Danielle Steel: Zoya

“Thank you, Paul.” They kissed again, and a short while later, he went home. She had promised to spend the weekend in Connecticut with him, and he was somewhat mollified when he left. Zoya tiptoed to Marina's room then, to watch her as she slept, and she smiled again. The world would be hers one day. Tears filled Zoya's eyes, as she gently bent to kiss her cheek, and dreaming peacefully, Marina stirred beneath her grandmother's loving hand.

“Dance on, little one … little ballerina … dance on …”

CHAPTER

50

The Kennedy years were exciting ones for Zoya at the store. The young senator's wife set exciting trends that everyone followed. And Zoya admired her greatly. She was even invited to dine at the White House, much to her older son's delight. Zoya was still as beautiful, as elegant, as she had been when he was a child. At sixty-one, Zoya was recognized by everyone, as she strode proudly into her store, straightening a hat, frowning at something she didn't like, changing the flowers with a practiced hand. Axelle was gone by then, and her shop only a memory, but Zoya had learned her lessons well from her.

Marina was at Juilliard by then, dancing professionally occasionally, and whenever Zoya saw her dance, she could almost feel her own heart leap again, as she danced for Diaghilev more than forty years before. Matthew graduated from Harvard in June of 1961, as Zoya sat in the front row with Nicholas and applauded for him. He was a fine young man, and she was proud of him. He was going on to business school, and then to work in the store with her. Nicholas wanted him to work with him, but Matthew was more interested in retailing, he confessed. Zoya had promised to keep the store open until he was ready, and both boys laughed.

“You wouldn't close your doors if the place burned to the ground,” Matthew teased, and she laughed. She knew her boys well and loved them deeply. She was chatting distractedly with Nicholas on a flight back to New York. And finally she turned to him. It was easy to see he had something on his mind, and she decided to ask him.

“All right, what is it, Nicholas? I can't stand the suspense anymore.” Her eyes danced as he laughed nervously.

“You know me too well.” He straightened his tie and cleared his throat.

“I should after all these years.” He was thirty-nine years old. “What are you hiding from me?” and suddenly she remembered her brother taking her for a ride a thousand years before, and teasing him about his dancer. She knew without his telling her, that the source of her son's embarrassment was a woman.

“I'm getting married again.”

“Should I applaud or cry?” She laughed, “Will I like this one better than the last one?”

He looked at her quietly, a handsome man with her own piercing eyes. “She's an attorney. In fact, she's going to work for Paul Kelly. She lives in Washington, she's been working for the Kennedy administration. She's funny and bright, and a terrible cook,” he laughed, “and I'm crazy about her. In fact,” he looked uncomfortable again, “I was hoping you'd come to dinner with us tonight, if you're not too tired.” For more than a year they'd been commuting back and forth between New York and Washington, D.C.

Zoya looked at him with serious eyes, hoping he had made a wiser choice this time. “I was going to work late at the store, but … I could be convinced otherwise.” They both laughed as he dropped her off at her apartment on the way to his own. Julie was already waiting there for him, and he told her he'd invited his mother to have dinner with them as she stared at him with terror in her eyes.

“Oh, no! What if she hates me? Look at this dress! I didn't bring anything decent with me from Washington.”

“You look wonderful. She won't give a damn about that.”

“The hell she won't!” Julie had seen photographs of her, and she always looked impeccable and was dressed in the best of the latest fashion.

Zoya looked her over carefully that night, when they went to dinner at La Cote Basque. It was near the store, and it was her favorite restaurant. And she was everything Nicholas had said she was, amusing, bright, excited about life, intent about her work, but not to the exclusion of all else. She was ten years younger than Nicholas, and Zoya was certain she would make him a good wife. So much so that she made an important decision that night when she left them. She was going to give them the imperial egg as a wedding gift. It was time to pass it on to her children.

She walked quietly back to the store by herself after that dinner, and let herself into the silent halls with her key. The night watchman wasn't surprised when he saw the light under her office door. She came by often late at night, just to check on things, to take some work home with her. And as she went home again, she thought to herself how nice it would be to have Matthew working with her one day. He had remained the light of her life, the child she had thought she was too old to bear. Simon had been right. He had kept her young, even now, as she walked home, spry at sixty-two, to Marina, anxiously waiting up for her beloved Grandma.

It was midnight when she got home, and heard her granddaughter call out to her from her bedroom.

“Grandma, is that you?”

“I certainly hope so.” She walked into her room, took off the hat she'd worn to dinner with Nicholas and Julie, and smiled at the child who looked so much like her. Her red hair was as long as Zoya's still was, though hers was now white, and Marina's was cascading over her nightgown. “Guess what! I've been asked to dance at Lincoln Center!”

“Now there's a coup! Tell me what happened.” She sat down on the edge of her bed, listening to her chatter happily. She lived only to dance, but there was no denying it now, it wasn't just grandmotherly pride, the child had enormous talent. “All right, now tell me when.” She had reeled off the names of the entire cast, the choreographer, the director, their life histories, the music, to her the when wasn't as important.

“In six weeks! Can you believe it! I'll never be ready.”

“Yes, you will.” Her studies had suffered a little bit in recent years, but to Marina that didn't matter either, and Zoya found herself wondering frequently if this time, the muses would sing, if Marina would one day be a great dancer. She had long since told her about dancing for the Ballet Russe in Paris in her youth, and once with Nijinsky, and then long after, she had told her about Fitzhugh's Dance Hall. Marina loved to tell the tale, it made her respectable grandmother seem far more exotic.

And six weeks later, the performance went beautifully. She was reviewed for the first time. At fifteen, she was on her way. Marina was a real ballerina.

CHAPTER

51

Nicholas's first child, a daughter, was born in 1963, the same year that John Kennedy was shot, and that Matthew came to work at Countess Zoya. And Zoya was deeply flattered when Nicholas and Julie named their baby girl Zoe, it was an Americanization of her own name, and in truth, she liked it much better.

Marina was dancing full-time by then, at seventeen. She had taken Zoya's Russian name and was known as Marina Ossupov. She was working hard and traveling all over the country. Nicholas thought she should be forced to go on to college once she finished school, but Zoya didn't agree with him.

“Not everyone is made for that, Nicholas. She already has a life. Now that you're a father, don't be so stuffy.” Zoya was ever open to new ideas, always excited about life, never boring. And Paul was still deeply in love with her. He had retired several years before and was living in Connecticut full-time. She drove out to see him whenever she could, and he always complained that she was much too busy. The store seemed to be enjoying a whole new life. She had brought in Cardin, Saint Laurent, Courroges, and now Matthew went with her when she went to Paris. He chased every model he could, and enjoyed staying at the Ritz. At twenty-four, he was full of excitement and mischief, not unlike his mother. And instead of slowing down, as she had promised to do, once he came on the scene, she only seemed to work harder.