Chapter 11 - Absolute Grace
Six months later.
The terrace of the Villa Delacroix in Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat overlooked the Mediterranean Sea, which stretched toward the horizon in shades of sapphire and turquoise under the mild spring sun.
The villa, which had belonged to my family since the 1920s, had been closed during the years of my marriage because Adrian had found it "too isolated" and "lacking the proper scene." Now, the tall cypress trees swayed gently in the sea breeze, and the air smelled of salt, wild rosemary, and blooming jasmine.
I sat at a stone table beneath the pergola, wearing a simple linen dress and leather sandals, sketching the preliminary silhouettes for the upcoming spring collection. Beside my sketchbook lay a small stack of mail delivered by the morning post.
On top was the latest issue of *WWD*.
The cover featured a photograph of the newly opened Delacroix flagship boutique on Place Vendôme, with the headline: *THE DELACROIX RENAISSANCE: CLAIRE VALE’S TRIUMPHANT FIRST QUARTER PROFITS SURPASS INDUSTRY EXPECTATIONS.*
Beneath the magazine was a plain manila envelope from Marcus Vance's office. I opened it and pulled out a brief legal memorandum regarding the bankruptcy filings of several commercial luxury entities in the Middle East.
Adrian’s venture in Dubai had collapsed within four months.
Stripped of the Delacroix capital, the family connections, and the creative engine that had sustained him for seven years, his commercial agency had defaulted on its leases. The report noted that he had recently relocated to a small rented apartment in suburban London, attempting to find work as a junior showroom manager for a third-tier department store.
There was no joy in reading it. There was no anger, either.
Adrian had simply become what he had always been before my mother and I pulled him into our light: an ordinary, forgettable man who had mistaken proximity to greatness for greatness itself.
I put the report back into the envelope and pushed it aside.
Madame Laurent stepped out onto the terrace, carrying a silver tray with a pot of fresh mint tea and a crystal vase holding a single white rose cut from the villa’s garden.
"Madame Delacroix," she said warmly, setting the tray on the stone table. "The director of the Musée des Arts Décoratifs called from Paris. They have finalized the paperwork for the autumn exhibition."
"Thank you, Madame Laurent," I replied, smiling up at her.
"They asked," she continued, "if the Delacroix Sovereign will be displayed in the central vitrine, or if you will be wearing it to the opening gala."
I reached up, touching the warm hollow of my throat where the emeralds usually rested. The necklace was safe in the villa’s vault, where it belonged, waiting for the moments that truly mattered.
May you like
"Tell them it will be in the museum for the public to see," I said softly, looking out over the sparkling expanse of the sea. "My mother always said that true beauty does not need to be hoarded to be felt. It simply needs to be preserved."
Madame Laurent bowed her head with a fond smile and walked back into the house, leaving me alone with the sun, the wind, and the blank pages
