Deceptions (65 page)

'I'd like that. I wish we had more time; I have this crajy feeling I've known you for years, because of Sabrina, but then I want to get to know you better. What the hell am I going to do in the middle of Brazil without you? Come to my wedding! Will you? You've got to come; I won't consider it legitimate unless you're there.'

•When is it?'

'Christmas Eve or Christmas Day, whichever suits the Guaranis. Can you imagine waiting for permission to get married from a bunch of Indians who have to consult the stars or the moon or the shape of ant hills, or some such thing? Do you think I'm crazy?'

'No. I think you're doing what you want to do.'

'You're the only one with sense enough to say that and not ask me if I'm in love. Say you'll come to the wedding.'

'I can't, Alexandra. I have to stay in one place for awhile until I get straightened out.'

Alexandra nodded. 'I thought you'd say that. But you Ul be here, whenever I'm in London?'

'Where would I go?'

'Back to America, to your husband and children.'

The smile faded from Sabrina's face. 'No. I'll be here. And I'll be glad to see you. I hope you come often.'

'As often as I can. If you change your mind, you can just show up at the wedding, you know, without warning.'

Sabrina shook her head. 'I won't change my mind. But I'll

give you my blessing and kiss you. And this time you won't pull back.'

They looked at each other. 'You know, honey, if I walked in here right now, for the life of me I couldn't say whether you were Sabrina or Stephanie.'

'I know,' Sabrina said. 'That's the way it should be.*

Others said the same; invitations poured in from hostesses who declared Stephanie the sensation of the season for taking Sabrina's place with such panache. And then a new story obliterated all others. On December 17, the Times of London featured a front-page article on art thefts and forgeries written by Michel Bernard, with photographs by Jolic Fantome. The article appeared simultaneously in the international edition of the Herald Tribune published in Paris, Die Welt in Germany and The New York Times, Within hours of its appearance, a tempest of whispers and telephone calls swept it through restaurants, clubs, boutiques and every art and antique gallery in London. Sabrina was awakened with the news by a frantic early-morning call from Nicholas, who remembered seeing Westbridge Imports and Rory Carr listed in Ambassadors' ledgers.

'All I ask, dear Stephanie, is are we involved? Blackford's is not. I recall meeting this Carr several times, but I never bought from him. Sabrina did; there were several porcelains listed—'

'Which porcelains, Nicholas?'

He read the descriptions. Dancers, animals, figures, birds. No Meissen stork. Of course not; the record and invoice had been destroyed soon after the stork was broken. Somewhere in the books at Westbridge, Ambassadors would be listed with dozens of other galleries, but Michel and Jolie's stoiy did not mention Ambassadors at all and there was no reason to connect them. No one would even be interested in such a small detail when the story was already splashed in sensational headlines: multi-millionaire Max Stuyvesant, his personal art collection, his smuggling network and dealings with forgers, murder on the Mediterranean and so many dead, among them the beautiful Lady Sabrina Long-worth.

'We are not involved,' Sabrina said. 'The porcelains

Sabrina bou^t from Westbridge were genuine; she told me she checked their provenance.'

*But are you sure?' Nicholas persisted. *I don't like to press you, Stephanie, I know this brings back dreadful memories—'

'Nicholas, I will say it once more. We are not involved. There is no danger. But rumors can be deadly and if I ever hear you question Ambassadors' reputation or integri^, I will not hesitate to dissolve our partnership and purchase your half. That should set your mind at rest.'

'Good heavens, Stephanie, I never meant to imply ... I trusted Sabrina; I admired her. But she was on that yacht; I had to make sure—'

'And now you have. So there is no need for further discussion.'

'None. Of course, none. Will you be in the shop today?'

'Of course.'

She was in her office every day, catching up on the past three months, poring over auction records, preparing for the time when she would begin buying and decorating again. She felt she was wandering in an unmarked land between past and future, building a barrier between her work and life of today and her memories of a sister, a husband, children, a home. She lived one day at a time. To plan ahead was to admit that the door was locked on the past. She knew it was, but, still, it was easier to live in the present.

Olivia Chasson was part of the present and she called, inviting her to dinner. 'Just a small party; I was Sabrina's friend and patron, and I want to get to know you as well as I knew her.'

'I'm sorry, I'm having dinner with a friend—'

'Bring him, my dear. I assume he would be comfortable with us?'

Is he our kind? Sabrina translated silently. 'His name is Dmitri Karras—'

'Oh, international banking. We met at lunch after Sabrina's funeral; we have several friends in common. Do bring him.'

Fourteen people sat down to dinner in Olivia's house near Belgrave Square. They greeted Sabrina eagerly, getting

through their condolences as quickly as possible so they could ask her for inside information on the smuggUng and forgeiy scandal; the second installment had appeared in that morning's paper.

They discussed it with the relish reserved for the downfall of the powerful but also with wariness, since they all were collectors investing in art and antiques and no one knew what revelations lay in future installments.

Over the consomm6, they asked Sabrina about detecting forgeries. She answered briefly, describing types of clay, glazes, paints and designs. She explained how ultraviolet light could sometimes detect false or double glazing but not always, and less rehably with improved glazes. 'Much of it is instinct,' she said. 'If you study details, you begin to get a feel for style and treatment that often makes it possible to distinguish an original from a copy' - she hesitated for a fraction of a minute, and then went smoothly on - 'by examining them. Usually, though, we first check the provenance of an object, looking for clues that help us tell our clients whether a work is an original or a forgery. In my experience, few forgeries go undetected in the long run.'

Her low, clear voice had captured the guests' attention. 'Fascinating', someone said as she listened to the echo of her words. 'But that wasn't Max's line, was it?'

Dmitri put his hand on her arm, but Sabrina did not need him. She raised her chin and looked coolly down the length of the table. 'I do not discuss Max Stuyvesant or any of his activities.'

'Well, really!' said the same voice, but whispers cut across it.

'Don't be so stupid; her sister—'

'Just a few weel^ ago—'

'Really quite idiotic of you to bring it up.'

Olivia's strong voice overrode the whispers. 'Stephanie is my guest, not a hired art expert. We are welcoming her to London.' She turned to Sabrina, on her right. 'My dear, you will answer no more questions. Will you have more wine?'

Sabrina and Dmitri exchanged a smile. 'You have forbidden me to answer you,' she said to Ohvia. Laughter rippled around the table; someone asked about a new game in Monte

Carlo, and Dmitri began to tell Sabrina about the villa he had just bought outside Athens, near the villas of his sisters and their families. She listened in silence, relaxed and grateful for his presence. He reminded her of Garth in his quiet way, ready to help her if she needed it but not forcing himself upon her. Even the light in his eyes ... But no, nothing was the same as the light in Garth's eyes. 'It is quite lovely,' Dmitri said of his villa. 'The air smells of flowers, thyme and oregano. No one gossips and we do not discuss business. There is music, and stories of gods and goddesses and the glories of the past. We pretend the present does not exist. Will you come one day and see it for yourself?'

She smiled. 'Perhaps, one day.'

After coffee and cognac, Olivia invited Sabrina and Dmitri to view her art gallery. 'I want it enlarged and redecorated,' she said. 'With better lighting. And I want you to do it, Stephanie.'

They stood in the doorway, looking down the long, arched room.

'Sabrina was after me for years to modernize it, but I never cared until now. It won't do for my new sculptures.'

'What kind are they?' Dmitri asked.

'Modem. Ten, j&fteen, twenty feet high. Frankly, they look like plumbers' nightmares and carpenters' druiien binges, but I only say that privately. Experts call them art and good investments. Some museum in Boston has already offered to call them the Chasson collection if I leave it to them in my will. What would you do with them?'

'Forget the museum,' Dmitri suggested. 'Build the Olivia Chasson playground. Children can climb on them.'

Olivia laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. 'You finance it; Stephanie will design it.'

'And name it,' Sabrina said, 'Cacher et chasser.'

Dmitri chuckled at the pun on Olivia's last name. 'Hide-and-seek,' he said, as Olivia laughed delightedly. 'Wonderful,' she said.

'Wonderful. I feel I haven't lost Sabrina at all. You can begin remodeling the gallery after the new year, my dear Stephanie.' And she returned to her guests, happily repeating the French words.

Dmitri took Sabrina's hand. 'A callous woman. She does not feel she has lost your sister.'

'But she hasn't,' Sabrina said, moving away as she began to walk the length of the gallery. 'With only a brief interruption, she has before her a woman who looks the same, treats her as an equal and will help redecorate her house. What more could she want?*

'A real person.'

'Really? Most people are satisfied with the surface.'

Dmitri followed her, and they gazed at the Chasson collection of French and German oil paintings. 'I would like to get to know you better, if you would let me. You are a remarkable woman.'

Sabrina turned from a brooding portrait of a long-dead wool merchant and looked into the living warmth of Dmitri's eyts.

'We've had dinner together three times,' he said, 'and we are no closer than when I first saw you.'

'I hope we're friends,'she said quietly.

'Friends. Of course. I want much more than that, you know. But I am in no hurry.'

'How thoughtful,' she murmured diyly. 'Since I am still married.'

'It is not necessary to remind me. You are also still in love with your husband.'

She froze, then turned to walk back the way they had come. 'I think we need not discuss that.'

'Please.' He put his hand on her arm. 'I apologize. There is such a difference between us, in the way we see each other. In a way, you know, I've spent a lifetime thinking about you. One memorable afternoon, and you have been clear in my mind ever since; I never forgot you or your sister.'

They strolled on, and Sabrina relaxed as Dmitri talked about himself, especially about the reporter who had 'adopted' him and his sisters after photographing them at the embassy. 'He had no children, and we became his family. He got my father a new job, sent us to school, helped me get a scholarship to Cambridge, even tried to find me a wife.' He smiled. 'There he failed.'

They neared the end of the gallery. 'I know I stayed in your

past/ Dmitri said. 'But you must understand that you and your sister have been in my dreams since I was a child, weaving through my life, appearing at odd times when I least expected you - sometimes, you will forgive me, at awkward times.'

'You mean when you were with other women. *

'Even then.' He continued talking, but Sabrina was no longer listening. He had described her dream of Garth, and his words brought the dream back: Garth's touch on her hand, his mouth covering hers, his quiet voice, his eyes desiring her, the warmth of their bodies when they lay together after making love. Loneliness swept her; she felt lost. Oh, my love, my dear love, I miss you so, I need you, I can't bear ... and then she clamped down her silent ciy and listened again to Dmitri.

' ... your beauty and courage,' he was saying. 'And your joy in being alive. I suppose I have always loved you because you showed me those things when I was young, and from then on no one else ever showed them to me in the same way. I always hoped I would find you some day and give you a dream to match mine. I never thought I would find you through a tragedy.'

Suddenly she felt smothered by his insistence on bringing back the past. I have to get away, I can't breathe, I can't think ... / want my sister, I want my family. I want Garth.

'Stephanie, what is it? What have I said?'

Breathing quickly, she tried to smile. 'Too much talk of the past when I'm supposed to be building a new life. Shall we go back to the others?'

'But wait, we are friends? If I promise not to talk about the past, we will be friends?'

'Yes. Of course.' Why did everyone push her so? Why did they try to shape her to their own desires? Couldn't they leave her alone to be herself? / would have shaped myself to Garth's desire because he never demanded it. He did not even ask. And never will.

*Of course we are friends,' she said, returning to the party. But she forgot him as Gabrielle's wedding day approached and, to keep from thinking about Garth, she forced herself to

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concentrate on details tnat Mrs TnirkeU could have handled admirably. And when the guests began to arrive, she knew she had succeeded in creating a setting Gabrielle would love, even if she had failed in pushing Garth from her thoughts.

In the drawing room, bouquets of violet orchids and white roses from Olivia's greenhouses glowed softly in the light from white candles in silver candelabra as fifty guests sat on velvet chairs listening to duets played on a harp and piano. 'Exactly the way Sabrina would have done it,' the guests said again and again. 'How wonderfully well you have kept her spirit alive.'

Gabrielle wore ivory peau de sole with a satin cape trinmied in ivory and gold braid. She admired herself in the tall mirror in Sabrina's bedroom. 'It's as close as I can come to white without pretending I'm a virgin. But I feel virginal. Silly, isn't it?'