Romance Classics (130 page)

The taxi deposited them in front of a small cafe on a narrow side street.

When they had been shown to a table, Kristen looked about her with eager eyes.

“How in the world did you ever find this place?” she asked.

“Very Rue-de-Something-or-Other, isn’t it?” Leon glanced about the place and back at her. “But, after all, when in Rome—silly to come to a French island and not find a few French places. The Riviera would be equally at home in Miami Beach or Las Vegas. This is authentic French—or so Casey and the boys think. They came here last night after a late rehearsal.

The middleaged, very fat waiter was politely interested in their order, and a little hurt because they refused the
“escargots”
in favor of steak.

“I can’t get over it,” he said, when the steaks had been brought and he had blunted the sharp edge of his hunger.

Kristen’s heart sank a little.

“Can’t get over what?” she asked innocently.

“Newman’s sudden change of heart,” Leon answered as she had know that he would. “Last night he seemed shocked about Marisa’s dance lessons; tonight he agrees. But he still hates my insides! Do you suppose—” His voice trailed off and his eyes widened slightly. “Oh, no, he couldn’t be as devious as that. No man could.”

“It would help,” Kristen said quietly, “if I had some vague idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m just wondering if Newman thinks maybe I’m so crude and vulgar that exposing Marisa to me might turn her against me,” he said.

“Well, he did build the hotel that gave us our big break,” she reminded him.

“So he did, so he did,” Leon mused. “But remember, we’re
very
good! We’d have gotten that big break sooner or later, whether we came to Martinique or to Las Vegas.”

“I suppose so,” she agreed reluctantly. “But we got it sooner by coming here. And I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if we were signed on for the whole season before our six weeks are up.”

“That, I feel sure, will all depend,” stated Leon flatly.

“On what?”

“On whether Marisa gets disgusted with me or not,” he answered.

“But how could she, Leon? You’re handsome, you’re charming, you have a wonderful personality—” Kristen broke off, flushing.

“Why, thank you, Kristy,” he mocked. “I didn’t think you cared.”

“I care about The Act,” she flushed at him.

“But not about me?”

“Not personally, no. I’ve been forbidden to do that—remember?”

“And you’re an obedient child, like Marisa?”

“You’re being an idiot, Leon. The girl likes you very much.”

“And her father despises me!”

He chuckled.

“Sounds familiar and a bit corny, doesn’t it? The raging parent, the fleeing young lovers—must work up a dance routine on the subject.”

He sat silent for a moment, his brow furrowed in concentration,
and impulsively Kristen heard herself saying, “Don’t, Leon!”

As though remembering for the first time that she was there, he turned to her.

“Don’t what, Kristen?” he asked.

“Don’t let Marisa fall in love with you.”

His brows went up in simulated surprise.

“You think that’s likely?” he marvelled elaborately.

“I think it’s almost inevitable. And it would be a terrible thing.”

“Would it? Why?”

“Because you could never possibly be in love with her, and you know it.”

Once more he gave that mirthless chuckle.

“Well, I wouldn’t be too sure about that. She
is
a lovely creature, and of course there’s all that money!”

She stared at him in shocked dismay.

“You sound like a gigolo,” she snapped.

“I’m sure that’s the way George Newman thinks of me,” he drawled.

For a moment they eyed each other, and then Kristen made a little gesture of futility.

“I’ve worked with you for weeks and weeks, but somehow I don’t seem to know you at all,” she admitted.

“No?”

“No! And I don’t think I like you very much, either.”

He seemed not at all disturbed.

“Oh, well, you know the old saw, ‘Familiarity breeds contempt’,” he mocked.

“Hearing you talk like that about Marisa makes me feel you may be right about that,” she flashed. “Honestly, Leon, don’t you think you’d be very smart to turn her down? I mean to change your mind and refuse to give her lessons?”

His eyebrows went up in elaborate surprise.

“What—and break the poor girl’s heart?”

“It would be a lot better to turn her down now rather than after she falls in love with you.”

He seemed to be considering her plea, and she waited hopefully. Suddenly he laughed and stood up.

“Shall we go?” he suggested politely. And Kristen stood up, her teeth set hard, and walked out ahead of him.

As the days and nights slipped by, Kristen knew that Leon was seeing a great deal of Marisa. There were two dance lessons weekly, and often afterwards they went out together.

The floor show was a hit, and there was little doubt now but that they would be held over all season. They had settled down, and established a routine that carried them smoothly from show to show, leaving all of them free time for sight-seeing.

Sherry had made some friends and she frankly turned her nose up at Kristen for liking to, as she expressed it, “prowl around in drab and dreary places.” But Kristen merely smiled and went her own way, quite unperturbed.

She had remembered George’s remark about Monday being Planter’s Day. Her first day in Fort-de-France, she had been so excited and eager to see everything at once that she had seen very little. But one Monday morning, when she awoke earlier than usual, she lay thinking of the color and the crowds and the various noises of the narrow street where she had so nearly come to grief. And suddenly she realized it was Planter’s Day.

She showered and dressed in a thin pale blue linen dress, came back into the room, caught up a wide-brimmed hat and her purse, and went out.

It was much too early for breakfast, she knew. So she went on out into the sun-drenched patio and across it to the drive. She didn’t want a taxi this morning. She preferred to walk. She left the drive, to find herself caught up in a stream of pedestrian traffic that widened her eyes for a moment.

Men, women, and children were all brightly costumed like figures in a play; the women walking proudly erect, seemingly unaware of the heavily laden baskets they carried on their heads; some of the men pushing small handcarts, laden with fresh-caught fish, and with sacks that gave off the aromatic fragrance of coffee. The children raced and played, or else, if they carried burdens on their heads, marched sedately behind their mothers. It was a gay, colorful, laughing group of people, all in a holiday mood, and Kristen smiled an
answer to their polite greetings as she joined them in their march toward the marketplace.

They came to the marketplace at last. A high roof arched over a city-block square. Kristen was swept into the place by the surge of laughing, chattering people. She looked about her with eager eyes, the dim light blinding after the brilliant sunlight outside. As her eyes accustomed themselves to the dimness, she saw long rows of trestle tables, some of them already heaped with the produce brought in by the earliest arrivals. Those with whom she had walked took possession of the others, and there was a high, strident clatter of voices as they greeted friends, unpacked their baskets, heaped the contents into piles that were jewel-like in color.

“Orchids!” she breathed, entranced.

She had not realized that she had spoken aloud until a pleasant masculine voice behind her said, “Yes, Miss Dillard—orchids. They grow wild here, like daisies back in your home.”

She turned, startled, to see the man who had addressed her. He was in his sixties, perhaps, his hair a thick white mane, his face sun-bronzed to the tint of old leather. And as she stared at him, he gave her a slight, old-fashioned bow.

“Your pardon, Miss Dillard. I did not mean to startle you. But we
have
met, I do assure you. At dinner at the Newmans. And I have seen and enjoyed your act with that very handsome young man at the Riviera several times. I’m Peter Lansing. Naturally I could not expect you to remember an old fellow like me; but I could not forget so beautiful a girl,” he said graciously.

“Why, how very kind of you, Mr. Lansing. Please forgive me for not recognizing you.”

Peter Lansing smiled at her.

“I should have resented it very much if you had pretended to remember, because I would have known you were not being truthful,” he told her. “About the orchids, may I offer them to you? Or would you consider that presumptuous?”

“I wouldn’t at all! Only I’m not going back to the hotel yet, and they’d wilt if I just carried them around. And they are much too beautiful!”

“That can be arranged,” said Peter Lansing and spoke in the native language to the smiling woman behind the trestle table.

He turned, smiling, to Kristen.

“They will be in your room at the hotel when you return, Miss Dillard,” he told her. “And now—is it permitted that I be your guide on a tour of the market?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Lansing,” Kristen assented so eagerly that Peter looked very pleased. “If you’re sure you have the time?”

“I’m afraid time is what I have almost too much of these days, my dear,” Peter answered, and his smile was wry. “Since I retired from the management of the estate, and my son took over, I have some difficulty in keeping myself occupied. I stay in town a good deal, because I don’t want Jerome, my son, to think I’m supervising him. He’s been very well-trained and he loves the work; but there are certain changes, innovations he wishes to put into effect; and I suppose having me around makes him feel—well, perhaps a little uncomfortable and self-conscious. It’s no use my trying to assure him that I am more than pleased to have him modernize the estate.”

He broke off, and said awkwardly, “I beg your pardon. I did not intend to inflict such personal thoughts upon you. Shall we make ‘the grand tour’? And you shall ask all the questions you like, and I shall be very happy to answer them as fully as my knowledge permits.”

“Then you can begin,” Kristen laughed, “by telling me what that weird-looking green thing is.”

“This?” Peter’s lean finger touched a pebble-skinned green fruit that topped a basket in which glowing red tomatoes had been interspersed to achieve an artistic effect. “Oh, that’s breadfruit. It provides, along with rice and yams, a staple in the islanders’ diet. You remember, I’m sure, in ‘H.M.S. Bounty,’ Capt. Bligh’s voyage from Tahiti to bring breadfruit trees as food for the slave population here. The trees flourished, and they grow profusely all over the island.”

Kristen listened, enthralled, as they made their slow way along the narrow aisles between the long rows of trestle tables, and Peter seemed to enjoy his role as guide. She noticed that wherever they went, Peter was greeted with warm, affectionate respect by all the vendors of the market. When at last she became aware of the time, she gave a little gasp.

“Oh, I had no idea it was so late. I must get back to the hotel or they will think I’m lost!”

“I suppose you could not permit me to offer you lunch then? It would give me much pleasure,” said Peter.

“You
are
kind.”

“It’s you who would be kind,” Peter interrupted, smiling. “Perhaps you could telephone your friends at the hotel and tell them you will not be back until later? Or am I making myself an insufferable bore to monopolize your whole morning and then object to letting you go?”

“You’re not at all—what an absurd thought! I’ve loved every moment of it!” she assured him. “And I’d like very much to have lunch with you, if we can find a telephone.”

“That’s very easy,” he assured her.

After she had telephoned and left a message at the desk, she sat with him in the sidewalk café where she had sat with George the first morning after her arrival, and looked across at the white marble statue.

“She’s lovely, isn’t she?” She smiled at Peter.

“Oh, you mean our Josephine? You know her?”

Kristen laughed. “Oh, we’ve met. Mr. Newman brought me here for coffee my first day in Fort-de-France and told me about her.”

“He’s a wonderful person, isn’t he? I’m very fond of him. The island owes a great deal to him and his ancestors. They’ve been here for generations,” answered Peter.

The waiter offered a menu, and Kristen waved hers away.

“Please order for me; I can’t read French,” she told him frankly.

He gave the order, consulted with the waiter and turned back to her, smiling happily.

“Forgive me if I seem terribly smug,” he apologized. “But to be having lunch with a young and beautiful girl is a rare privilege.”

“I’m sure it’s only because you want it to be,” she assured him.

“Thanks, that’s gracious.”

“Well, you two!” said a voice above them, and they turned to see George Newman looking down at them, smiling. “This is a most unexpected pleasure.”

Peter looked up at him forbiddingly.

“Go away!” he ordered sternly. “She’s having lunch with me. Go find your own partner.”

A waiter was hurrying with a chair, and George accepted it, ignoring Peter’s forbidding look.

“Well, I’ve known her much longer than you have, Peter, and you shouldn’t have brought her here if you didn’t want me to join you, since you know I lunch here every day I’m in town.”

“Well, at least she let me show her the market,” said Peter. “And I told her about how breadfruit trees came to Martinique!”

“But you didn’t tell her about the coffee trees?” George pleaded.

“Oh, no, I saved that for you to tell her, knowing what a wizard you are on the history of the island,” Peter answered.

“Good! I’m planning on getting her up to Beau Rivage for a few days so that she can be thoroughly briefed on all of the island’s products.” George beamed.

“Good! Then I’ll go up to our place, and Jerome and his wife will entertain for her,” Peter retorted.

Kristen laughed.

“You’re making me feel very important and popular,” she assured them.

“Well, and so you are!” George smiled at her. “How soon can you come up to Beau Rivage for at least a week?”