Danielle Steel: Echoes

They had just finished their soup course when Beata saw her mother look up and just past her older daugh-ter's shoulder with a stunned expression. Beata had no idea what it was, and turned, to find Antoine standing just behind her, with a warm smile that took in the entire group.

“Madame Wittgenstein?” he asked politely, ignoring both her daughters, including the one who had captivated him that afternoon. He appeared to be riveted by their mother. “I must apologize for interrupting you, but I wanted to introduce myself and apologize as well for inviting your daughter to tea this afternoon without a chaperone. She had a little stumble on a walk near the lake, and I believe her ankle was hurting her. I thought the tea would do her good. Please forgive me.”

“No, I… not at all…of course…how kind of you …” Her gaze darted to Beata and then back to him as he introduced himself, bowed politely, and kissed her hand. Quite correctly, he had not made the same gesture to Beata, as she was unmarried, and hand kissing was a courtesy properly only proffered to married women. Beata had gotten only the bow, as was proper. In Germany, young men like him and her brothers bowed as he had, and clicked their heels together. But neither the Swiss nor the French did that, nor did he now. “I didn't realize she'd gotten hurt.” Monika looked momentarily confused, as Antoine turned to look at Beata, and nearly caught his breath when he saw her in the red dress. She had lit up like a starburst when he saw her from across the room, and had excused himself from his own mother to come to meet hers.

He made no attempt to introduce the two mothers as he knew he would be in deep waters, since Beata wanted him to claim to be Swiss. So he couldn't introduce Monika to his mother, and was content to meet her himself, and the striking Brigitte, who was staring at him in disbelief. He barely looked at her, treating her like the child she was, and not the woman she was longing to be, which won Monika's approval. Antoine had impeccable manners, and was obviously a man of breeding, and not a masher, as she had feared.

“How is your ankle, mademoiselle?” he asked with concern.

“It's fine, thank you very much, monsieur. You were very kind.” Beata blushed as she said it.

“Not at all. C'était la moindre des choses … it was the least I could do.” He turned his attention back to her mother then, and reiterated his luncheon invitation, which for once actually flustered her mother. He was so polite, so properly solicitous, so ingenuous, and so warm and kind that even Monika didn't have the heart to rebuff him, and in spite of herself she accepted, and they agreed to meet on the terrace at one o'clock the next day for lunch. As soon as that arrangement was made, he bowed again, kissed Mrs. Wittgenstein's hand again, and left to rejoin his own family, without a single longing look at Beata. He was entirely correct and pleasant. And once he was gone, Monika looked at her daughter with uncomfortable amazement.

“I can see why you like him. He is a very nice young man. He reminds me of Ulm.” It was an enormous compliment coming from her.

“He did me, too.” Only infinitely better looking, but she didn't say that as she quietly cut her meat, and prayed that no one could hear her heart pounding. He had pulled it off to perfection, not that it mattered. Whatever they felt for each other could go nowhere, but at least she could see him. Once more anyway. It was a happy memory she could take with her. The handsome young man she had met in Geneva. She was sure that everyone she met after that would compare unfavorably with him for years. She was already resigned to it, and imagined herself as a spinster for the rest of her life as she ate her dinner. His most unforgivable sin was that he wasn't Jewish. Not to mention the fact that he wasn't Swiss either. It was hopeless.

“Why didn't you tell me you hurt your ankle this afternoon?” her mother asked, sounding concerned after he left.

“It was nothing. He bumped into me as I came up to the terrace at teatime, after my walk at the lake. I think he felt sorry for me. I just turned it a little.”

“In that case, it was nice of him to invite you to tea. And us to lunch tomorrow.” She could see that her mother was momentarily under his spell, too. It was hard not to be. He was so handsome and so nice to everyone, and Beata was secretly pleased that he had ignored Brigitte. All the other men Beata knew nearly fainted at her sister's feet. But he seemed unimpressed. He was dazzled by Beata, although he hadn't shown that either. He had seemed perfectly normal and friendly, quite like Ulm, which was why Monika had accepted his invitation to lunch. He was definitely not a masher, as she had feared, but entirely respectable and agreeable to talk to. Beata said nothing more about it as the three of them finished their dinner. She didn't even glance his way as they left the terrace, and he made no effort to speak to them again. It was not at all what Monika had suspected or feared. Even Jacob couldn't disapprove. The chance meeting had obviously been harmless.

Only Brigitte was far more clever than either of them when the two girls finally reached their room, after saying goodnight to their mother.

“Oh my God, Beata, he's gorgeous!” she whispered to her older sister in wild-eyed admiration. “And he's crazy about you. The two of you totally fooled Mama.” Brigitte thought it was terrific and could imagine clandestine lovers' meetings at midnight.

“Don't be stupid,” Beata said as she took off the red dress and tossed it on a chair, wishing now that she had worn something more glamorous. As she thought of him, the dress seemed so plain. And she thought she was, too. “He's not crazy about me. He doesn't even know me. And we did not fool Mama. He invited us to lunch, and she accepted. That's all, just lunch, for heaven's sake. He's just being friendly.”

“Now you're being stupid. Men like that don't invite you to lunch unless they're mad about you. He didn't even look at you when he came to the table, or barely, and that says everything.”

“What on earth do you mean?” Beata looked amused.

“Oh, Beata”—her sister laughed at her—“you know absolutely nothing about men. When they act like you mean nothing to them, it means they are madly in love with you. And when they make a big fuss over you and look wild with love, they're usually lying.” Beata laughed at her sister's worldly wise analysis of the situation. But she was far more sophisticated in the ways of the world, and men, than Beata. She had good instincts. Better than her shy, serious sister.

“That's ridiculous.” Beata laughed with her, but she was secretly pleased. “So you are telling me that all the men who ignore me, like everyone in the restaurant tonight, are actually madly in love with me. How wonderful! And I'll certainly have to watch out for the ones who appear to love me, if they're all lying. Good Lord, how confusing!”

“Yes, it is,” Brigitte agreed, “but that's usually the way it works. The ones who make a fuss are just playing. It's the others, the ones like him, who mean it.”

“Mean what?” Beata looked at her younger sister, lying elegantly across the bed in her satin underwear, looking like a very glamorous young woman.

“Men like him. That they love you. I'm sure he's fallen in love with you.”

“Well, it won't do him much good. We're going back to Cologne in three weeks,” Beata said matter-of-factly, as she took off her slip and put on her nightgown, which made her look like a child compared to her sister. She always made herself white cotton nightgowns that were the same ones she had worn since she was a little girl. They were comfortable, and she liked them.

“A lot can happen in three weeks,” Brigitte said mysteriously, as Beata shook her head, looking serious again. She knew better.