Gloria's Secret (16 page)

“What about Vivien?” I asked.

“Don’t worry about the little minx. I’ll handle her.”

By the time we arrived at the airport, I was feeling much better. Except for better and for worse, I couldn’t get Jaime Zander out of my head.

* * * *

I braced myself for takeoff. The Gloria’s Secret corporate jet was next in line. My stomach bubbled with nerves. I squeezed Kevin’s hand. I was petrified of flying, especially takeoffs and landings. Flying made me feel so out of control. My life was totally in the hands of others. The pilot’s. And God’s. Unfortunately, I spent a good part of my life up in the air, traveling frequently for business meetings around the world. You would think the more I flew, the easier it would get, but it didn’t work that way.

Once the plane was up in the air and cruising smoothly, my pulse rate calmed down, and the butterflies in my stomach disappeared. A glass of chilled Chardonnay, served by one of the flight attendants, further relaxed me. By the time I finished it, I was sleepy and shifted my roomy pink leather chair into a reclining position.

“Wake me, when we land in LA,” I told Kevin who was watching an episode of
Queer as Folk
on his iPad.

“Sure.” He gave me a light peck on my cheek.

I closed my eyes, willing my mind to let go of Jaime Zander. The ache in my heart, however, lingered until sleep took over.

Six hours later, an announcement from our captain awakened me with a startle. It was time to return our chairs to an upright position as we were beginning our descent into Los Angeles. Kevin had dozed off too. We simultaneously lifted our chairs.

“Home sweet home,” sighed Kevin, who loved sunny Los Angeles as much as I did. It was almost midnight on the West Coast. I gazed out the window at the myriad of twinkling lights below and smiled. Neither of us had known when we’d fled to the City of Angels how much we would fall in love with the sun-kissed weather, the Pacific Ocean, the Spanish architecture, and the colorful, multi-ethnic neighborhoods.

As the plane swooped down, my fear of flying once again took hold of me. My stomach fluttered and my chest tightened. Gripping my hand, Kevin comforted me. “Hold on, Glorious. We’re almost there.”

I breathed a deep sigh of relief as the plane touched down on the tarmac. Home! We were safely home. I immediately turned my cell phone back on.

There were a dozen phone calls waiting for me from a private number. When I saw the equal number of texts, I knew who they were from. Jaime.

I read the first text.

Call me as soon as u land.

And then the second

I can explain.

I didn’t need to read the rest. Nor did I have to play his messages. The last thing I wanted was to hear his voice. My body tensed. Pain propelled my rapid heartbeat.

As we pulled into the terminal, the phone rang again. Again a private number. I ignored it. The phone rang again.

“It’s him.” I clenched my teeth and looked at Kevin beseechingly. “Kev, will you answer it?”

Kevin clutched the phone and put it to his diamond-studded ear. A somber expression washed over his face. “Hold on, please.” His long-lashed eyes took in mine. “Glorious, you need to take this call.” He handed me the phone.

The phone shook in my trembling hand. I could feel my blood drain from me as I listened to a familiar voice on the other side.

It was Nurse Perez from the Cadbury House for Assisted Living. Madame Paulette was dead. She had died peacefully in her sleep.

My body froze over. I could only feel the scorching tears that poured down my face.

“It’s Madame Paulette,” I spluttered.

I needed to say no more. Kevin took me into his arms and let me cry on his shoulder. He knew what Madame had meant to me.

“Oh, Glorious, I’m so, so sorry,” he soothed as I heaved against him.

* * * *

The plane refueled. Without ever leaving the cabin, we did an about face, heading back to New York. Collecting myself, I told Kevin about Madame Paulette’s wish to be buried next to her late husband in Paris.

“Glorious, I’ll arrange for her body to be properly flown to Paris. I’m pretty sure Sandrine, our Paris store manager, is Jewish. I’ll contact her to see if she can help with the funeral arrangements.”

Thank goodness for my beloved Kevin. Indeed, Sandrine, a good friend, was Jewish. My mind was in a thick fog. What would I do without Kev?

“Do you want me to come to Paris with you?” he asked.

A ghost of a smile flickered on my face; Kevin was always there for me. But this time, I needed to be alone. As soon as he debarked the plane in New York, I was flying solo to Paris.

Chapter 12

I arrived in Paris on Saturday a little after eight p.m. I was exhausted, totally jetlagged. Though we fortunately didn’t encounter any turbulence during the seven-hour flight from New York, the turbulent memories of the last twenty-four hours rocked my body and mind, making sleep impossible.

As soon as we touched down at Le Bourget airport, I got a text from Kevin. Madame Paulette’s body was being flown to Paris, and Sandrine had managed to set up a Jewish burial service the next day, Sunday, at the cemetery where her husband Henri was buried. The driver Kevin had arranged for met me on the tarmac and whisked me off in his limo to The Intercontinental Hotel where I was staying. Like Madame Paulette, I loved Paris. As the Eiffel Tower came into view, a pang of sadness stabbed at my heart. This time, my love affair with the City of Light might end.

Bleary eyed, I checked into the hotel with just a couple of bags as I planned to head back to Los Angeles on Monday after Madame Paulette’s funeral.

Having stayed at The Intercontinental numerous times, I was treated with the utmost respect, the staff working quickly to get me into my suite. All I wanted to do was snuggle under fluffy covers and sleep. I couldn’t even see straight. As I followed the valet through the bustling opulent lobby to the elevator, a stocky man wearing a long black trench coat and wide brimmed hat that hid his face brushed by me, almost knocking me over.

“Izvinite,”
he muttered gruffly without slowing down.

It was Russian for “excuse me.” A chill ran through me at the thought of Boris Borofsky. I pivoted my head, but the rude man, whose back was now to me, was almost at the front entrance. I took a calming breath. I was tired. It couldn’t be him. My mind was just playing tricks on me.

Five minutes later, I was in my beautiful suite, with its plush four-poster canopy bed and regal French furnishings. I quickly shed my clothing, my lingerie the last to go. I could still smell Jaime Zander on me. The memory of him ravaging me on his conference room table replayed in my head. And then the sight of him kissing Vivien kicked that memory out of the ballpark. A mixture of rage and self-loathing coursed through my veins. I shoved all of my undergarments into the waste can by the sink, and then hopped into the shower to wash away the memory of this deceitful man. No matter how hard I scrubbed, his face lingered in my mind.

I towel dried myself and readied myself for bed, slipping into Gloria’s Secret iconic pink and white striped cotton PJ’s—made for sweet dreams
. Enfin!
I crawled into the luxurious duvet-covered bed and turned off the light. Unconsciously, I rubbed my fingers over my scar as tears leaked from my eyes. The words of my beloved Madame Paulette swirled around in my head.
It eez better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.
In my heart, I mourned the loss of my cherished mentor and scorned the loss of Jaime Zander. My heavy, teary eyes couldn’t fight gravity. At last, sleep triumphed over sorrow, but sweet dreams were not to be had.

* * * *

My wake-up call sounded at six forty-five the next morning. As in any hotel I stayed at, a subsequent knock at my door, signaling the arrival of my coffee, forced me out of bed. I was groggy, a victim of a restless toss and turn sleep and jetlag. After unlocking the door, a jovial mustached waiter set a tray with a pot of steaming coffee along with a pitcher of steamed milk on a small table. It was a welcome blessing.

After draining the strong café au lait, my mind re-activated. I wasn’t looking forward to the sad day ahead. A long, hot shower followed. Under the pounding water, I plotted what I was going to wear to Madame’s burial. I wanted to look elegant and dignified; I owed her that.

Rifling through my neatly packed Louis Vuitton garment bag, I came upon the perfect black dress—an almost knee-length Dior with a scooped neckline and three-quarter length sleeves. It was one of my favorites and was glad that I’d packed it. From my other suitcase, a piece of matching luggage, I pulled out my one-piece black lace merrywidow, designed with an underwire and adjustable garters, and the matching v-string panty. After donning the undergarments, I ferreted through the pocket of the suitcase for a pair of black silk seamed stockings. The ones I settled on were my lucky stockings—I took them everywhere I flew, believing their magical powers could protect me from danger, especially a fatal accident. They came from Paris. Madame Paulette had bestowed them upon me on my eighteenth birthday—the first of many pairs she would send me in the years afterward. As I carefully rolled them up my legs, I heard her deep raspy voice. “Love
eez
like a fine pair of silk stockings,
ma chérie.
One snag and it can all unravel.”

The image of Jaime Zander crept back into my mind. Grabbing my purse and an overcoat, I slumped out of the room, tears threatening to fall.

* * * *

The cemetery where Madame Paulette was being buried was located on the outskirts of Paris. Tombstones with both crosses and Stars of David dotted the verdant pasture; many dated back to the nineteenth century. A kindly-looking rabbi, with a graying beard and skullcap, met me at the gravesite and introduced himself. Rabbi Rosenberg. As he took both of my gloved hands in his, my eyes darted to the tombstone of Henri Lévy. My French was good enough to understand the epitaph beneath the etched Jewish star: “Noble hero and devoted husband of Paulette Lévy.” Soon his beloved would be by his side again. A chill in the air shot through me.

“She was a special woman, beautiful both inside and out,” the rabbi told me. He spoke perfect English. “I knew her well.”

I was surprised the rabbi knew her and asked how. It turned out that Madame Paulette attended Shabbat services at his synagogue on Friday nights on her buying trips to Paris.

“She spoke highly about you. You were like a daughter to her.”

“Merci,”
I said in French, tears welling in my eyes. From the corner of one of them, I saw a dozen or so men transporting her casket toward us. My breath caught in my throat.

“A
minyan
from our congregation,” said the rabbi, knowing I wasn’t Jewish. “They will help us bury her in her final resting place.”

The men laid the casket on the grass beside the tombstone of Henri. It was made of pinewood and in the center was a carved Jewish star. It was pure understated elegance —just like her.

One of the men, who was carrying a shovel, began to dig into the earth. They took turns shoveling until a hole that was big and deep enough was made. Using a pulley system, they worked together to lower the casket into it. Then, as the rabbi prayed in Hebrew, each took a turn with the shovel, refilling the hole. I fought back tears as I watched the casket disappear from sight and the large hole fill in. Warm memories of our years together floated in my head along with our final day together. A member of the
minyan
offered me the shovel to cover her with the last mound of dirt. As I scooped up the soil and hurled it onto the grave, the dam holding back my tears burst. The rabbi’s melodic Hebrew saturated my mind and soul. I recognized the prayer—The Kiddush. Madame would recite it once a year on the eve of Yom Kippur over the memorial candle that burnt for Henri through the night. The final words,
Oh say, Shalom
,
Amen,
echoed in my ears. Peace. Rivulets streamed down my face. Madame Paulette was gone…now, in her final resting place…reunited with the man she loved.

I squatted down and retrieved the bouquet of flowers I had brought along—long stemmed white roses—Madame’s favorite blooms. I gently laid several on her grave and the remainder against the tombstone of her husband.
Au revoir
,
Madame
. May you rest in peace and with your true love.

* * * *

I returned to the hotel, drained and exhausted. It was mid-afternoon.

Before heading up to my room for a much needed nap, I made a stop at the bar. Perhaps, a drink would quell the sorrow that filled my soul. Unable to find an empty table, I settled in at the crowded bar. An international mix of beautiful people, on the make, surrounded me.

Usually just a wine drinker, I ordered something stronger from the young, twinkly-eyed bartender. A vodka martini with extra olives. The very drink I’d ordered with Jaime at the Gloria’s Secret after-party. The drink arrived quickly. The cold velvety liquid washed down my throat and was soothing. Just what I needed. The images of Madame Paulette and Jaime Zander faded in my head. I amused myself by observing the eclectic mix of movers and shakers.

Half way through my martini, I felt a warm breath on the nape of my neck. A familiar voice sent a chill spiraling down my spine.

“Why, Gloria. How uncanny! We meet again.”

I spun around, almost knocking over the remains of my drink. Victor!

He was wearing one of his custom-tailored three-piece slate gray suits. In his hand was a tumbler filled with his favorite drink. Bourbon. I knew because I recognized the smell, emanating from both the glass and his breath.

He leaned in close to me. “So, Gloria, what brings you to Paris?”

“Personal business.” He had no need to know. “What about you?”

“Business. Pure business. I’m meeting here with someone whose global organization could be a potential strategic partner. If the meeting is successful, I’ll invite him to LA to meet you.”

Dealmaker Victor was always looking for ways to expand Gloria’s Secret. While GS was not the only retailer in Victor’s vast empire, it was his most profitable. The more money Gloria’s Secret made, the more money Victor made.