Perfect (12 page)

T  W  E  N  T  Y  -  F  O  U  R

Years ago, I learned that “casual” in a circle such as this means a low-key cocktail dress will do. So after a nap to recover my wits from the Kahlua café and Lucy Richardson’s scrutiny, and a long delicious soak in the tub, I got put together in an silvery blue silk evening suit. I added a striking brooch of icy, light blue, thin-cut, square and emerald-cut diamonds piled on top of each other at angles to look like slabs of polar ice. A pavé diamond polar bear with onyx eyes and an emerald fish in his mouth stood atop the jumble. I put blue-and-white diamond-encrusted combs in my hair.

“Schloss Richardson,” I told the doorman once he had settled me in the sleigh and covered me with heated robes. He relayed the destination to the driver who did an almost imperceptible flick of his hands and we slid away into the starry night. Within a minute or two we were out of the town center and in the open valley, sailing down the snow-packed road in the opposite direction from the heliport. Constellations galore packed the black sky and silvery moonlight gleamed on the pure white snow, making it look as though it were glazed. Shortly we slowed and turned right, and started up a hill. The Richardson residence was marked by a mass of white lights wrapped candy-cane style around an arched gateway—their chalet was an orgy of gingerbread and lit up like the Tour Eiffel.

A gigantic cowbell, at least two feet tall, with a leather strip attached to the dinger hung next to the front door. I pulled on the strip and the bonging was so loud, it made me jump.

Lucy Richardson opened the door. “Princess Margaret.” She smiled and opened her arms. “We’re so happy you could make it. Come in, let me introduce you around.” She was wearing a dirndl. Well, not a full dirndl, if that’s what one would call it. For instance, she didn’t have on a peaked lace bonnet, but she did have on the long skirt with a blue apron covered with tiny yellow-and-white flowers, white lace-trimmed blouse tied at her neck, red hooked vest that was cut suggestively (and I felt a little inappropriately for a woman her age) around her bosom, white stockings with red hearts embroidered down the sides, and red shoes. She looked like a doll.

“You look wonderful,” I lied. In my opinion, she looked like an idiot.

“Isn’t it fun?” She twirled. “I like to go native wherever we are. Look at that pin, where on earth did you get it? Is that a Raymond Yard piece?”

I nodded. “It is—you have a good eye.”

“That’s an understatement.” She grinned. “Jewelry is my greatest passion. Besides my husband, of course.” Then she put her arm through mine and guided me down the entry hall toward the living room.

I felt a warning hidden in her benevolent marshaling of me. Her behavior was like that of a guard dog around his master that imposes himself physically on the guest, positions himself between the guest and the master. Not in a threatening way, in fact most often it’s in an overly friendly way, but the point is to create a barrier.

“I’m so glad you could come tonight. This is the first time we’ve entertained since we finished redoing the house, top to bottom. I don’t think Al’s late wife, God rest her soul, had done a thing to the place since they built it twenty years ago. It was all in complete tatters. And cold as could be, just like a big old hotel. I told Al, this is Switzerland, honey. We need to look Swiss. I’m dying to hear what you think.”

We’d reached the end of the hall which was hung with stuffed heads of deer, reindeer, moose, and elk—none of them indigenous to Switzerland as far as I knew—and entered what, in a word, could only be described as a cuckoo clock. It was the Swissest thing I’d ever seen in my life.

There were little red heart-shaped pine chairs with heart-shaped peekaboos cut in them, a collection of large and small cuckoo clocks on one pine paneled wall, and a collection of large and small cowbells on another. An ancient pair of very long skis crossed over each other in the shape of an X above the fireplace. The sofas and armchairs were all light pine and covered with forest green fabric bordered with red-and-white cookie-cutter stencils of men and women and cows. Every surface had throw pillows made in red-and-white and green-and-white pin-checked fabrics with ruffled edges. The lamps were made of antlers and milk cans, and rag rugs covered the plank floors. It was awful.

“Al, precious,” Lucy called across to the fireplace where he was visiting with two other couples. “Look who’s here. Princess Margaret of Romania.”

“Margaret,” I said to Lucy. “Please call me Margaret.”

Al Richardson was older, but I’m not sure by how much. He was quite tall, trim, looked to be in tip-top condition, and had had some skillful work done on his face. He wasn’t dressed in lederhosen, as I’d expected, but in soft cashmere slacks, a yellow turtleneck sweater, and a brown tweed cashmere sport coat. He was tanned and angular and came across as a man comfortable with his own power and influence.

“Very pleased to meet you,” he said, and took my hand. “What may I offer you to drink? We have everything.”

“Scotch on the rocks with a twist, please.”

He relayed my drink order to a waiter who’d been standing by.

“Tell me,” Al said, “what do you think of my precious’s Swiss Miss hideaway?” He put his arm around Lucy’s shoulder and kissed the top of her head. “Isn’t she amazing?”

I nodded. “Truly amazing. I think you’ve out-Swissed the Swiss.”

Lucy smiled. “I had so much fun doing it and my Al’s such a good sport. He’s just let me turn his world upside down and hasn’t peeped.”

I studied Lucy. She looked in her husband’s eyes the whole time she spoke. She was completely focused on him—everyone else in the room could evaporate and she wouldn’t mind. She was territorial and complicated. As the cocktail hour went along, I had the opportunity to watch her and she never took her eyes off him for more than a second or two. She was always watching to see if he needed anything or wanted anything, and not in a subservient way but with an awareness of wanting to make sure he had everything his heart desired, except for a conversation of more than two seconds with another woman. When that occurred, she would home in like an ICBM and break it up.

There are some women who are completely irresistible to men and Lucy was one of them. She needed them. She was helpless without them and she was so appreciative of any kindness, they would do virtually anything for her. She was the kind of woman who never raised her voice much above a whisper, and when Al looked at her, you could almost see him melt. He thought he was the luckiest man in the world.

I thought she was dangerous.

The dining room was as would be expected, with a collection of painted plates on one wall and a collection of copper pots on the other. A long pine refectory table with cute little Swiss chairs on one side and a long wooden bench on the other. Checked and ruffled seat cushions were tied on with ribbons and bows.

We’d just been seated when Lucy looked at me. “I know where I know you from,” she blurted out. “It’s been driving me crazy all afternoon.”

My heart stopped. “Where?”

“Didn’t we spend a couple of days together in Sardinia on the Batten’s yacht?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Of course we did. Don’t you remember when we all went skinny-dipping? It was a riot.”

“Ignore her,” Al said lightly. “She thinks she’s met everyone at least once.”

I laughed. “Well, I would definitely remember going skinny-dipping. You have me confused with someone else.”

“Do you know Ann and Fred Batten?”

I shook my head. “Sorry.”

“Hells bells,” Lucy said. “I swear I’m going to figure it out.”

“Lucy,” Al said. “Let’s move on.”

I needed to get away from Lucy Richardson. Fast.

T  W  E  N  T  Y  -  F  I  V  E

The next morning, my day began with an authoritative knock at the door followed by the entrance of a Teutonic nurse who carried a stainless-steel tray covered with a white cloth. She was there to draw blood and so forth preparatory to my physical and visit to the spa in the afternoon. The Swiss take physicals very seriously.

“You have not had breakfast, have you?” she accused, as though she were going to hit me. She had a heavy German accent.

I shook my head.

“Three glasses of water only?”

I nodded.

“Good. Let me see.”

I pushed up the sleeve of my robe and offered my arm.

“Excellent. Good strong veins. Well hydrated.” She tied the tourniquet around my upper arm. “Make a fist.”

I did.

“You will feel a little poke and then I will draw five vials. It will take only a second. Be still.”

Only a masochist would refuse. I squeezed my eyes closed and heard the full vials clatter onto the steel tray one at a time. I also heard my butler, Klaus, arrive and begin to clatter about the kitchen.

Blood drawn, she handed me a small cup and gave more specific instructions than were required. Thankfully, less than five minutes after she arrived, she laid the white cloth back across her tray and left, stepping aside with haughty, tight-lipped impatience, and palpable contempt, to make way for Klaus, who was carrying a tray of his own. He swept past her as though she weren’t there. Their mutual dislike of each other was so intense, it could only mean he had rejected her amorous advances sometime in the past. And knowing her as I did, which granted wasn’t much, I further supposed Nurse Hell would pursue romance as aggressively and relentlessly as she pursued veins. She offered up a small, miffed snort before departing and closing the door behind her with a decisive and final click, off on her bitter rounds to torture and intimidate some other unsuspecting guest.

Klaus had set the breakfast table with wonderful china—white with silhouettes of primitive, forest green cows, birds (cuckoos no doubt), and hearts. He shook his head. “She is dreadful.”

“Her bedside manner could use a little work.”

“She didn’t hurt you, did she?” He was immediately on the offensive and I got the impression he’d grab any opportunity to tattle and try to get her fired at best, or get a letter put in her file at the least.

“No. Actually, I have to admit she did an excellent job.”

“Good,” he said vehemently, although I could tell he was disappointed. “That’s why she keeps her position. She’s very good at what she does. Here, Your Highness.” He pulled out a chair, “you sit down and look at the piste—what a beautiful sunny day it is—and let me pour you a cup of chocolate. It will calm you down.”

I was already calm but loved Klaus’s protective concern and attention. He filled the large breakfast cup with chocolate that was so thick it looked as though he were pouring cake batter, and then he added a heaping spoonful of sweetened whipped cream.

“I have brought you the Super Fitness breakfast as you requested and also two morning papers. I can offer others if you wish.” He placed a folded copy of the
International Herald Tribune
in easy reach and on top of it placed a stack of stapled photocopies with the headline Mont-St.-Anges Report.

“This”—he tapped his finger on the report—“is what most members prefer. Mr. Naxos says it’s everything you need to know to figure out what more you need to know!” Klaus rapped out a little laugh. “It’s a compilation of stories from the world’s top newspapers. And finally, before I leave you to your peace, here is your schedule for the day.” He opened a leather folder and pulled out a typed sheet and laid it on top of the report. “Now.” He shook out my napkin and handed it to me. “What more may I do, Your Highness?”

“I can’t think of a thing, thank you.”

“You’re certain the nurse did not hurt you?” I caught the hopefulness in his voice.

“Not even slightly.”

He added a log to the fire and stoked it to a bright flame. “I am at your service.”

I sipped my chocolate and scanned the agenda for my day at the fitness center and spa. It was printed on bright white paper with green trim that matched the china: and so forth with a myriad of rubs, soaks, and beauty treatments described in sumptuous detail.

S
PA DES
A
NGES

Margaret Romaniei

I began my healthy Super Fitness breakfast with a glass of vegetable juice into which I squeezed and dropped a wedge of lemon. Next, a soupy bowl of muesli (this was Switzerland, after all) to which I added fresh blueberries, raspberries, a little dollop of cream, and honey. It was awful but I felt healthier already. I peeked under the linen that covered the pastry basket. It was full with slices of unbuttered multigrain toast and four small cinnamon rolls. I decided to start with a cinnamon roll. The top was sticky with praline and pecans and the thinly rolled dough had been spread with butter, cinnamon, brown sugar, and raisins prior to baking, which made the inside chewy and spicy. The praline stuck to my teeth before dissolving and coating the inside of my mouth with the sweet, buttery taste of caramel. I hadn’t had a cinnamon roll in ages, and I had such a wonderful recipe for them. There was really nothing to them at all if you had the patience to let the dough rise. I’d make them for Thomas as soon as we got back home.

I ate another, starting at one end and unrolling it into my mouth like a paper birthday whistle.

I skipped the healthy toast.

The phone rang, startling me and interrupting my practically illicit affair with my breakfast.

“Hello?”

“Princesse,” a woman said, “I’m sorry to disturb you but it is past nine o’clock. The instructor for your private stretch asked me to call. She is concerned that you won’t have time to warm up properly for your cardio evaluation at ten. Shall I tell her you’re on your way?”

Oh, God. I hadn’t showered or put on my makeup yet. Too late. Besides, I didn’t much care for the sound of that Low-fat/high-protein energy lunch. I have plenty of energy already.

“I’m so glad you called,” I said. “I was just about to call you. Something’s come up and I can’t be there this morning.”

“I understand. I’ll let her know. Shall I hold your doctor’s appointment and spa treatments for this afternoon?”

“Please.”

“Thank you, Princesse. We will see you at one o’clock. Please let me know if you want to make any changes.”

I’d go to the Fitness Center and exercise tomorrow.

Besides, I had some arrangements to attend to before I could really let myself relax and receive the full enjoyment of an afternoon in the spa. After breakfast, I showered and dressed in pink slacks and a pink cashmere turtleneck, pearl earrings, and a short white fur jacket, and walked over to the little square.

I looked like a princess on holiday.