to Love Again (1981) Page 11

  You're almost home, spaghetti face. Kiss your little clown for me and relax.

  Love, N.

  Thank you. What do we do now? They pulled out their tickets and handed hers to her. They had been instructed not to say anything in front of Isabella's men. She opened the envelope and glanced at the time. She'd have to dismiss her two men now. She turned to them, spoke to them quickly in Italian, and they rose and shook her hand. They wished her good luck, hoped she would return quickly, and then they surprised her by stooping quickly to kiss Alessandro. Tears sprang to her eyes again as they left her. She had just lost the last reminder of home. They had been in and out of the house for so many months now, it was odd to think that now they too would be gone. Like Alessandro, she was getting tired. It had been a long, draining night, and a nervous morning, wondering if she would find and recognize Natasha's men and what would happen if somehow she did not.

  We'd better go now. The first man took her arm, and she found herself being propelled toward the gate, with Alessandro still in her arms.

  As they boarded the plane she found herself waiting for something ghastly to happen a bomb scare, an explosion, someone trying to grab Alessandro ' anything. It was like living in a nightmare; she had never felt so far from home. But the plane took off uneventfully, and at last they were in the air.

  Where are we going, Mamma? Alessandro looked at her tiredly now, the wide brown eyes a little confused.

  To Aunt Natasha, darling. In New York. She kissed him gently on the forehead, and with his hand in hers they both fell asleep.

  She woke four hours later, when Alessandro climbed out of her arms. She gave a quick start, reached for him, then sat back with a smile. The two American bodyguards were still seated on either side. Alessandro was standing in the aisle staring at one of them.

  Mi chiamo Alessandro, e lei?

  The man looked at him, smiled, and put out both hands helplessly. No capito. He glanced at Isabella for help.

  He asked you your name.

  Oh. Steve. And you're ' Alexandra?

  Alessandro. He corrected sedately, a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

  Okay, Alessandro. Have you ever seen one of these? He pulled out an American fifty-cent piece, made it disappear, then promptly removed it from one of Alessandro's ears. The boy gave a delighted squeal and clapped his hands for more. A fifty-cent piece, a nickel, a quarter, then a dime appeared and disappeared while they struck up an awkward conversation, Alessandro chattering in Italian and the large man communicating mostly in mime.

  Again Isabella closed her eyes. It had all gone smoothly so far; all she had to do now was get through customs in New York and then back to Natasha's apartment, where she would take off all her clothes, sink into a tub of warm water, and hide for the rest of her life. She felt as though she'd been wearing the same clothes for the past week.

  They had dinner, watched a movie and, except for two trips to the bathroom with Alessandro, they never left their seats. When they did, both guards casually came along. But Isabella was quick to notice that no one on the plane had shown an interest. Even the stewardesses seemed unimpressed. They were listed on the manifest only as I. and A. Gregorio, S. Connally, and J. Falk. Nothing exciting about that. Her long dark mink had drawn a look of approval from the chief steward, but even that was not remarkable. On the run between London and New York, they saw plenty of mink. Had they seen some of the jewelry carefully hidden at the bottom of her handbag they might have been more impressed.

  We'll be coming in to New York in about half an hour, the man named Steve leaned over to say. He spoke in a hushed, barely audible voice, and Isabella nodded her head. Mrs. Walker will be waiting for you on the other side of customs. We'll go with you as far as her car.

  Thank you.

  He looked at her cautiously, as soon as she looked away. He was almost certain he'd figured it out. They'd had a case like this two years before. A woman kidnapping back her children from their father, who had absconded with them to Greece. Something about the way she clung to the boy told him that something similar had happened to her. Damn shame to do that kind of thing to a kid too. He couldn't understand these rich people sometimes, yanking kids back and forth, like some kind of a game. But she looked like a nice woman, in spite of the occasional look of panic and the frown that too often altered her face. She had probably been scared shitless that her husband would catch on to her and she'd never get the kid out of France. That was all they knew of her, that she had been arriving in London from Nice. He turned his head slightly to watch her again as the plane began to descend.

  Another potty stop, Alessandro? Customs might take a long time. His mother rapidly translated, but the child shook his head. Okay. Have you ever been to New York before? Again Isabella translated. Alessandro shook his head, adding that he had thought they were going to Africa anyway. The tall, broad-shouldered American laughed and quickly fastened the boy into his seat. But Alessandro was watching his mother now and reached for her hand. Isabella held it in her own and gazed absently at the lights on the ground. It was four thirty in the afternoon, New York time, but in early February, evening had already come.

  How different it was this time. She had last been to New York two years before. With Amadeo. Generally he did the American trips without her. She had preferred going to England and France. But that last time they had come to New York together, and it had been like a dream. They had stayed at the St. Regis, dined at Caravelle, and Grenouille, and Lutece. They had gone to an enormous party for American designers, attended several black-tie dinners, taken long walks in the park. This time there would be no St. Regis, no Lutece, no quiet, shared moments. She had left him now. She couldn't even wander with her memories anymore, see him in all the familiar corners of their home. There were no familiar corners. No familiar people. Only Natasha and her child and Isabella's own. Nothing that had been a part of Amadeo's life was left to her, and she was sorry suddenly that she hadn't brought something along. Something of his, to look at and touch and remember something to remind her of the laughter and loving in his eyes. Isabellezza. She could still hear him call her name.

  Mamma! Mamma! Alessandro was tugging at her sleeve. They were already on the ground. Siamo qui. We're here.

  The two men looked at her quickly. Shall we go? The plane hadn't even come to a halt yet, but they were already in the aisle. The man named Steve was handing her coat to her, the other one had Alessandro in his arms. The moment the plane came to a full stop, they were propelling her into the passageway. She felt for a moment as though she were still flying, nearly lifted off the ground between them, as they hurried along. Minutes later, when they arrived at customs, the other passengers were still straggling slowly from the plane.

  The customs officer motioned to Isabella to open the bags. She unlocked them, flicking all four open as the bodyguards and Alessandro stood by.

  Purpose of your visit?

  A family trip. The customs agent cast an eye at the men on either side.

  Jesus, what if he realizes ' if he recognizes my name. '

  What are these papers? He looked at the two overstuffed bags.

  Some work I brought along.

  You're planning to work over here?

  Just on some private matters. Family matters. He glanced again into the two suitcases and then began to dig his way through her clothes. But there was very little of interest, in Alessandro's bag or hers.

  All right, go on.

  They had made it. She had made it. Now all they had to do was find Natasha, and they could go home. For a moment she stood there, staring blankly, wondering if something had gone wrong and then she saw her, running toward them, her long blond hair flying, floating silkily over a lynx coat. She was running, running, coming toward Isabella, and then suddenly they were in each other's arms, holding each other close, with Alessandro between them. He protested and then squealed as Natasha nibbled his neck.

  Ciao, Alessandro. How've you been? She took him qui
ckly from Isabella into her long lanky arms, and then the two women stood facing each other as hoarsely Natasha spoke to her. Welcome home. And then she turned back to Alessandro. Do you know how heavy you are, kiddo? How about letting him walk to the car? But quickly Isabella shook her head. His feet had barely hit the ground since Rome. It would be too easy for someone to sweep him off his feet, to grab him; he had been in someone's arms since they began the trip.

  It's all right. I'll cary him.

  I understand. And then she looked at the two bodyguards. We're out here. The small tightly knit group moved as one body toward the exit and then toward the car. A Rolls-Royce with a chauffeur, and license plates with initials Isabella didn't have time to see. Before she could catch her breath, they were whisked into the leather interior, the door had closed, the bags were stored, the men had waved, and the chauffeur pulled away from the curb.

  It was only then that Isabella realized they weren't alone in the car. There was another man in the front seat. She looked suddenly startled as he turned his head toward them and smiled. He was handsome and blue eyed, with a young face and silvery hair.

  Oh. Isabella made only one small sound as he turned.

  But Natasha was quick to pat her hand. It's all right, Isabella. This is my friend, Corbett Ewing. He nodded and extended a hand.

  I didn't mean to frighten you. I'm awfully sorry. They shook hands, and Isabella nodded stiffly. She hadn't expected to see anyone but the driver in the car. She looked at Natasha inquiringly, but Natasha only smiled and exchanged a look with Corbett. Then Isabella understood. How was the trip? It was quickly obvious that he knew only that she had arrived from Rome. His look of casual ease as he sat there told her that he knew nothing of the potential terror of the trip. For an instant, but only that, she was annoyed at Natasha for bringing him along. She didn't want to have to make polite conversation all the way into New York. But it was also obvious that he had lent them the car, and perhaps Natasha had wanted him along. They seemed to understand each other, and Isabella realized that perhaps Natasha too had been cautious and needed his strength.

  Isabella smilingly made the effort. She felt that she owed it to her friend. The trip was fine. But I think we're both ' a little ' She suddenly faltered; she was so exhausted, she could barely find her words. ' we're both very tired.

  I can imagine. He nodded again, and after a few moments he turned to the front and spoke in low tones to his driver. But Isabella's fragile beauty hadn't escaped him before he turned away.

  Chapter THIRTEEN

  The Rolls-Royce limousine pulled up sedately in front of Natasha's building as the doorman and one porter rushed instantly to their aid. Isabella stepped out, holding Alessandro tightly by the hand, a look of bewilderment on her pale, ivory face. As she stood for a moment, looking up at the building and down the long tree-lined street, it dawned on her once again how very far from home she was. In another world, another lifetime. Only the day before she had worked at San Gregorio, and lived in the villa in Rome. And now she was here, at Natasha's on Park Avenue in New York. It was six o'clock in the evening, and crowds of New Yorkers were coming home from work. It was dark and the air was chilly, but everywhere about them was a kind of excitement, a cacophony of noises, a symphony of bright lights. She had forgotten how loud and how busy New York could be, somehow madder, even more exciting than Rome. As she stood briefly on the sidewalk, watching women in jewel-colored heavy wool coats and fur hats rush past, lost in the crowd of prosperous, energetic-looking men, she suddenly wanted to go somewhere, to go for a walk, get some air. She wanted to see them, to sniff out the town, and look in the shops. It didn't matter anymore that she had hardly slept at all in almost forty hours, that she had driven and flown halfway around the world. For a moment, just a moment, she wanted to come alive again, to be one of them. Natasha watched her as the doorman removed her luggage. And from where he stood on the sidewalk, Corbett was watching her too.

  Is everything all right, Isabella?

  She looked up at him carefully. Yes, fine. And ' thank you so much for the ride.

  Not at all. And then he turned to Natasha. Will you two ladies be all right now?

  Of course. Natasha leaned toward him and kissed him on the cheek. I'll call you later.

  He nodded silently, watched them hurry inside and then, lost in his own thoughts, he climbed back into his car.

  Natasha and Isabella marched rapidly through the lobby and crammed into the elevator en masse as a black-uniformed man in gold braid and white gloves maneuvered the controls and the highly polished brass gate.

  Good evening, Mrs. Walker.

  Thank you, John. Good night.

  Natasha glanced at Isabella again as she fitted her key into the lock. You know, for a broad who's been traveling since God knows when this morning, you don't look half bad. Isabella smiled in answer, and a moment later Natasha had opened the door, unleashing Ashley's barking excitement, Jason's frantic greeting, and Hats-tie's hello. The smells and sounds of the apartment overwhelmed Isabella as she came through the door. There was none of the palatial perfection of her villa on the Via Appia Antica, yet the apartment suited Natasha to perfection. Had Isabella designed a setting to show off Natasha's striking beauty, it would have been precisely what she saw now. The living room was enormous, ice-white with dollops of richly textured cream, smooth white fabrics, white leather, white walls, long mirrored panels, and much chrome. There were stark glass tables that seemed suspended in thin air, delicate lighting, a white marble fireplace, and plants that hung airily from the ceiling to the floor. The large handsome modern paintings were the only splash of bold color in the room.

  Do you like it?

  It's exquisite.

  Come on. I'll give you a tour. Or are you too dead to move? The southern drawl was as gentle as ever, like a gentle southern breeze on a warm summer night. As always it seemed incongruous with Natasha's rapid pace, her determined step, her colorful language. She seemed to embody everything New York, until you heard the soft drawl, saw the big wistful blue eyes and the long golden hair.

  Isabella was suddenly smiling and she wanted to see more. Alessandro had already disappeared with Hattie and Jason, the little brown spaniel yipping at their heels.

  They had just entered Natasha's bedroom. Natasha sprawled into a chair. You hate it? Be honest. I don't know what happened to me when I did this room.

  I know what happened. It's a dream. The rest of the apartment was starkly modern, but in her bedroom Natasha had gone totally wild. In the middle of the room was a richly ornate antique four-poster, draped in clouds of silky white, with cushions and ruffles and wonderful little lace pillows, and a dressing table from a Scarlett O'Hara dream. There were two blue-and-white love seats near a tiny fireplace, and near a window was a beautiful wicker chaise longue upholstered in pale blue.

  It's so wonderfully southern, Natasha. Like you. And then the two of them laughed again, as they had an aeon ago when Natasha was nineteen and Isabella twenty-one.

  C'mon, Natasha said, there's more. The dining room was done in restrained modern splendor with an enormous glass table, chrome chairs, and sideboards of thick glass. But here again Natasha had gone silently mad. The ceiling was painted blue and had been endowed with large white summery clouds.

  It's like a trip to the beach, isn't it? She had done the entire apartment with panache and humor, and somehow it also managed to look both spectacular and welcoming at the same time. A warm, cozy den managed to combine both modern wonders and old, coppers, velvets, more modern art, and a brightly crackling fire.

  They peered briefly into Natasha's office and the large friendly kitchen with the bright yellow floor. Then Natasha looked at her, smiling, her eyes dancing for a moment as she stepped to one side. And if you'll walk down that hall, Isabella, I have a surprise.

  A month before it had been an empty maid's room, crammed with boxes and old skis. But after Isabella's first phone call Natasha had set to work with a vengean
ce. Now, as she swung open the door, she almost crowed at the look in Isabella's eyes. She herself had bought yards of fabric, a delicate rose silk a decorator friend had just brought back from France. With staples and tacks and delicate trimming, she had covered the walls in the soft pink. A tiny French desk stood in the corner with a perfect little chair covered in the same rose. Some bookshelves, some plants, a beautiful little Oriental carpet in pale greens woven with shades of raspberry and the same dusty rose as the walls. There were two beautiful brass lamps on the desk and the table, a file cabinet she'd found that was actually covered in wood, and a tiny settee that had been irresistible, covered in velvet with cushions of the rose silk.

  My God, it almost looks like my boudoir. Isabella stared at her and almost gasped.

  Not quite. But I tried.

  Oh, Natasha, you didn't. How could you?

  Why not? The phone has two lines. The file cabinet is empty. And I'll share my typist with you if you're very, very nice. There was everything. Everything she could have possibly wanted. And more than that: there was a look to it, of something familiar, something warm, something from home. There were tears in her eyes again as she stared at it.

  You are truly the most extraordinary woman I know.

  Natasha squeezed Isabella's shoulders and walked back out to the hall. Now that you've seen your office, I'll show you your bedroom, but it's not quite so grand.

  How could it be? Oh, Natasha, you're amazing. Isabella was still speechless as they marched back down the main hallway the way they had come. On the way they passed Jason's room, where the boys were already tearing apart Alessandro's suitcase while Hattie ran a bath.

  Va b+?ne, tes+|ro? she called out to Alessandro from the door.

  S+1/4, ciao! He waved happily at her and disappeared under the bed with Jason to go after the dog.

  You think your dog will survive?

  Don't worry. Ashley's used to it. Here we are. She opened the door and stepped in ahead of Isabella. The room was not as frilly as Natasha's, nor as starkly modern as the rest of the house. It was warm and cozy and pleasant, done in rich bottle greens and antique French rugs. There were narrow glass tables and a dark green velvet chair. The bedspread was done in the same heavy velvet, and on the foot of the bed was a length of dark fur, folded neatly, like something from a baronial manor in a distant wintry land. A fire was burning in the marble fireplace. Dark red roses stood in a cut-crystal vase on a low table. In the corner was an armoire with magnificently paneled malachite doors.