to Love Again (1981) Read online

  As Isabella stood outside Amadeo's office door for a moment, she smiled to herself. She could never see that door without thinking of the first time she had seen it and these halls. They had been different then. Handsome but not as strikingly elegant as they were now. She had made them something more, as Amadeo had made her something more. She grew in his presence. She felt infinitely precious, and totally safe. Safe enough to be what she was, to do what she wanted, to dare, to move in a world with no limits at all. Amadeo made her feel limitless, he had shown her that she was, that she could be everything she wanted to be and do everything she wanted to do, and she did it all with the power of his love.

  She knocked softly on the door few people knew about. It led directly into his private office. It was a door only she and Bernardo used. And the answer came quickly. She turned the handle and walked in. For a moment they said nothing, they only looked as the same thrill swept through her soul that she had felt since she had first seen him. He smiled in answer. He felt it too. There was unfettered pleasure in his eyes, a kind of gentle adoration that always drew her to his arms like a magnet. It was the gentleness in him that she loved so much, the kindness, the compassion he always had. His was a different fire from hers. His was a sacred flame that would burn forever, held aloft for the sad and weary, a proud light, a beacon to all. Hers was a torch that danced in the night sky, so bright and beautiful that one almost feared to approach it. But no one feared to approach Amadeo. He was eminently welcoming. Everyone wanted to be close to him, although in truth, only Isabella was. And Bernardo too, of course, but differently.

  Allora, Isabellezza. What brings you here today? I thought we settled everything yesterday. He sat back in his chair, one hand held out to her, as she took it.

  More or less. But I had a few more ideas. A few' . He laughed at the word. A few with Isabella meant thirty-five, or forty-seven, or a hundred and three. Isabella never had a few of anything, not a few ideas, or a few jewels, or a few clothes. Amadeo smiled broadly as she bent for a moment to kiss his cheek and he reached out and touched her hand.

  You look beautiful today. The light in his eyes bathed her in sunshine.

  Better than this morning? They both laughed. She had been wearing a new cream on her face, her hair tied up high on her head, a comfortable dressing gown, and his slippers.

  But Amadeo only shook his head. No. I think I liked you better this morning. But ' I like this too. Is it one of ours?

  Of course. Would I wear anything not ours? For a moment the dark eyes flashed into his green ones.

  It looks like one of your grandfather's designs. He studied her carefully, narrowing his eyes. He had a way of seeing and knowing all.

  You're very smart. I stole it from his nineteen thirty-five collection. Not totally, of course. Just the flavor. She grinned. And the pleats.

  He smiled at her in amusement and bent toward her again for a rapid kiss. The flavor is excellent.

  It's a good thing we don't work together full time anymore, we'd never get anything done. Sometimes I wonder how we ever did. She sat back in her seat, admiring him. It was impossible not to. He was the Greek god of a hundred paintings in the Uffizi in Florence, the statue of every Roman boy, long, lean, graceful, elegant; yet there was more. The green eyes were knowing, wicked, wise, amused. They were quick and certain, and despite the golden Florentine beauty of his genes, there was strength there as well, power and command. He was the head of the House of San Gregorio, he had been the heir to a fairly major throne, and now he wore the mantle of his position well. It suited him. He looked like the head of an empire, or perhaps a very large bank. The neatly tailored pin-striped suit accentuated his height and narrow figure, yet the broad shoulders were his own. Everything about Amadeo was his own. There was nothing fake or flawed about him, nothing borrowed, nothing stolen, nothing unreal. The elegance, the aristocratic good looks, the warmth in his eyes, the quick wit, the sharp mind, and the concern he had for those around him. And the passion for his wife.

  What are you doing down here all dressed up today by the way? Other than sharing a few' ideas with me, of course. He smiled again as their eyes met, and Isabella broke into a smile.

  I'm having lunch with some ladies.

  Sounds terrible. Can I lure you to a room at the Excelsior instead?

  You might, but I have a date with another man after lunch. She said it smugly, and laughter danced in her eyes, as well as his.

  My rival, Bellezza? But he had no cause to worry and he knew it.

  Your son.

  In that case, no Excelsior. Peccato. A pity.

  Next time.

  Indeed. He stretched his legs out ahead of him happily, like a long, lazy cat in the sun.

  All right. Shut up. We have work to do.

  +ecco. The woman I married. Tender, romantic, gentle.

  She made one of their son's horrible faces, and they both laughed as she pulled a sheaf of notes out of her handbag. In the sunlight in his office he saw the sparkle of the large emerald-cut diamond ring he had bought her that summer for their tenth anniversary. Ten carats, of course. What else? Ten carats for ten years.

  The ring looks nice.

  She nodded happily as she looked down at it. It looked good on her long, graceful hands. Isabella wore everything well. Particularly ten-carat diamonds. It does. But you look nicer. I love you by the way. She pretended to be flip, but they both knew she was not.

  I love you too. They shared a last smile before plunging into work. It was better now. Better when they weren't together every day. By the end of the afternoon he was always hungry for her and anxious to get home. And there was something special now about their meetings, their evenings, their lunches, their days. She was mysterious to him again. He found himself wondering what she was doing all day, where she was, what she was wearing, as the thought of her perfume filled his mind.

  You don't think the American line is too subdued? I wondered about that last night. She squinted at him, not seeing him but the designs she and Gabriela had gone over the day before.

  I don't. And Bernardo was ecstatic.

  Shit. She returned her eyes to his with genuine concern. Then I'm right. Amadeo laughed at her, but she didn't smile. I'm serious. I want to change four of the fabrics and add one or two of the pieces for France to that line. Then it'll work. She looked certain, as she always did. And she was rarely wrong. That absolute certainty of hers had won them fashion awards for ten years. I want to bring in those purples, and the reds, and the white coat. Then it will be perfect.

  Work it out with Bernardo and tell Gabriela.

  I already did. Tell Gabriela, I mean. And Bernardo's new soap for the men's line is all wrong. It hung in my nose all afternoon.

  That's bad?

  Terrible. A woman's perfume should stay with you. The smell of a man should only come to you as you go to him and leave you with only a memory. Not a headache.

  Bernardo will be thrilled. For a moment he looked tired. Occasionally Isabella and Bernardo's wars exhausted him. They were essential to the business though, and he knew it. Without the fierce pull of Isabella and the stern anchor of Bernardo the House of San Gregorio would have been very different than it was. But as the axle that kept the two wheels from flying off in separate directions, he felt the strain on him was at times more than he enjoyed. But as a three-some they were a miraculous team, and all three of them knew it. And when all was said and done, somehow they always managed to stay friends. He would never understand it. With Isabella raging and calling Bernardo names that he had never even dreamed she knew, and Bernardo looking as though he might at last commit murder, he would then find them after hours in one of the private fitting rooms, drinking champagne and finishing a plateful of the day's sandwiches like two children at their own tea party after the grown-up guests have gone home. He would never be able to figure it out; he was just grateful that it worked that way. Now, with a sigh, he looked at his watch. Do you want me to call him in? He never ha
d to deliver messages for Isabella. She always delivered them herself. Straight from the hip. To the groin.

  You'd better. I have to be at lunch at noon. She looked at the unreadable watch. That had been a present from him too.

  God. We're playing second fiddle to ladies' lunches now. But there was laughter in his eyes. He knew that in Isabella's life that would never be true. Other than himself, and Alessandro, it was the business that Isabella lived for, that kept her breathing and kicking and eight hundred percent alive.

  Amadeo picked up the phone and spoke briefly to his secretary. She'd call Mr. Franco at once. Which indeed she did, and he came at once as always. He strode into the room like an explosion, and suddenly Amadeo could feel Isabella tense. She was already preparing for battle.

  Ciao, Bernardo. Isabella smiled casually at him as he walked into the office in one of a hundred dark suits that he owned, all of which looked exactly the same to Isabella. He wore the same gold pocket watch on each one of them, the same impeccably starched white shirts, and ties that were usually dark with tiny, tiny white dots. Or when he felt very outrageous, tiny red ones. I love your suit. It was their standing joke. She always told him that his suits were excessively boring. But the simplicity of his suits was part of his style.

  Listen, you two, don't start today. I'm not in the mood. Amadeo looked ominously at them, but as always his eyes laughed even when his lips did not. Besides, she has to be at lunch in forty minutes. We're only second best to her lunches now.

  That figures. Bernardo squeezed out a small smile and sat down. How's my godson?

  Alessandro is perfect. The dining room curtains, however, are not. Amadeo started to grin as Isabella told the tale. He loved the boy's mischievousness, the fire in the dark eyes so much like hers. When I was here yesterday, solving your problems for you she raised an eyebrow, waiting for Bernardo to take the bait, and was clearly disappointed when he did not he borrowed my manicure scissors and fixed' them, as he put it. He cut off roughly a meter which, he tells me, got in his way everytime he drove his favorite truck along the window. He couldn't see the garden. Now he can see the garden. Perfectly, in fact. But she was laughing too, as was Bernardo. When he smiled like that, twenty of his thirty-eight years fell away from him and he was barely more than a boy himself. But he had worked too long, and when he wasn't being amused by tales of Alessandro, he often looked austere. Much of the weight of the House of San Gregorio was on his shoulders and it often showed. He had worked hard and well for them, and it had taken its toll. Never married, childless, too much alone, and too often at work, late at night, early in the morning, on Saturdays, on holidays and holy days and days when he should have been somewhere else, with someone else. But he lived for what he did, he wore his responsibilities like his dark suits; they were a part of him, like his hair, almost as dark as Isabella's, and his eyes, the color of the Roman summer sky. His was the face the models fell for. But they meant little to him. They amused him for an evening or two, not more. Your new soap doesn't work. As usual she gave it to him straight, and Amadeo almost winced, waiting for the battle to begin.

  Bernardo sat very still. Why not?

  It gave me a headache. It's too heavy.

  If someone cut my dining room curtains in half, I'd get a headache too.

  I'm serious. Her eyes leveled ominously into his.

  So am I. Our tests all show it's perfect. No one else felt it was too heavy.

  Maybe they had bad colds and couldn't smell it.

  Bernardo rolled his eyes and burrowed back into his chair. For God's sake, Isabella, I just told them to go ahead on production. What the hell do you want me to do now?

  Stop it. It's wrong. Just like the cologne was wrong at first, and for the same reasons. This time Amadeo closed his eyes. She had been right about that one too, but it had been a battle Bernardo had lost with pain. And fury. He and Isabella had barely spoken to each other for a month.

  Bernardo's lips tightened, and he dug his hands into the pockets of his vest. The soap has to be strong. You use it with water. In the bath. You rinse it off. The scent goes away. He explained it to her through narrowed lips.

  Capisco. I've used soap before. Mine doesn't give me a headache. Yours does. I want it changed.

  Goddamn it, Isabella! He slammed a fist on Amadeo's desk and glared at her, but she was unmoved.

  She smiled victoriously at him. Tell them at the lab to work overtime on it, and you won't be held up in production by more than two or three weeks.

  Or months. Do you know then what happens to the ads we've already run? They're wasted.

  They'll be more so if you go ahead with the wrong product. Trust me. I'm right. She smiled slowly at him then, and Bernardo looked for a moment as though he might explode.

  Do you have any other pleasant surprises for me this morning?

  No, just have a few additions to the American line. I already talked to Gabriela about them. They don't present a problem.

  My God, why not? You mean it will be easy? Isabella, no! But suddenly he was smiling again. He had a vast capacity for fury and forgiveness.

  You'll let me know about the soap? She honed in on him again.

  I'll let you know.

  Good. Then that takes care of everything, and I don't even have to run off to lunch for another twenty minutes. Amadeo grinned at her, and she ensconced herself on the arm of her husband's chair and gently touched his cheek with her hand. And as she did so the anniversary diamond caught the bright sunlight and dashed it in a shower of rainbow reflections against the far wall. She saw Bernardo watch it with a look of sudden displeasure and she looked amused. What's the matter, Nardo, one of your girl friends giving you a bad time again?

  Very amusing. As it so happens, I've been chained to my desk for the last week. I'm beginning to feel like the house eunuch. Amadeo's brows knit with a sudden frown. He was worried they were working him too hard, but Isabella knew that Bernardo's sudden look of woe stemmed from something else. She knew him too well to believe he minded being overworked any more than she did. And she was right in thinking that he did not. They were all three tremendously overworked, and they loved it. Bernardo was only a trifle more compulsive than his two friends. But he was now looking genuinely disturbed as he glanced from Isabella's large diamond ring to her pearls. You're crazy to wear that, Isabella. And then with a meaningful look at Amadeo: I told you that last week.

  What's this all about? Isabella looked from one to the other in amused consternation, and then her eyes settled on her husband's kind face. He's trying to get you to take back my ring?

  More or less. Amadeo looked suddenly very Italian as he shrugged.

  But Bernardo was not enjoying their game. You know damn well that isn't what I meant or what I said. You know what happened to the Belloggios last week. It could happen to you.

  A kidnapping? Isabella looked stunned. Don't be ridiculous, Nardo. The Belloggio brothers were the two most important political men in Rome. They knew everyone and they wielded an extraordinary amount of power. The terrorists all hated them as capitalist symbols.

  They also knew they were worth a bloody fortune. And their wives trotted around this town looking like an ad for Van Cleef. You don't think that had anything to do with it?

  No. Isabella looked undisturbed, and then she stared at Bernardo again. What's gotten into you? Why should you suddenly start worrying about that? Are you having trouble with your ulcer again? That always makes you peculiar.

  Stop it, Isabella. Don't be childish. That's the fourth major kidnapping this year, and contrary to what both of you seem to think, not all kidnappings happening in Europe these days are political. Some of them just happen because people are rich and they let the whole damn world know it.