
MATTERS OF THE HEART
ONE DAY AT A TIME
A GOOD WOMAN
ROGUE
HONOUR THYSELF
AMAZING GRACE
BUNGALOW 2
SISTERS
H.R.H.
COMING OUT
THE HOUSE
TOXIC BACHELORS
MIRACLE
IMPOSSIBLE
ECHOES
SECOND CHANCE
RANSOM
SAFE HARBOUR
JOHNNY ANGEL
DATING GAME
ANSWERED PRAYERS
SUNSET IN ST. TROPEZ
THE COTTAGE
THE KISS
LEAP OF FAITH
LONE EAGLE
JOURNEY
THE HOUSE ON HOPE STREET
THE WEDDING
IRRESISTIBLE FORCES
GRANNY DAN
BITTERSWEET
MIRROR IMAGE
HIS BRIGHT LIGHT: The Story of my Son, Nick Traina
THE KLONE AND I
THE LONG ROAD HOME
THE GHOST
SPECIAL DELIVERY
THE RANCH
SILENT HONOUR
MALICE
FIVE DAYS IN PARIS
LIGHTNING
WINGS
THE GIFT
ACCIDENT
VANISHED
MIXED BLESSINGS
JEWELS
NO GREATER LOVE
HEARTBEAT
MESSAGE FROM NAM
DADDY
STAR
ZOYA
KALEIDOSCOPE
FINE THINGS
WANDERLUST
SECRETS
FAMILY ALBUM
FULL CIRCLE
CHANGES
THURSTON HOUSE
CROSSINGS
ONCE IN A LIFETIME
A PERFECT STRANGER
REMEMBRANCE
PALOMINO
LOVE: POEMS
THE RING
LOVING
TO LOVE AGAIN
SUMMER’S END
SEASON OF PASSION
THE PROMISE
NOW AND FOREVER
GOLDEN MOMENTS*
GOING HOME
* Published outside the UK under the title PASSION’S PROMISE
TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
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Transworld is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies
whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com
First published in the United States in 2013 by Delacorte Press
an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group
First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Bantam Press
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Corgi edition published 2014
Copyright © Danielle Steel 2013
Danielle Steel has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library.
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781409092285
ISBN 9780593063163
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
To my greatly beloved children,
Beatrix, Trevor, Todd, Samantha,
Victoria, Vanessa, Maxx, and Zara,
may all your loves “at first sight,” and otherwise,
turn out to be the right ones, and last forever.
I wish you joy and happiness forevermore.
With all my heart and love,
Mommy/d.s.
forevermore
first blush,
first light,
first crush,
first sight,
magic moments,
lightning bolts,
rainbow’s end
and somersaults,
summer rains
and cricket’s wings,
thunder rolls
and hearts
that sing,
i looked into
your eyes
and saw
the dreams
i’d heard of,
never known,
your gentle touch,
your eyes
so vast,
and knew that
finally
at last
the wishes
of all my days
had all
come
true,
the day
your heart
touched
mine,
and with a clap
of thunder,
i knew
without a moment’s
doubt,
that i had
fallen
instantly,
totally,
absolutely
infinitely
and forevermore
in love
with you.
The pilot’s voice on the Alitalia flight to Paris from Milan woke Timmie from a brief nap. She was exhausted after a week in New York, then two more in Europe, first in London, then in Milan. It was a pilgrimage she made twice a year in February and October for the ready to wear fashion shows, the famous “prêt-à-porter.” She was the founder, guiding light, principal designer, and CEO of the most important men’s and women’s ready to wear lines in the United States, with subsidiary companies in Europe, which was what brought her to the European ready to wear shows twice a year. She showed her U.S. lines with the other American designers in New York during the first week, and then showed her French subsidiary lines in Paris. And in between, she attended the London and Milan runway shows. And she went to Men’s Fashion Week in Paris as well, for her men’s lines.
Timmie O’Neill had run her business single-handedly for twenty-three years, since she was twenty-five years old, when it all began. At forty-eight, her empire was so vast, it encompassed children’s wear, home furnishings, and decorating accessories, including wallpaper, sheets, towels, and linens. Ten years before, they had added cosmetics, men and women’s skin care products, and half a dozen perfumes, which had stunned them all with their universal appeal and almost instant success in every country where they were sold. Timmie O’Neill was a name that was known worldwide, and associated with style, fashion at a range of price points, and astonishing success.
The world of Timmie O had been a legendary victory for more than two decades, and now its founder and CEO was heading for Paris to oversee the October ready to wear show of its European-based lines. The rest of the American designers wore themselves out during the frenzy of fashion week in New York, without adding the insanity of the European prêt-à-porter. Only Timmie did both, with her boundless energy and success. But even she was exhausted after Milan, and absolutely drained when she thought of doing the show in Paris. The clothes they had shown in New York had been received with even greater than usual kudos from the press.
For her entire career, it seemed, Timmie O’Neill had had a Midas touch, and could do no wrong in the eyes of the fashion world. Even during the occasional seasons when she had been less pleased with their lines herself, or the critics had been slightly less in love with them, they had done staggeringly well nonetheless. Everything Timmie did, she did well. She threw herself into all she undertook with perfectionism and inimitable style and grace. She was relentless in how hard she pushed herself, far more than anyone else, and what she expected of herself. She had an uncanny knack for predicting what the world would want to wear, live with, and smell like, long before they thought about it themselves. Along with their clothing lines, their perfumes were among the biggest sellers in the world. She had chosen the scents and designed the packaging herself. There was very little that Timmie O’Neill didn’t do well, brilliantly, in fact, except maybe cook. And dress, she liked to say. As sensitive and forward thinking as her designs were, she insisted that most of the time she didn’t care what she wore herself. She had little time to give it much thought, although the clothes she designed had made her famous, particularly her signature sportswear, which managed to be simultaneously casual, easy to wear, and chic. There was a simple, clean elegance to everything she designed, and without even trying, or thinking about it, she herself was the epitome of casual chic.
On the flight from Milan, she was wearing jeans, a T-shirt, both of her own label, a vintage mink jacket she had found years before in the backstreets of Milan, and black ballerina flats she had designed the year before. She carried a large black alligator Hermès bag that had been the precursor of the Birkin, and was even more striking because of its size, and had real style because it looked well worn, after years of use on trips such as this.
The pilot announced their descent toward Charles de Gaulle Airport in Roissy, just outside Paris, as Timmie stretched her legs out in front of her in one of the plane’s eight first-class seats. She had slept for most of the brief flight and through the meal. She was wiped out after the pressure, work, and revels of Milan. She had visited the factories that produced knits, bed and table linens, and shoes for them. The European ready to wear shows particularly entailed endless parties and socializing as well. No one ever slept till the end. There was a priest sitting next to her on the plane, who had said nothing to her during the flight, and was probably one of the few people who wouldn’t recognize her, and wasn’t wearing something she’d designed. They had nodded to each other politely when she took her seat, and ten minutes later, after glancing at The International Herald Tribune to see what they said about the collection she’d seen in Milan, and London the week before that, she was sound asleep. As the landing gear came down, she glanced out the window with a smile, thinking of Paris, and then turned to her two assistants, who were seated across the aisle from her. The priest had been happy to take the window seat, and neither of Timmie’s assistants had disturbed her while she slept. They’d all had a grueling three weeks, first at the shows in New York, then London and Milan. Paris was their last stop, much to their collective relief.
All four shows were important, and the ready to wear shows in Paris were always high-pressure, fast paced, and stressful from beginning to end. Milan was an important mecca of the fashion world, but victory in Paris was what mattered to her most. It always had. Paris was the city she loved best in the world, and the one that had spawned her dreams. Timmie still looked sleepy as she handed some notes to her assistants, David and Jade. David had been with her for six years, and Jade for twelve. They were passionately devoted to her for her kindness, fairness, and all they’d learned from her personally as well as professionally. Everything about Timmie was inspirational, from the genius of her work, to the thoughtful, compassionate way she treated people. David always said she was lit from within, like a beacon that shined through the darkness, pointing out the path for others. And the best of her was that she was entirely unaware of how remarkable she was. Humility was unheard of in the fashion world, but all who knew her agreed that she was amazingly uncomplicated and modest.
She had a completely innate, instinctive sense about how to run her business, who she was designing for, and what they wanted to wear next season. She was quick to sense adjustments that had to be made, and never hesitated to make changes in the lines when necessary. There had been many over the years. She was never afraid to try something new, no matter how high risk. She was fearless in all she did. She lived life in bold strokes and had been a wonderful employer and friend to David and Jade over the years. Timmie was trustworthy, incredibly hardworking to the point of being driven, brilliant, creative, funny, compassionate, somewhat obsessive, a perfectionist in all things, and above all kind. The standard she set for competence, efficiency, creativity, and integrity was high.
David Gold had come to her right after graduating from Parsons as an aspiring designer, and Timmie had rapidly determined that his designs were prosaic and tended to lean more toward past styles that had been reliable and solid, but he had little of the forward vision toward the future that she looked for in design assistants. But she had seen in him something far different and more useful. He had a knack for ingenious marketing ideas, was supremely organized and attentive to details, and had an ability to keep vast numbers of people on track at the same time. She had singled him out of the design team rapidly, and put him to work for her as an assistant. He still came to the shows with her twice a year, but his responsibilities had grown exponentially in his six years with her. At thirty-two, he was a vice president in charge of marketing, and she reviewed all their publicity and ad campaigns with him. Together they had honed their PR image till it gleamed. He was brilliant at what he did.
As always, he had made everything about the New York and European shows easier for her. Timmie had often said that his business card should read “magician” instead of VP in charge of marketing. The creativity he had lacked as a designer he had a hundredfold when it came to ideas about marketing, advertising, and handling people, in ways Timmie insisted she couldn’t have done herself. She was always fair about acknowledging others’ achievements and quick to lavish praise where it was due. She was extremely fond of him, and had nursed him back to health herself during a bout of hepatitis four years before. They had been close friends ever since, and he revered her as his mentor, and said she had taught him everything he’d ever learned about the fashion industry, while Timmie claimed he had long since outstripped her skills. Their team efforts were a huge success to the immeasurable benefit of “Timmie O,” the company as well as the woman.
Jade Chin had been an editorial assistant at Vogue, and had come to Timmie’s attention at a number of shoots at the magazine, which Timmie often attended herself, to make sure that the clothes were photographed and perceived in the right way. Jade had been just as meticulous as she, just as maniacal about details, and never flinched at an eighteen-hour day. Timmie had hired her after she had been at Vogue for five years, crawling her way up the seemingly endless ladder, which would have eventually landed her a title as editor of some section of the magazine, at pathetically meager pay, with a multitude of perks and little recognition. Instead, Timmie had offered her a salary that had seemed huge to her at the time, and a job as her personal assistant. Despite opportunities to move into the corporate structure of Timmie O over the years, Jade had chosen to remain Timmie’s main personal assistant for the past dozen years. She loved her job, and everything it entailed. And she and David were a good team. She and Timmie worked together with exquisite synchronicity, and she had a sixth sense for what Timmie needed, almost before it entered her employer’s mind. Timmie had long since said that having Jade as an assistant was every working woman’s dream. Jade had almost become the wife Timmie would never have. She thought of every last detail, and even carried Timmie’s favorite tea bags in her handbag on every trip. Cups of tea would appear discreetly just when Timmie needed them most, along with lunch, dinner, snacks, exactly the clothes she wanted to change into for an interview, and a detailed accounting of who to call, who had called her, who Jade had successfully fobbed off for her, and a constantly changing sheet of appointments. She kept Timmie moving in the right direction, and always on track, while handling all the minor details for her, and making her life run smoothly at all times.
The three of them made a remarkable team. Jade and David allowed Timmie to dodge all the irritating details of her daily life, and focus on her work. As she put it, they made her look good, and feel better than she would have otherwise. Jade had been to Paris with her some fifty times in twelve years, and David maybe half as many. Paris was Timmie’s favorite city on the planet, and although her U.S. business was based in L.A., she went to Paris every chance she got and traveled all over Europe to keep track of her subsidiary companies there. She had been far braver than most U.S. designers about putting down roots and starting companies in Europe. It had served her well. The trip to Paris never seemed too long to her, and she would go at the slightest provocation, and merest excuse. As she always did after the ready to wear shows in Paris, since they were the last stop in what she referred to as Hell Month, she was planning to stay on for two days alone after the shows to relax. After that, she would join Jade and David in New York, to talk to production people, visit their factory in New Jersey, and meet with their ad agency to discuss a new campaign.
Timmie was one of the few holdouts who refused to move her base of U.S. operations to New York. She preferred living in Los Angeles, and the life she enjoyed there, dividing her time between her beach house in the Colony in Malibu, and her city house in Bel Air. She had no desire whatsoever to live in a penthouse in New York, freezing in winter, and commuting to the Hamptons in the summer. She liked her life just fine the way it was, and insisted it worked for her. It was hard to argue with success. She hopped on a plane whenever necessary, at the drop of a hat, to go to Paris or New York, or Asia in some cases. David had tried to talk her into buying her own jet, and she insisted that she didn’t need one, she was perfectly happy flying on commercial airlines, as she just had to Paris from Milan, and from London before that.
Considering how successful she was, Timmie was surprisingly unspoiled. She never forgot her simple origins, the luck that had started her on her career, or the coffee shop where she’d worked as a waitress, when she worked on her first designs at night, and bought inexpensive and unusual fabrics with her tips. She had been making clothes for seven years, before her first big break at twenty-five, when a buyer from Barney’s noticed some of the clothes Timmie had sold to her co-workers, which were kicky, fun, stylish, and exquisitely made. She bought half a dozen of Timmie’s best designs and took them back to the old Barney’s store on West 17th Street, long before they moved uptown, and they were an instant hit. Her next order was for twenty-five pieces, then fifty. When the buyer ordered a hundred pieces the following year, Timmie quit the coffee shop, rented a crumbling warehouse in the L.A. fashion district, and hired a dozen girls from an unwed mothers’ home to help sew. She had paid them a decent wage, which had been a blessing for them as well as for her. After that, she was on her way. By thirty, she was a nationally known success, and in the eighteen years since, she had skyrocketed into the stratosphere. But she never forgot how and where it all began, or how lucky she had been to be singled out, and blessed with success. Although there had been some tough bumps in her life since, she still felt fortunate in many ways. Most of all in her work.
Timmie looked out the window with a tired smile, as they landed at Charles de Gaulle with a sharp bump, and taxied down the runway toward the terminal, where someone from VIP services would be waiting for her. As usual, she was planning to hit the ground running, but at least she didn’t have jet lag to contend with, since they had been in Europe for two weeks. She had interviews with French journalists in Paris for the next two days, and she was planning to meet with textile reps to choose fabrics for the following year’s winter line. Although it was October, the ready to wear goods they were showing now were for spring and summer. She was already working on the next fall and winter lines. Cruise and resort wear were already in production, and would be shipped within two months. She was always working a year ahead, and had most of the following year’s designs either sketched or taking shape in her head.
“Who am I seeing this afternoon?” Timmie asked, looking vague, as she glanced out at a gloriously sunny October day, which was a relief after five days of consistent rain in Milan. It didn’t look as though the winter doldrums had hit Paris yet, much to her delight, although she loved Paris even in the rain. She always said that somewhere in a past life she must have been French. It was the city of her soul, although she had been twenty-seven the first time she had come, two years after the beginnings of her success. Her first trip had been to buy fabrics for her designs, and it was only after she opened European subsidiaries many years later that she showed her own designs at the Paris prêt-à-porter shows, a rare treat and honor for her.
The first time she saw Paris had been love at first sight for her. She loved everything about it. The weather, the architecture, the people, the museums, the art, the restaurants, the parks, the streets, the churches, the light, the sky. She had been so overwhelmed the first time she rode in a taxi up the Champs-Élysées to the Arc de Triomphe, she had started to cry. It was night, and an enormous flag was fluttering slowly in a summer breeze, lit up in the dark night, and she had never gotten over that feeling of awestruck adoration for the magical city, even now. Her heart always pounded with excitement every time she arrived. She had never gotten blasé about it, or taken its breath-taking beauty for granted. She had always said she wanted to get an apartment there one day, but somehow never had. She stayed in the same suite at the Plaza Athénée every time she came instead, and they pampered her like a deliciously spoiled child. She loved it, and as a result, had never gotten her own place.
“You’re meeting with the fashion writers from The Washington Post and The New York Times, and some journalist from Le Figaro, after lunch,” Jade said briskly, and then smiled as she looked at her. Timmie had a look on her face that she only saw in Paris. No matter how tired she was, or how exhausting the previous cities had been, there was a kind of glow about Timmie in Paris. She had a special kind of romance with the city, and people always teased her about it. “You’ve got that look,” Jade said with a smile, as Timmie nodded, unabashedly happy to be there, whatever her country’s views on the subject at the moment, or however much others liked to bash the French. Timmie always stood up for them staunchly. She loved the French, and everything about Paris. Sometimes she just sat in her room late at night at the Plaza Athénée, after she got home from business dinners, and looked out the window at the dark gray pearly light of the night sky, or a sunrise on a winter morning … spring … summer … whatever time of year, it was Timmie’s favorite city, more than any other in the world. There was nothing else like it and it never failed to make her heart race.
Timmie absentmindedly ran a hand through her thick, long hair, and pulled it back in an elastic. She didn’t bother to look in a mirror, or go to the bathroom to do it, or even brush it. She didn’t care. She rarely thought about her looks. She was beautiful but not vain. She was far more interested in the looks she designed for others. Her lack of narcissism about her own appearance was endearing and refreshing. When she was working and busy, she looked like a long, leggy child who had wandered onto the scene and was pretending to be a grown-up. Her style was commanding, and her talent obvious, but at the same time there was a kind of innocence about her, a lack of awareness about who she was and the power she wielded. Timmie’s real strength was pure raw talent, and incredible drive. She produced more energy than an electrical power plant, and Jade could sense her winding up now.
Timmie had a lot to do in Paris. They had fittings with the models scheduled for seven the next morning. She was driving three hours outside of Paris after that, to look at textiles at the factory, and see if they were willing or able to do some special fabrics she wanted. There would be more interviews after that, to talk about the collections she was showing, for both men and women, and she had just introduced a new perfume in September, which had been a major hit with the youth market. Young women all over the world were clamoring for it. Everything Timmie touched turned to gold, and was blessed with the sweet smell of success. In her business life, things had always been like that. In her personal life, she had been far more challenged. But to look at her, all one saw was a beautiful woman with a mane of thick red curly hair and big green eyes, who was totally unaware of how striking she was.
They stood up, waiting to leave the plane, and David took her alligator bag from her, and groaned as he always did when he held it. “I see you brought your bowling ball with you again,” he teased, and she chuckled. He looked like a young male model, and Jade was as meticulously dressed as Timmie wasn’t. If one had to guess, anyone would have thought that Jade was the designer and Timmie the assistant, although Timmie was capable of looking smashing when she chose to. Most of the time, she wore her own designs, mingled with vintage pieces she had collected over the years, and some fabulous Indian and antique jewelry she bought mostly at Fred Leighton’s in New York, or at an assortment of jewelers in Paris and London. She loved unusual pieces, thought nothing of mixing real with fake, and on her no one ever guessed the costume pieces. She never hesitated to wear a diamond necklace with a T-shirt, or a gigantic vintage Chanel ring, from Coco Chanel or Diana Vreeland’s collections of costume jewelry, with a ballgown. Timmie O’Neill was beautiful, in a strikingly natural way, but more than anything she had style, in a casual, mix-and-match bag-lady sort of way, as she liked to say herself. She was no bag lady, but she liked to think so. In fact, she didn’t like to think of herself at all. She just got up and dressed in the morning, and let things fall into place. It always worked well for her, although Jade frequently said that if she had tried to put herself together as Timmie did, they wouldn’t have let her in the back door of their hotel. But on Timmie, it all worked.
She looked striking and casually stylish as they finally filed off the plane, and David located the VIP woman to help them. He was happy to put Timmie’s immensely heavy alligator bag on a rolling cart. It was full of notes and sketch pads, a book in case she wanted to read, a bottle of her latest perfume, and a ton of what Timmie called “debris” that was always floating around her purse. Keys, lipsticks, lighters, an ashtray she had stolen at Harry’s Bar, or that they had actually given her when she tried to steal it, a new gold pen someone had sent her, and a dozen silver pencils, all of which weighed a ton as she lugged it all around. David always said you could open an office and start a business with what Timmie carried in her purse. It gave her a feeling of security to carry everything she needed with her. She didn’t want to rely on having to find some essential item while she was away on a trip. So she took it all with her, as though she might never go home again.
They followed the VIP woman to baggage claim, where Jade and David would wait for their bags. There was a mountain of them, as Timmie always packed too much, and they had the entire collection with them packed in special trunks. The airline had been warned, and the trunks and boxes containing the ready to wear collection came out first. David had arranged for a truck to get it all to the hotel. He had offered to ride the truck with it, so Timmie could go ahead, but she said she preferred to wait. She wanted to make sure nothing got lost. It would be a disaster if it did. She left Jade talking to David, as they waited for the bags. Timmie walked away, watching people, and lit a cigarette. She had quit for years, but started again eleven years ago, after her divorce.
She stood quietly near a wall, watching people drift by carrying their bags, on their way to customs. As an American, with an entire clothing collection in tow, they had to go through immigration and customs as well. They had documents exempting them from duty and tax, although it was unlikely anyone would open any of their bags or trunks. They had paid five thousand dollars in excess baggage, which was roughly what they always paid, moving the collection from New York to London to Milan to Paris, and then finally back to L.A.
As Timmie smoked her cigarette, she kept thinking how far she had come from her beginnings. Staying at the Plaza Athénée in Paris was second nature to her now, and felt like home, but she had come a long way to get here. She never lost sight of that, and was often grateful for her achievements and blessings, and her serendipitous beginning, all those years ago at the coffee shop. It had been a long, long road from there to Paris, as she stood in her vintage mink jacket, wearing a large diamond bracelet on her wrist, which a few passersby noticed as she smoked. She was so casual about it in spite of its size, that it was hard to guess if it was fake or real. She absentmindedly pulled the elastic out of her hair, and her long curly red hair cascaded past her shoulders. She looked like a young Rita Hayworth in all her glory. Timmie looked nowhere near her age, few people would have guessed that she was forty-eight. At most she looked forty, if that. And in her case, it wasn’t due to any special caution or attention, it was just good genes and blind luck. She hated exercise, had no need to diet, and rarely used beauty products. She splashed cold water on her face, brushed her hair, and brushed her teeth, and that was it.
Her eyes drifted to a young mother, struggling to get her bags off the conveyor belt. The woman had an infant strapped to her, while a two-year-old girl holding a doll clung to her skirts, and a boy who looked about four argued with his mother, and finally burst into tears. Both mother and son looked exasperated and harassed. Timmie noticed that the little girl was beautifully dressed. The boy was wearing short pants and a navy jacket. The mother looked tired as she struggled with the bags, and the little boy continued to cry. He wasn’t having a tantrum, he was just upset. And without thinking about it any further, Timmie reached into the pocket of her jacket where she had a stash of lollipops that she liked to suck on whenever she had to draw. It kept her from smoking, and was a habit she’d always had. She pulled out two of the lollipops, and approached the mother of the crying boy. They were obviously French. Despite Timmie’s passion for all things French, she had never learned the language, except for a few cursory words. She usually got by with gestures and smiles, and the driver she always used in Paris usually helped her out. This time, she was on her own. She managed to catch the mother’s eye, showed her the lollipops, without the children seeing them, and smiled a questioning, shy glance.
“Oui?” she asked. The woman understood her, and hesitated. She looked Timmie over carefully, and was about to say no, as the children turned around to observe her. With her free hand, Timmie gently stroked the boy’s fine, carefully cut Dutch boy hair, which surprisingly was the same color as hers, or the color hers had been at his age. Timmie’s had settled into a burnished copper over the years. His was more carrot-colored, and he had the same pronounced freckles she had had in her youth. The little girl was blond with big blue eyes, as was their mother. The baby had no hair at all, and was observing the scene peacefully with a pacifier in her mouth, which was keeping her quiet. The two-year-old was sucking her thumb, seemingly unaffected by her brother’s tears.
The mother nodded then, having seen Timmie’s unconscious gesture, as she gently stroked the boy’s hair and he stopped crying, and stared up at the stranger. The two women exchanged a smile then, as the young mother thanked her in French, and said “oui,” as Timmie handed both children the lollipops, and then helped the young woman with one of the bags, to get it on the cart. Both children politely said “merci” to Timmie, and then the family went on their way, as Timmie watched.
She had noticed from the tags on their bags that they had come from a French city, and not from the flight from Milan. The little boy turned and waved at her with an impish grin, before they disappeared, and the mother glanced back with a grateful smile, as Timmie waved back. Her eyes followed them until they were gone, and then David and Jade joined her. They hadn’t seen her exchange with the two French children, but it wouldn’t have surprised them. Timmie had a soft spot for kids, and had none of her own. She was always talking to children in supermarkets and airports, or while standing in line in department stores. She had a way with them that defied language and nationality, and bridged the gap between her age and theirs. She was just one of those people who liked children, and they seemed to sense that about her. She had an easy way of talking to them, which was unusual for someone in her position, with a career, and no family of her own. She always said that she was alone in the world. She had often said to Jade that she might adopt one day, but she never had.
Jade had biological clock issues of her own. At thirty-eight, she was worried that she’d never have babies. She had spent ten years as the mistress of a married man, and had finally broken up with him the year before, but had met no one important to her since. Her clock was ticking. And Timmie’s had stopped ticking years ago. She felt too old to have a baby now, but adopting a child still appealed to her, in a distant dreamy way. She knew it was unlikely to be a dream she would indulge, but she still liked thinking she might one day, although she hadn’t mentioned it in a while. David thought she should. He worried that she would be lonely in the years ahead without children. Even Timmie couldn’t work forever. Or could she? She always said she planned to work until she keeled over at a hundred.
Jade thought the idea of Timmie adopting a child was silly, and that Timmie was fine as she was. She was a sophisticated, successful woman, who headed up an enormous conglomerate. She couldn’t even begin to imagine Timmie with a baby. She knew, as Timmie did most of the time, that it was just a dream, and she would never do it. But on quiet, lonely nights, once in a while, Timmie still thought of the dream with an aching heart. Her life was lonelier than she liked to admit, and the prospect of being solitary for the rest of her life depressed her. It wasn’t how she had expected her life to turn out. But over the years, much had changed. She was philosophical about it, enjoyed her life, and tried not to think about how much lonelier her life would be in her old age. Without ever intending to, she had wound up with a career, and no man or kids.
Gilles, Timmie’s Paris driver, was waiting for them just beyond immigration and customs. He was a familiar, welcome sight, and greeted them with a broad smile and a wave. As always, a cigarette was firmly embedded between his lips, as one eye squinted to avoid the ever-present curl of smoke. He had driven Timmie for ten years, and had married and had three children in the years since. His wife was a pastry sous-chef at the Crillon, and between them they made a decent living, while his mother-in-law took care of their kids.
“Bonjour, Madame Timmie! Vous avez fait bon voyage? You made a good trip?” He spoke heavily accented, fairly accurate English, and always enjoyed driving for her. She was reasonable, friendly, and never made outrageous requests of him. She apologized profusely when she kept him out late, which never bothered him anyway. He liked his work, and the people he met. It made him feel important driving clients like her, and impressed the other chauffeurs. She was generous with her tips, and she sent him a suit for Christmas every year. As a result, he was one of the best-dressed drivers at the Plaza Athénée or any other hotel. She had also given him gifts for his wife and kids. He enjoyed her passionate love of Paris and all things French. She was a pleasure to drive and chatted with him easily, as she and Jade slid into the car, and David got into the luggage truck with their bags. It was not a job for a vice president of marketing, but he wanted to keep track of their things, so nothing got lost or went astray along the way.
“How are Solange and the kids?” Timmie asked pleasantly.
“Very good. Very big,” he said, with a broad smile, still squinting in the smoke, as Jade rolled down the window with a disapproving look. Timmie didn’t mind, and lit another cigarette herself. She always smoked more in France, since everyone else did. “We get another baby next year,” he said, looking happy about it. Timmie knew it was their fourth. He had asked her about investment advice more than once. He and his wife made a good living, and they owned their own house outside the city, where Solange’s widowed mother lived with them. Timmie liked knowing about the people who worked for her, and she had always been fond of Gilles. “It’s good with you?” he asked, glancing at her in the rearview mirror, as he darted expertly through the traffic leaving Roissy. She always looked beautiful and sexy to him, despite her age. He didn’t have the age prejudices about women that men did in the States. Forty-eight seemed young to him, particularly looking as good as she did.
“Everything is fine,” she said, looking pleased. “We’re doing the ready to wear shows next week. I might get some time to shop this weekend.” She was hoping that they would finish all their work by Friday, so she could have a day or two to herself, to wander through antiques shops and check the boutiques in Paris. She liked staying on top of local trends, wherever she went, and the competition. But in Paris, she also liked to wander along the Seine, visit the stalls of the bouquinistes who sold old books, and just breathe deeply of the atmosphere of Paris. She liked going to church there too. Gilles always took her to out-of-the-way places she wouldn’t otherwise have discovered, and tiny quaint churches she had never heard of before. She was fun for him to drive around. He loved showing off the city to someone who appreciated it as much as she did.
She had already told Jade and David that, once their preliminary work was done, they could go away for the weekend. They both wanted to go back to London to see friends. They didn’t share her passion for Paris, and David had even said something about Prague. There would be no meetings or interviews over the weekend, and hopefully by then, all the fittings would be complete. The seam-stresses Timmie had sent over would be working on alterations and last-minute adjustments all weekend, but were well able to manage it on their own. She would handle all the last-minute details herself, and with Jade and David on Monday. The runway show was Tuesday, and on Tuesday night Jade and David would head for New York. She was flying to meet them on Friday, after two days off on her own after the show. And if she got time to herself over the weekend as well, it was an added bonus, and an ample reward after three weeks of hard work so far. She didn’t look it, or even admit it readily, but she was tired.
She and Gilles chatted easily on the drive into Paris, while Jade quietly read her notes. She left several messages on their office phone in Los Angeles, for when the office opened, and several more in New York. It was just after noon in Paris, and still too early everywhere else. Timmie’s first interview wasn’t until two-thirty, so she’d have a little time to get organized, and gather her thoughts before they got started. There was traffic on the way in, and they drove onto the Avenue Montaigne just before one. Timmie beamed the moment she saw the Plaza Athénée. It was her home away from home. She loved staying there, the elegance, the people, the exquisite service, and she loved meeting friends for lunch at de Relais.
“You always look happy in Paris,” Gilles commented, as he opened the door for her, and the doorman smiled as he recognized her, and touched his hat.
“Welcome back, Madame O’Neill,” he said, as Jade organized the removal of their hand luggage, and David pulled up behind them with the truck full of their bags and the trunks with the collection.
One of the assistant managers came out to escort her to her suite, as Jade quietly doled out tips, and told Gilles what time to come back. Timmie usually ate late in Paris, and liked going to little bistros, where they made no fuss about her, and she could eat simple French food. As she wandered up the steps, through the revolving door, and into the subdued opulence and elegance of the lobby, there was no denying she was an important person, as members of the staff acknowledged her, and the assistant manager preceded her to her room. Here, their paying attention to her didn’t bother her quite as much as it might have in other places. She hated having a fuss made over her, but at the Plaza Athénée it seemed affectionate and familiar, and she smiled broadly as she walked into the same suite she had occupied for the last fifteen years. It had a living room and a bedroom, with long beautiful French windows hung with elaborate satin curtains. The furniture was worthy of a small French château, with gilt and mirrors, chandeliers in every room, and a bathroom where she loved to soak in the tub for hours. Her favorite chocolates and fruit were sitting on a table, with a huge vase of flowers from the manager of the hotel. She always felt spoiled and pampered just being there, and even though she knew the days ahead would be frantic, she was thrilled to be there for more than a week. Ten days in Paris would restore her, no matter how hard she worked. Even Hell Month was a small price to pay, in Timmie’s eyes, for the sheer, unadulterated joy of being in Paris for a week.
The assistant manager bowed, left her keys on the desk, and disappeared as she took off her mink jacket, tossed it on a large velvet chair, and checked her messages on the desk. There were already ten of them, and four faxes from her office. Jade went through the messages for her, and said that all the textile people had confirmed their appointments, and one of the interviews had been put off for the next day. The days ahead were going to be busy, which wasn’t news to either of them, and as they chatted, a room service waiter appeared with a tray with a pot of tea. The moment she arrived, they knew just what to bring her. It was Earl Grey with her favorite cookies. Impossible to resist.
“You’re looking happy,” David commented as he stuck his head into the room, and Jade showed the bellboy where to put Timmie’s bags in the bedroom. Everything at the Plaza Athénée moved with the precision of a Swiss clock. David smiled at the beatific look on her face. She looked like a kid in her T-shirt and blue jeans, with her mane of red hair all over the place. She sat down happily on a couch in the living room, munching a cookie, and put her ballerina-clad feet on the coffee table.
“It feels so good to be here,” she said, looking relaxed for the first time in weeks. She was beaming.
“Tell me that on Tuesday,” he teased her. He knew that by then, they’d all be tearing their hair out over the collection, endless headaches with the models, technical problems with lighting and sound, and shaky places on the runway, all the usual miseries that plagued them during the shows, but for now, she didn’t care. She was just happy to be there. “You really ought to get a place in Paris, since you love it so much here.”
“I know. But I’m too spoiled at the hotel. This would be hard to beat.” She waved vaguely at the flowers, the tea, the cookies, the huge silver platter of chocolates, and the elegant furnishings in the suite. “I feel like Eloise at the Plaza Athénée.”
“Okay, Eloise, you’ve got an hour to change, if you’re going to,” Jade said matter-of-factly. “You’ve got two interviews back-to-back, a break, and then a meeting. Do you want me to order lunch?” Timmie shook her head. The tea and cookies were perfect, and all she needed for now. She didn’t eat much, and was as thin as their models. Years before she’d had offers to model, which she had never bothered to pursue. She was far more interested, even then, in making clothes for them to wear, than in being one of them. But she still had the look.
“I’m not going to change,” Timmie said quietly, glanced at her watch, and took a sip of tea.
She had a call to make to Los Angeles, to her current off-and-on male companion, although it seemed silly to call him at that hour. It was four in the morning in Los Angeles, and she didn’t want to wake him. Zack had made her promise she’d call him when she arrived, even though it seemed foolish to her. But he said he liked hearing from her and knowing she’d landed safely, which touched her. Most of the time, he wasn’t that interested or that attentive. But he surprised her with kind gestures now and then.
She knew he was still angry at her for not taking him on the trip. Often, like a child, he expected her to spoil and entertain him, and he had pouted for weeks before she left. He didn’t believe her when she told him she’d be working the entire time, and would have no time to play, in spite of the time she hoped to have to herself over the weekend. But it wasn’t worth his coming all the way from Los Angeles, for two free days she might not have anyway, if there was a crisis, or the two days she was planning to take off the following week. There was no point having him around while she worked night and day. She hadn’t had a single day, or even hour, off so far on the trip. She was wondering if calling him from Paris would make things worse, or pacify him a little. It was hard to tell. She thought about calling him later that afternoon, but then he might be annoyed that she hadn’t done what she’d said she would. She could always call him now, give him a quick kiss, and let him go back to sleep. She knew he hadn’t forgiven her yet for leaving him in L.A. for three weeks, while she traveled to New York, and three very appealing cities in Europe.
Before she left, he seemed to feel, despite their somewhat casual relationship, that taking him along to play while she worked was his due. She hadn’t agreed. It had been a bone of contention between them for weeks before she left, and still was. It was the nature of the beast with men like him, who went out with women like her. It was a role reversal she had never liked or believed in, but had found herself participating in, in recent years. Men like Zack seemed to her the only alternate option she had to solitude. It had its drawbacks, which she was realistic about, and at times its perks. Most of the time, he acted like a spoiled child. He was young, irresponsible, and completely self-centered.