CHAPTER SIX
Genevieve~
This new cut was a hundred times better than last month’s. Short and scrupulously neat as was required by regulations, but able to be fluffed into a pretty cap of curls when necessary. Genevieve rubbed a little wax onto her palms and massaged it into her wet hair as the stylist had shown her. She scrunched it and let the natural curl spring in the hair.
The stylist had wanted to dye it. But Genevieve didn’t care to change the natural color. She supposed it was a little dull, although when she let it curl it did have gold highlights. When she had been a little girl it had been strawberry blonde. But it had darkened as she hit puberty. Only her bush remained a flaming reminder that she once had had a claim to be a redhead.
A little extra makeup wouldn’t hurt. She never wore much, but tonight was special. She was having dinner with Grant. Grant and his lover. Ah, well. No reason she couldn’t have dark eyelashes to emphasize her green eyes. And a little smoky mauve eyeshadow to brighten the green. Or blush to return her winter paleness to its usual rosiness. And Mama would be shocked if she went to the Alte Oper without lipstick. Mama thought even Air Force officers could be Texas tough and still be Southern ladies.
She had splurged on a new dress. People dressed up to go out in Frankfurt. Especially to concerts. And this was the Christmas Eve Gala. She had bypassed the skimpy, flirty cocktail dresses that she would never wear again. She had settled on a practical garment that she could wear to some future diplomatic event when her dress blues would not do.
Her floor-length dress had a boned bodice of dark-purple velvet that covered her from just below the collarbones to her waist. Lace sleeves encased her from shoulder to wrist. Below the V-shaped waistline of the tight bodice, her layered organza skirt reflected the light and skimmed over her rather too generous hips down to her ankles.
As it was designed to do, the dress turned her stockiness into curviness. The straight neckline of the bodice had seemed boring on the hanger, but the saleswoman had persuaded her that her bosom would make this or any other dress sexy. The saleswoman had been right. Lowcut would have been vulgarly obvious rather than chic. As it was, the deep purple made a sumptuous background for Nana B’s double string of pearls.
Her blue raincoat was too short. But it was all she had. Buying a long coat for one evening would have broken her budget. She would change into strappy evening shoes when she had removed her black ankle boots. And check them and her coat. The Air Force didn’t exactly encourage untidiness. But there was all the difference between elegance as personified by Grant D’Angelo and mere neatness.
She wanted Grant to see her as a desirable woman. Not beautiful. That was asking too much. But desirable. Too bad about that too short winter coat. But the dress and the hair made her feel pretty. She gazed doubtfully at her unfamiliar reflection. Was her hair too short for such a girlie dress?
Probably in deference to the traditional midnight Christmas Eve celebrations, the concert began early. She had eaten a quick snack before she bathed and washed her hair. Even so, it would be nearly 2200 hours before she had that supper with Grant. When her buzzer sounded, kittens were squabbling in her insides and she was tormenting herself with what-ifs.
Dan was early. He bounded up her stairs and rapped on the door. His arms were full of a black garment bag, but he was correctly dressed in full regimentals including medals. He was short and slight but he still looked great. Nothing like ribbons and medals to make a man look both dignified and festive.
“I’ll only be a moment.”
“No rush, Gen. You look good – even in bare feet. Mel sent this.” He held out the bag. “She said otherwise you’d wear your raincoat with your new dress.”
“What is it?”
“A wrap,” Dan said. “I think, it belonged to Mel’s grandmother.”
Genevieve pulled a cape out of its protective plastic. It was beautiful. Old fashioned and faintly lavender scented. Dark blue velvet with tiny rhinestones stitched into its high-standing collar and trimming the edges. Wide braided frogs marched down the front to hold it together.
“It’s amazing, but it weighs a ton!”
Dan shrugged. “I think it’s lined with fur.”
It was. Black Persian lamb to be precise. Dan took it from her and laid it reverently on the couch. “Finish getting ready, kid,” he ordered.
In the spotted glass of the ancient hall mirror, a magnificent Amazon gazed back. Under the midnight folds of the heavy velvet cloak, Genevieve’s purple skirts floated around her legs. Her sandals were safely inside a black leather handbag with her tiny satin purse. Dan stood behind her grinning, reaching up to adjust the cloak on her shoulders.
“Beautiful. I better take a photo now for Mel. Turn around.” He whipped out his cell and began to snap.” Let’s go, kiddo,” he returned the phone to his inside pocket.
He offered her his arm like a gallant officer, but the staircase was too narrow for them to go two abreast. He had to settle for preceding her. He handed her into their cab and went around to the other door. Mel had him well trained.
“I hate to tell you at the last minute, but I can’t go to supper with you and D’Angelo,” he said as the cab wound through the wet streets. “Mel bought the girls tricycles.”
“Huh?”
“Unassembled.”
Genevieve laughed. “I guess you get to play elf tonight.”
Dan groaned. “I do. Daddy gets no sleep tonight.”
Genevieve stroked the soft velvet of the cape. “I guess I owe Mel. You tell her how much I appreciate Grandma’s cloak. Even if you have to bail on supper.”
“I’ll stop by to give Grant my regards. I remember when he came out to Afghanistan to sing for the troops.”
“Yeah? How did opera go down with them?”
“He gave us three hours of spirituals, folk songs and show tunes.”
She swallowed tears. Grant might be a playboy, but he was also a patriot. The D’Angelos were Air Force legends. General George D’Angelo was retired, but three of his four sons had followed him into the Air Force. As had his daughters. Grant was the odd one out. How did that make him feel?
“He led us in “The Yellow Rose of Texas” at the end. You never heard such clapping and stomping,” continued Dan. “Just about brought down the roof.”
“Always nice to have the natural superiority of Texas acknowledged,” she said as lightly as she was able with her throat tight.
Dan was from Alabama. He sneered. But his face wasn’t made for sneering, and they both wound up laughing. The cab driver kept peering into his mirror in horror at his hooting passengers. Probably thought they were drunk.
The concert hall was an elaborate, white wedding cake of a building. On the outside, the Alte Oper resembled the original Renaissance style opera house that had been bombed during World War II. It glowed under a heavy freight of Christmas lights.
“My treat,” Dan told her as they checked her cloak and boots and his hat. “It’s the least I can do when you’ve shared your tickets.” He escorted her back to the opulent lobby. “Wait here.” He parked her at one of the round tables dotted around the parquet flooring.
Genevieve didn’t mind having a moment to look at what the other patrons were wearing. Predictably, the men were in black and white, relieved only by the occasional honor at throat or breast. The women were all gorgeously decked out for the gala performance. There was a lot of black – black was safe and made such a perfect backdrop for diamonds. But there were enough splashes of color in the other gowns to make hers look normal.
Dan returned from the bar with two tall glasses of champagne. He was three inches shorter than she was, nine with her heels, but the crowd melted before him. There was no doubt that Maj. Gilmore had an air of command. He handed her a glass. “To Christmas and old friends.”
Genevieve touched her glass to his and sipped. “Thank you, Dan. This is perfect.”
“Mel’s orders.”
“Well, thank her for me.”
“You can thank her when you come to dinner tomorrow.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Have you seen the view of the square?” he asked.
“I’ve been too busy staring at the chandeliers. This place is unbelievable.” It was. As if the war had never happened, high above the crowd, two long rows of white globes hung in clusters from the painted and gilded ceiling, the glass supported by elaborate gold frames.
“You should see the square.” Dan guided her across to where maroon drapes hung from the ceiling arches to the floor twenty feet below, framing the tall French doors. Gold tapestry edged the velvet curtains, and gold ropes held them away from the panes.
The famous Opernplatz, or Opera Square, glistened wetly under the black wrought iron street lamps. Electric. Even the nostalgic burgers of Frankfurt, intent on restoring what the war had cost them, had not installed gaslight. Heads down and umbrellas up, pedestrians scurried past. A gaggle of youngsters carrying six-packs added a modern touch.
The white marble fountains had been turned off for the winter, but white lights outlined its statues and created a glittering fairyland to match the dozens of Christmas trees. A Texas girl of course knew that Americans had borrowed the tradition of the lit Christmas tree from their many German immigrants.
“What time is it?” she whispered. Genevieve had left her plain service watch at home. It didn’t go with make believe.
“It’s 1840 hours. You have plenty of time to finish your champagne before the bell.”