From Paris to Forever
Copyright © 2017 by Savannah Blaize
First Box Set E-book Publication: April 2017
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Cover by: Jay Aheer
www.simplydefinedart.com
Edited by: Belinda Holmes
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Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Dedication
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Dedication
This book has taken the long slow boat to self-publication. It has gone through many hands, had many tweaks and changes in editing, but it has arrived triumphant at the finish line, as my debut novel. I am relieved, proud and thankful to Chloe and Todd for taking me, and everyone concerned, on this adventure.
Throughout this process my beautiful family and gorgeous friends have contributed with words of encouragement, faith in me, and a strong belief in the stories I can produce.
A special shout out to my OCD work family, who encouraged me every day to go into my office, shut the door and “just write”. They passed around each chapter as I wrote it, and chatted amongst themselves about Team Todd and Team Patrick. Their excitement was contagious, and spurred me on to produce better scenes.
A special mention to :
My editor Belinda Holmes. Thank you for “hearing” my voice, and encouraging me to sing.
MRWG you guys ROCK
MGM I love you.
Dot, you are such a gorgeous woman, and my number one fan. Here is the last chapter you have been anticipating.
John Harding, a very talented artist and friend www.hardingsart.com
Dad, I wish you were here to see me published. But I know you are watching.
PROLOGUE
A drum roll heralded the finale of the summer season at the Lido. The audience strained forward to catch their first glimpse of the cabaret dancers’ colourful and elaborate costumes. The house lights dimmed and the strategically placed spotlights blinked on, illuminating the stage. The atmosphere was electric.
Centre stage, on a raised podium, Chloe Armstrong struggled to hold her pose, thankful this evening’s performance was nearly over. She flicked her eyes to the other dancers positioned below. The heat radiating from the stage lights overhead was noticeably intense. Expensive fragrances mingled with the aroma of candle wax and stage make-up, creating a heady perfume in the air. Light-headed, with a dry mouth, she twisted and twirled to the music of the live band below. Her costume was la crème de la crème of the show. The jewel-encrusted headdress alone weighed over four kilos. The beaded collar, bra and G-string showcased her toned body and long legs to perfection, making her beautiful and powerful in this elaborate costume, very much the Principal Dancer.
Below, the enthralled audience gazed up at her, their expectant faces illuminated by tea lights on the tables. But wait. The smile died on her lips. Could that be Paul, her ex-partner, staring up at her with malevolent eyes? She strained to see through the gloom. Distracted she turned too quickly, and her headdress slipped. She raised her hands to hold it in place, precariously venturing too close to the edge of the podium. Struggling to correct her position in dangerously high heels, she lost her balance. The dancer on the podium to her left reached out in an attempt to grab her, but it was too late. She fell to the stage below, striking the podium, and pain seared through her leg.
The loud gasp of horror from the audience immobilised the other dancers. Stagehands rushed to help her, all speaking at once. Dizzy, her vision blurred, she fought for words. Red hot agony shot down one leg and she frantically pushed away the hands trying to grasp her. The distraught expressions of the dancers would stay in her mind forever. Without a shadow of doubt, she had broken her leg.
The curtain came down, ending the performance and her dancing career.
CHAPTER ONE
Chloe stood on the balcony of her Paris apartment in La Rue Saint-Dominique, elbows propped up on the wrought-iron railing, sipping from a cup of coffee cradled in both hands. The pale pink sunset cast a magical spell over the Paris rooftops. Mouth-watering aromas from restaurants below wafted up on the evening breeze, making her aware she had not eaten since breakfast and her retreat inside quicker than intended. She had at least an hour to wait before her friend Simone arrived to accompany her to dinner. Positioning herself on one end of the overstuffed cream jacquard sofa, she sat back and allowed her gaze to roam the tiny apartment she had grown to love. She smiled, recalling the purchase of many of the unique ornaments and paintings that had transformed this space into her home for the last few years.
Cool night air drifted in from the balcony, chilling the room a little. She shivered, pulling the powder-blue cashmere wrap a little tighter around her shoulders. Rising to close the French doors, she leant her forehead against the cool glass and sighed. She could hardly believe nine months had gone by since her accident, yet she had remained here, hoping for some sort of miracle. The reality of never dancing again was something she tried not to think about. Leaving Paris was going to be difficult, especially in spring, but the memories crowded her, making it hard to breathe sometimes. She needed to escape from a sense of failure in her career and her personal life. Her last relationship with a controlling partner had cost her dearly.
She bent to light the kindling in the hearth. It would be comforting to have a fire and maybe a glass of wine before dinner. As she watched the flames growing, snaking through the expertly stacked logs in the fireplace, a kaleidescope of memories flitted through her mind, some good, some sad, of her childhood in Australia. The first eighteen years of her life had been idyllic, surrounded by love and support from her paren
ts. She couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t danced. From tottering in her first tiny ballet pumps at three, then clicking her way across the floor in her bright red tap shoes at ten, when jazz and cabaret captured her imagination. Her life had been full to the brim with rhythm and music, or so she thought. The move to Paris had been a bit of a shock a week after her eighteen birthday. The first time living away from home was in a place larger than life and twice as hectic as anything she had ever experienced before. Hard to believe that was twelve years ago.
Her gaze took in the large photograph of her mother, Maggie, which stood on the mantelpiece. It was taken before her mother’s diagnosis, and had become her most treasured possession. The woman in this picture was beaming at the camera; still very attractive, belying her seventy years. Her ash-blonde hair piled high upon her head, a hand raised in salutation, so obviously full of life and enjoying a summer’s day on the beach close to their holiday home in Portsea. Her white trousers rolled up to the knees to accommodate a paddle in the shallow water. Over her white tank top she wore a pink linen shirt, and the tails flapped out behind her. Also a dancer in her youth, colour and movement had been her mother’s favourite catchphrase. She had met her husband Joseph when she had been a chorus girl touring the theatres in the British Isles. He had followed her from town to town until she finally relented and accepted his hand in marriage. The move to Australia had come a few years later when work was hard to find, and they decided to emigrate as Ten Pound Poms.
She rubbed the ache in her leg and sighed. After extensive rehabilitation to her severely damaged leg, progress had been slow. Her visible wounds had healed considerably, but her mobility was limited. The emotional wounds ran deeper and were not as easily fixed. She often relied on a walking stick and had been forced to put dancing behind her. Friends and colleagues had advised her to investigate teaching. The loss was still too raw and, desperate to move on, she would bow to her father’s wishes and return to Australia. His recent ill health concerned her, enough to warrant this relocation. A change of scenery and a change of pace could be just what the doctor ordered. At the back of her mind, though, she clung to the hope that, by some miracle, one day she would be able to dance again.
At thirty-eight, Todd Baker considered himself a fortunate man. He owned a very profitable Melbourne real estate company and a partnership in a renovating business with his brother Patrick. He had a mortgage-free penthouse apartment in one of the most prestigious Docklands complexes, and the wherewithal to lease a luxury car straight off the line every two years. His walk-in wardrobe boasted a collection of meticulously cared-for Armani business suits, a rainbow assortment of silk ties, and a diverse range of handmade Italian leather shoes. The real estate business and making money on the stock exchange were his passions. Expensive designer clothing had become his weakness.
Committed to his businesses, he had no plans for a significant other, investing more time and energy than any married man could possibly manage. Nevertheless, women constantly requested him to accompany them to opening nights at the theatre, or be their “plus one” at celebrity or family functions. Perhaps they wanted to try and persuade him otherwise. Perhaps he was seen as a challenge to their ego. No matter the reason, he had no intention of veering off the path of singledom just yet.
Todd relaxed at his kitchen table, cooling off after his gym workout. He pushed away the empty muesli bowl and picked up his coffee. Scanning the local paper spread out on the table before him, an article and picture on the third page caught his eye. The small paragraph reporting the return from Paris to Port Melbourne of local girl Chloe Armstrong, after the sudden death of her father Joseph, had him putting down his morning macchiato and picking up his iPad. He had approached Joe Armstrong last year with an offer of appraisal. He remembered a lonely old man in a house far too big to look after alone. After a brief Google search, he found the image of a Californian bungalow-style house, set well back from the pavement, surrounded by an overgrown garden.
This very attractive property across the road from the beach was one of several he had earmarked on that stretch of road, for future purchase and demolition, since he opened his office in Port Melbourne. As he admired Chloe Armstrong’s image in the paper, a small smile teased up the corners of his mouth. Well, Joe, you have a beautiful daughter. He relaxed back in his seat and flipped the magnetic cover over the screen of his iPad. It closed with a loud thwack. He needed to schedule a visit to Miss Armstrong to pay his respects.
He had a feeling the opportunity to knock down this old house—and build a high-rise luxury apartment complex on the block—had just fallen into his lap.
Todd whistled a happy tune as he entered his real estate business in Bay Street. He pushed open the office door with his foot, dropped his laptop bag on his chair and walked past the office manager’s desk, heading for the kitchen. He carried an open box of glistening French pastries and assorted fruit tarts, which he placed on the pristine counter beside the coffee machine. He turned and noticed Samantha’s inquisitive stare, one of her expertly plucked eyebrows raised as if questioning his motives.
“What? I can’t bring in some morning tea without it being a big deal?” He made his way past Samantha’s desk and headed back to his office, leaving the door ajar.
“It’s not so much the morning tea as the random whistling and the big smile on your face at nine am, Todd.” She adjusted her screen to view her email.
He sat down at his desk and cupped one hand around his ear. “Did you say something?” The glass wall provided an uninterrupted view of the general office space.
“No, nothing important. Thanks for the extra calories with my morning tea, Todd. My lips are clapping in anticipation but my hips are already in denial.”
“You’re very welcome. Please help yourself when you make the coffee. And when you do, I would like the strawberry tart with mine … please?
When he glanced up and noticed Samantha shooting a death stare in his direction, he gave her his best mischievous grin.
Todd glanced over as Samantha, tottering on impossibly high heels, made her way towards the filing cabinet. Why women wore such uncomfortable-looking footwear was beyond him. He did have to concede the heels made her legs look longer and the black pencil skirt, although very businesslike, hugged her like a glove. As a man, he could appreciate having an attractive office manager, but as a boss, she was strictly off limits. Instead he observed the admiring glances from the ever-hopeful male clientele and thanked his lucky stars he had an office manager with brains as well as beauty.
There had been a time, when they were both fresh out of university and hanging around in the same crowd of twenty-somethings, that he had thought of Samantha with a touch more lust than admiration. A very business-savvy woman with a high IQ was exactly the type to incur his interest. He could have pursued this line of thinking, but when she met her husband that window of opportunity closed, never to be reopened. She had been the first person he approached to be his office manager when he opened his business. They worked well together. Respect for all she achieved became part of the glue that kept them together. They had moved on, and would never be anything more than friends and business colleagues. He enjoyed his life without the added complication of an office romance.
Todd stood on the pavement checking out the Beach Road property. The double-storey Californian bungalow, which featured a gable over the main portion of the house, appeared a little run-down. Several steps led up from the concrete path to a covered porch. The front door, flanked on either side by large picture windows, indicated formal rooms situated at the front of the dwelling. He glanced behind him at the uninterrupted view of the bay, and smiled at the thought of the premium he could ask for this vista.
He took a deep breath, pulled back his shoulders, straightened his tie, and marched forward. Show time. As he made his way through, the gate sagged a little, its hinges creaking noticeably. The rose garden to his left, partially obscured in the tangle of shrubs, wa
s in need of a severe pruning. Roughly cut, but still recognisable, a lawn separated the house from the boundary wall.
A large potted plant propped the front door open. The permeating smell of paint and varnish hung heavy in the warm air. He recognised the familiar vocals of Tina Arena singing “Sorrento Moon” emanating from an ancient portable radio on the hall table. As he pressed the doorbell, he noticed the “No Hawkers” sign attached to the wall and instinctively took a step back. While he waited for someone to answer his ring, a very friendly, large cat appeared on the porch beside him. It gave a low rumbling purr and rubbed its sleek black body around his legs, its tail wrapping around his calves as if testing out an uninvited guest. Todd attempted to move out of range. Cat hair on his suit was the last thing he needed or wanted.
He heard footsteps on the floorboards somewhere inside, and a female voice called out from down the hall.
“Coming … hang on!”
Compulsively checking for messages before muting his iPhone, he tucked his phone and car keys into his pockets to free up his hands. He lifted his gaze in time to see a young woman walking slowly down the hallway. The light behind her cast her face in shadow until she stepped up before him. Immediately struck by her pale green eyes, high cheekbones and wide guileless smile, he swallowed the lump in his throat. His attention moved to the good muscle definition in her bare arms, and her long legs. She carried a long-handled roller in one hand. She ignored him, leaned over, and switched off the music.
She was very attractive, nearly as tall as him, maybe just under six foot, and slim. White paint splatters dotted the tight grey leggings and tank top she wore, and continued over the exposed skin on her arms. A generous sprinkle of paint freckles adorned her nose and forehead. A red kerchief knotted on top covered her hair.