His family existed in the upper echelon of society and industry. His grandfather had been awarded the Legion of Honour pin by the French president, for pity's sake. The French Bettencourts had chosen to remain in denial regarding Cedric's involvement in her father's crimes, finding it easier to pin all their censure on Gemma's father, Angelo. They'd conveniently forgotten that Angelo had been a favorite of theirs. He was gregarious and affectionate with a deep, booming laugh. Gemma would always love him. But the French Bettencourts had only loved him up until the moment when they'd become ashamed of him.
Her father's arrest had disconnected Gemma from the affection she'd once had for Cedric. Yet, as she'd told Jude, she'd never disconnected contact. If she'd made an enemy of Cedric, she'd feared the hurt he was capable of causing her mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother. They all treasured their French relatives. Gemma didn't want them ex-communicated because of her.
So she answered Cedric's occasional texts and calls. She'd spoken with him at the last two reunions. Twice, when he'd insisted she meet up with him during his frequent trips to New York, she'd done so. Their interactions over the past seven years had assured her that he'd become more ruthless and ambitious over time, not less.
Two months ago, when he'd contacted her to ask if her boyfriend might be able to find a buyer for Rhapsodie's formula and process, she’d been horrified. But she had not been shocked.
Perhaps Cedric assumed she didn't care much about Rhapsodie perfume, given that she'd never displayed her love of it to him. Perhaps he assumed that she was as materialistic as he because she'd worked very hard to begin her own small line of perfumes.
He'd misjudged.
She might be the poor American relation, but she would always and forever be Paul Bettencourt's great-granddaughter.
Gemma came to a stop at one of the windows facing the lake. This part of her home projected out over the water on stilts. The view revealed moonglow on the ice-encrusted surface frosted with snow. Above the spiky line of dark trees at the opposite shore's edge arced a canopy of stars and gauzy clouds.
Paul had passed away ten years ago, but he'd raised Gemma on bedtime stories of Rhapsodie's centuries-long, illustrious history. She easily pulled up a memory of him tucking her in at night in the bedroom where she'd stayed when she'd been young and a frequent guest for sleepovers at his and Gracie's house.
He reclined on top of the covers and, smiling, Gemma looked up at him from where she was stuffed under the sheets like cheese beneath the flour tortilla of a quesadilla. The door to the hallway was ajar, buttery light spilling across the dim carpet.
“Will you tell me about the perfume again?” she asked.
“Ah, my favorite story.” Pleasure marked his French-accented English.
“Mine too!”
He settled more deeply against the stack of pillows, his hands interlaced on his lean stomach, his leather slippers crossed at the ankles. “Back in the 1600s, a group of French nuns invited a woman into their convent to set up an apothecary. An apothecary in those days was similar to what we call a pharmacy. This particular woman was named Marion Doulcet and she was an expert in herbs. She knew how to make glorious things from plants. Medicines to heal. Perfumes to enchant. Her life, though, had been difficult and so it was a tremendous opportunity for her to have a place of her own inside the convent. She was cared for there, given plenty of food to eat, a small private bedroom. Once she was safe, the creative space inside her grew and grew until it was large enough to fit an inspiration straight from God.”
Gemma balled a hand under her chin, waiting.
“Marion began following that inspiration and blending fragrances. Changing the recipe. Blending. Working late into the night. Working early into the morning. Until, after three long years, she finished her God-given masterpiece named . . .” The gentle motion of his hand invited her to finish the sentence.
“Rhapsodie,” she whispered reverently.
“That's right. She bottled it and sold it to the villagers. For most, the world was small back then. Long-distance communication was not easy. Many people never traveled to other countries. Selling her perfume to her community would have been Marion's expectation and almost certainly she would have been content with that. But if that's all she'd ever done, these many years later we wouldn't know her story or the scent of her perfume. But wedoknow her story and the scent of her perfume because of one thing . . .” He made anotherfill in the blankgesture.
“God had a plan for Rhapsodie.”
“Yes, God had a plan for Rhapsodie,” Paul said.
She loved how he said the word in its French way. The musicalRandSanddeesounded foreign and glamorous. When she spoke the word, she tried to mimic the way he said it and never got it exactly right.
“The wordrhapsodieis spelled different in French and English, but in both languages, it means a creative piece containing powerful emotion. Usually a rhapsody is a piece of writing or music. But Marion could not write or play music. Her skill was with herbs and flowers. So she used the talent she’d been given to make a creative piece containing powerful emotion out ofscents. Marion Doulcet created a perfume that had the ability to lift people's spirits because it brought something lovely into their daily lives. Does bringing something lovely into the world have value?”
“Yes.”
“Correct. The few people in the village who smelled Rhapsodie told the people they knew. Who told the people they knew. Who wrote about the perfume in letters. And those people wrote about it in more letters to the people they knew. And that's how the legend of her perfume spread. Men and women began coming from all over France to the convent's apothecary to buy Rhapsodie. Then they started coming from the countries beyond. They wanted to experience Rhapsodie for themselves.”
“Because it's the best perfume in the world.”
“I, of course, agree.”
Great-Grandma Gracie stuck her head inside. Her reddish-gray hair looked silky in the hallway light. “You two doing all right?”
“Yes, love,” Paul answered. “Never better.”
“Sweet dreams, Gemma.”
“Sweet dreams, Great-Grandma.”
