The Secret Life of Anna Blanc (2 page)

Anna smiled, but reserved her exhilaration for when the deed was done. Louis reached out to touch her cheek. He recalled his hand as the old woman one seat up turned her eyes on him. “In my day,” she said in a guttural Russian accent, “people didn't make love on trains.”

Louis smirked. “In your day, madam, there were no trains.”

Anna's eyes widened. She pressed her lips to prevent them from smiling, an act that she could not condone. The old woman harrumphed and looked at her old leather case. She looked at Louis, then to her bag, and back again. It was a gesture of command. Louis brushed past the old woman as if she were not there.

“In my day, gentlemen helped ladies with their bags!” the old woman called after him.

For the first time, Anna noticed the monogrammed letters on the woman's case—TLS. She smiled and bobbed. “Good day, Mrs. Smucker.” Anna picked up the bag and carried it to the platform.

It was cool in the desert, though the morning sun made the bare, stony mountains golden. Anna hurried to catch up with Louis. He stood beneath a stand of fruited date palms, smoking a cigarette, waiting as a porter brought their trunks. He exhaled a stream of smoke. “Nasty old thing.”

Anna rubbed her arms beneath her satin wrap. “Shhh, Louis. She's not some laundress. Her son's the mayor of Los Angeles.”

“You know her?”

“Not by sight, but I know Mayor Smucker has a home in Riverside. His daughter Tasha, who was in my class, is named after her paternal grandmother. Tasha is a Russian name—like Natasha in
War and Peace
. This woman rolls her
r
s like a Russian. I know the mayor's mother has a very hard time keeping servants…”

Louis gave Anna a sideways smile. “Clara warned me about this.”

Anna's words tumbled out with increasing speed. “The mayor's housekeeper calls our housekeeper every few weeks in search of new staff for his mother. It's sort of a joke among the servants. Even a bad-tempered person can keep staff if she pays them well, so let's suppose that she does not pay them well. She certainly has the money. So, let's say she's a miser. This woman's bag is worn past respectability, but it's a Louis Vuitton and cost a bundle. Her dress, too, was expensive, last century. This suggests either a change in fortune, or that its owner does not care to spend the money to replace it. I favor the latter explanation as her bag is monogrammed TS—Tasha Smucker.” Anna took a deep breath. “Which has no ring to it, whatsoever. I could never marry a man named Smucker.”

Louis grinned and hailed a cab. “Then I'm lucky I'm not named Smucker.”

The cab driver motored Anna and Louis through streets lined with
feathered palms to the Mission Inn. The hotel catered to the East Coast rich, who came in droves to winter in sunshine and to see about their lucrative citrus groves. Louis chose it not only because it was fashionable, but because it had a chapel. It reminded Anna of a Spanish castle, with its wrought iron railings and gardens of purple bougainvillea. It dripped with bells. Anna stared up at the dozens of campañas adorning every arch, tower, and alcove beneath the red tile roof and wondered if they would ring for her when she was pronounced Mrs. Louis Taylor.

The couple passed through towering oak doors into the grand lobby. They strolled arm in arm, Anna hobbling on one shoe, ostrich feathers bobbing, her coat sooty, her satin frock looking slept in, her big hair tipping south. A fourteen-foot Christmas tree scented the room, adorned with baubles and tiny candles, waiting to be lit. There were bowls of oranges, red poinsettias, and elegant guests reading newspapers in leather chairs.

Louis sauntered up to a marble counter, wearing Anna like a badge of honor. “Mr. and Mrs. Louis Taylor. We have the honeymoon suite.”

The clerk took in the couple with one broad stroke. He frowned his disapproval. “Welcome, Mr…. I'm sorry.”

“Taylor,” Louis said.

The clerk found the name on a list and handed Louis a pen to sign the register. “I see you've reserved the chapel, Mr. and
Mrs
. Taylor.”

Somewhere in the lobby behind them, two men began a conversation. Anna heard snippets.

“…California has her grip on me…I bought citrus farms…”

“Riverside's a world away from Boston…”

“…my home's being built in Los Angeles.”

“Following the oil? The oil money? You and everybody else. We're finding our place in the world. First city with electric lights. The streetcars are the best in the nation. Telephone system, too…”

“…I'm just here for the weather and the fruit…”

Anna didn't care at all about their conversation or why so many people were coming to Los Angeles, making her city spread out like spilled lemonade. She was giggling at Louis who, reluctant to let go of
her, was trying to sign the register with his left hand, having first nearly overturned the inkpot. He finished with an exaggerated flourish, grinning at his almost-wife. She hadn't realized he was so charming.

The clerk turned his back to Louis and picked up a telephone. Louis cleared his throat, “I'm on my honeymoon, sir, and I'd rather not spend it in the lobby, if you know what I mean.”

Without turning, the clerk raised one heavy hand, indicating that Louis should wait.

“If you would just provide us with the key…” Louis said.

The clerk frowned and hung up the phone. “I'll be very happy to provide you a key, sir, once you've paid.”

Louis looked to Anna. She had told him they could have the bill sent to her father.

“You want us to pay in advance? We never pay in advance,” Anna said. It was true. The Blancs always had a tab.

“Forgive me,” the clerk said. “I'm not acquainted with the Mr. Louis Taylors of—where did you say you were from?”

“You have nerve!” Louis said, though the clerk's suspicions were entirely founded.

“Are you familiar with the Blancs of Los Angeles? You can send the bill to Christopher Blanc. He's my father,” Anna said.

The clerk replied evenly, “Shall I call Mr. Blanc—just to tell him you've arrived safely?”

“No!” Anna's exclamation echoed off the tile and faded into an uncomfortable silence. The clerk pressed his priggish lips.

A man's smooth voice came from behind her. “I can vouch for them. This charming lady
is
Anna Blanc, and I'm sure her father is good for it.”

The clerk's demeanor turned like a well-trained horse on a five-cent piece. He handed Louis the key and bowed to the disheveled couple. “I'm sorry, sir.”

Anna untwined her arm from Louis's, her face as cool and white as the marble counter. She'd rather sleep in the desert than be helped by an ersatz friend who would give them away, accidentally or otherwise.
She turned to face the threat and sized the man up the way a lady should—that is, without seeming to. He was well bred, barely noticing her shoeless foot and the toes sticking out of her stocking. His accent said East Coast. He must be important, to be shown such deference by the desk clerk. He was not a politician or a businessman. He didn't have the doughy look of a man who worked long hours. He must simply be very rich. His clothes were perfect, his dark curls slicked back. He was toweringly tall and handsome. She searched her memory for his person and came up blank.

“It's Miss…Mrs…. Taylor. You are…You know my father. Of course. He introduced us at…” She extended her hand and waited for him to fill in the blanks.

He smiled at her with the sweetness of a boy on the brink of adolescence, though he had to be thirty. “Edgar Wright.” He took her hand and then extended his hand to Louis. “Of course I know your father. Everyone does.” He smiled some more. “And don't worry that you don't remember me. We've never met. I saw your picture in the paper at your coming out. Was it two years ago? Of course you'd be married by now.”

Anna spoke with the barest tinge of bitterness. “You would think so.”

Mr. Wright studied her face with too much interest. “You're even more beautiful in person.”

Louis stepped closer to Anna. “I appreciate your good word. Now, if you would excuse us, we're on our honeymoon.” He slipped his arm through hers in a gesture of possession.

Mr. Wright bowed impeccably. “Congratulations. I won't keep you.”

“You won't be seeing my father soon? Or speaking to him?” Anna asked.

“Unfortunately not,” Mr. Wright said.

She smiled her relief. “Well then. Goodbye Mr. Wright. And, thank you.”

Louis jingled the keys in his pocket. “Goodbye Mr. Wright.” He squeezed her arm. “Darling, you should rest. Let me take you to our room.”

Anna immediately forgot Mr. Wright and thought of what might happen in that room. Her stomach flipped like she was on a swing.
Louis led her off to a white staircase that wound around and around, up to love.

At the door to their suite, Louis felt for his watch. “Oh boy. I didn't realize the train would be so late. We're due in the chapel in…” He checked the time and winced. “Ten minutes. I'll just pop down to postpone.”

Anna held his arm. “No, don't!”

Louis looked surprised. “We can do it later, Anna. Don't you want to change?”

“Yes, but…Let's do everything right now. Everything.”

To Anna, fashion was a sacrament. It was a testimony to her eagerness that she dressed with no attendant and presented herself for her wedding with a crease in her veil, no powder, her
robe nuptiale
half-buttoned in back, and only one shoe. She pinched her cheeks mercilessly to give them color and tucked a sixpence into her slipper for luck. The coin was a token from her English mother, who was presently rolling in her grave.

The priest waited at the gilded altar under a domed ceiling painted like the sky. Two hotel maids in white caps and bib aprons stood as silent witnesses. The room smelled like incense and lemon oil. Louis and Anna processed down the aisle, Clara's borrowed lace train flowing behind. For a brief moment, Anna's feet revolted and she dragged on Louis like an anchor. She felt dizzy and had to lean against a wooden pew. Why was this so difficult? In her head she knew she was doing the right thing. Any future would be better than spinsterhood under her father's roof, and she might have just fallen in love with Louis. She looked to the stained glass saints for guidance, then back at the door. The clock was ticking.

Louis put soft lips to her ear. “Don't be anxious, my queen. I'll be gentle.”

“Me, too.” She thought of cigarettes, lively dances, mystery books,
brandy, and love—all the things her father denied her. She thought of Louis's hands on the train. She squared her shoulders and willed her feet to move.

The priest began the rite in English. Anna groaned. Here was one more thing she'd have to bring to the confessional. “You promised you'd pretend to be Catholic and get a Catholic priest,” she whispered.

“I tried. The Catholic man wouldn't do an elopement.”

“You could have said we were orphans.”

“We'd be very rich orphans. I don't know what you're so bothered about. People question your loyalties when you're Roman, you know.”

Anna sighed. She'd rather be free and in need of absolution than postpone and get caught. “But now we'll have to do it all over again.”

Louis shrugged.

During the vows, Anna kept looking over her shoulder. She promised to love with sincerity, crossed her fingers when she vowed to obey, and said “I do” before the priest had finished his sentence. Louis slid a band onto her finger—a ring purchased on her father's credit. His chaste, ceremonial kiss tasted sweet, like freedom, and Anna laughed at nothing in particular. She paid the priest and Louis led her back to their room to the peals of a thousand bells.

In their suite, a bottle of Cuvée Femme waited, chilling in a bucket of ice with a note from Mr. Wright: “All my best wishes for a blessed union.”

“How kind.” Anna dropped the note on the floor. She was thinking about Louis's hands and wondering what exactly was involved in consummation. She smoothed her wedding gown and perched on a chaise.

Louis poured the champagne and raised his glass. “To you, my queen.”

After two glasses, Anna's head was rushing. Louis was studying her, watching her bring the glass to her lips, watching her sip the amber liquid, watching her drain the glass. She felt scrumptiously self-conscious. He ran his fingers through his crispy, brilliantined hair. “Sunset seems a millennium away.”

“Why don't you ravish me now?”

His eyebrow arched up. “It's 10 a.m.”

Anna shrugged. “Not in China.”

“I see.” He lunged for her, toppling her onto the chaise. Her glass smashed upon the floor. A thousand bells rang in Anna's head, and she knew for certain that she was
very
much in love with him.

The door burst open with a
bang
. The desk clerk stood on the threshold with his priggish arms folded, flanked by two breathless police officers.

That marked the end of Anna's golden reputation and her marriage to Louis Taylor.