to Love Again (1981) Read online

  He was waiting with the car in ten minutes as she had requested, and stealthily she crept from the house. She didn't want Alessandro to see her, didn't want to answer the questions in his eyes. She had told him for the past four days that she was sick and didn't want to give him her germs so he had to keep busy and play with Mamma Teresa, his nurse, in his room or outside. Papa was on a trip; the school had called, and everyone was having a vacation. Thank God, he was only five. But she succeeded in avoiding him once again on her way out and was suddenly grateful for Maria Teresa's busy routine for the child. She couldn't have dealt with him just then, couldn't have faced him without holding him too tight and bursting out in a fierce, frightened cry.

  Va meglio, signora? Enzo gazed at her thoughtfully in the rearview mirror as they pulled away, and she only nodded tersely as her unmarked police escort discreetly pulled away from the curb.

  Si. She gave him the address of the shop next to Paccioli's, not very far from her own house of couture, and decided that she didn't give a damn if Enzo knew why she was going there. If he was one of the conspirators, then let him know that she was doing her best. The bastards. There was no one left she could trust. Not now. And not ever again. And Bernardo, damn him, how could he have been so right? She fought back tears again as they drove to the address. The ride took less than fifteen minutes, and she made a quick business of stopping briefly in two boutiques and then disappearing quickly inside Paccioli's. Like the House of San Gregorio, it was a discreet facade, in this case marked only by the address. She stepped into the silent beige womb and spoke to a young woman at a large Louis XV desk.

  I want to see Signore Paccioli. Even in a scarf and no makeup, it was difficult to divest herself of her tone of command. But the young woman was unimpressed.

  I'm terribly sorry, but Mister Paccioli is in a meeting. Clients are here from New York. She looked up as though expecting Isabella to understand. But she had missed her mark. And the anonymous brown leather bag on Isabella's shoulder was cutting into her skin.

  I don't care. Tell him it's ' Isabella.

  The woman hesitated, but this time only for a moment Very well. There was something desperate about the woman, something frighteningly crazy about her eyes as she kept shifting her handbag higher up on her shoulder. For an insane moment the young woman prayed that this oddly disheveled stranger was not carrying a gun. But in that case there was all the more reason to summon Mr. Paccioli from inside. She walked down a long narrow hall, leaving Isabella alone with two blue-uniformed guards. And she returned in less than a minute, with Alfredo Paccioli walking hurriedly at her side. He was somewhere in his early sixties, almost bald, with a delicate white fringe that matched his mustache and somehow accented his laughing blue eyes.

  Isabella, cara, come stai? Shopping for something to show with the collections?

  But she only shook her head. May I speak to you for a moment?

  Of course. He looked at her more closely then and didn't like what he saw. Something was terribly wrong with her. As though she were very ill, or perhaps a little bit mad. What she did a moment later almost confirmed it as she silently yanked open the brown bag and pulled the silk-wrapped bundle out, spilling its contents on his desk.

  I want to sell it. All of it. Then had she gone mad? Or was it a fight with Amadeo? Had he been unfaithful? What in God's name was wrong?

  Isabella ' dearest ' you can't mean it. But that that piece has been in your family for years. He gazed in horror at the emeralds, the diamonds, the rubies, the ring he had sold to Amadeo only months before.

  I have to. Don't ask me why. Please. Alfredo, I need you. Just do it.

  Are you serious? Had their business gone suddenly bad?

  Absolutely. And he could see now that she was neither ill nor insane, but something was very seriously, desperately wrong.

  It may take a little time. He lovingly fingered the exquisite pieces, thinking of finding each one a home. But it was not a task that he relished. It was like selling family or auctioning off a child. Is there truly no other way?

  None. And I don't have any time. Give me whatever you can for them now. Yourself. And don't discuss this with anyone. No one. It's a matter of ' it's ' oh, God, Alfredo, please. You must help me. Her eyes filled suddenly with tears, and he reached out a hand as his eyes questioned hers.

  I'm almost afraid to ask. Twice before something like this had happened. Once, a year before. And the second time only a week before. It had been horrible' terrible ' and it hadn't worked.

  Don't ask. I can't answer you. Just help me. Please.

  All right. All right. How much do you need? Ten million dollars. Oh, God.

  You can't give me what I need. Just give me what you can. In cash.

  He looked startled and then nodded. I can give you he made a rapid calculation of the cash he had available at the time perhaps two hundred thousand today. And perhaps the same again in a week.

  Can't you give it all to me today? She looked desperate again, and for a moment he wondered if she might faint on his desk.

  I can't, Isabella. We just made an enormous purchase in the Far East. All of our main assets are in stones right now. And quite obviously that's not what you want. He glanced down at the small mountain of diamonds and then back into her eyes with a thought. Suddenly he felt as frightened as she. Her desperation was contagious. Can you wait a minute while I make some calls?

  To whom? Her eyes were instantly filled with terror, and he saw her hands shake again.

  Trust me. To some colleagues, some friends. Perhaps among us we can come up with some more money. And ' Isabella' . He hesitated, but he thought he had understood. It must be ' cash?

  Yes.

  Then he was right. Now his own hands shook. I'll do what I can. He sat down next to her, picked up the phone, and called five or six friends. Jewelers, furriers, one somewhat shady banker, a professional gambler who had been a customer and become a friend. Among all of them he could come up with another three hundred thousand dollars in cash. He told her and she nodded. That gave her five hundred thousand. Half a million dollars. It was one twentieth of what they wanted. Five percent. His eyes sought hers with a look of sorrow. Won't that help? He found himself praying that it would.

  It will have to. How do I get it?

  I'll send a courier out immediately. I'll take what I think we need in jewels for the other jewelers. She watched dispassionately as he took a few pieces. When he took the diamond, she bit her lip to hold back the tears. Nothing mattered only Amadeo.

  This should do it. I should have the money here in an hour. Can you wait?

  She nodded tersely. Send your messenger out the back door.

  I'm being watched?

  No. I am. But my car is out front, and they may be watching who leaves here. He asked no further questions. There was no need.

  Do you want some coffee while you wait? She only shook her head, and he left her after gently patting her arm. He felt so helpless and he was. She sat in solitary silence for a little over an hour, waiting, thinking, trying not to let her mind drift back to the agonizingly tender moments they had shared. Thinking back to first times and last times, and funny times, to seeing him with tiny Alessandro in his arms for the first time; to their first collection, which they presented with outrageous courage and delight; to their honeymoon; their first vacation; their first house; and the first time they had made love, and the last time only four days before' . They tore at her heart in a way she couldn't bear. The moments and voices and faces crowded into her head as she attempted to push them away, as she felt panic rising in her soul. It was an endless hour until at last Alfredo Paccioli returned. The exact amount was in a long brown envelope. Five hundred thousand dollars in cash.

  Thank you, Alfredo. I will be grateful to you all my life. And Amadeo's. It wasn't ten million. But it was a start. If the police were right, and the kidnappers were indeed amateurs, perhaps even half a million would look good to them. It would have to. It was a
ll she had now that all the accounts were frozen.

  Isabella ' is there is there anything I can do?

  Silently she shook her head, opened the door, and strode out, hurrying past the young woman at the desk, who was pleasantly bidding her good day, and then as she heard her, Isabella stopped.

  What did you say?

  I said, good morning, Mrs. di San Gregorio. I heard Mister Paccioli mention collections and I realized that you were ' I'm sorry ' I didn't recognize you at first ' I

  You didn't. Isabella turned on her fiercely. You didn't recognize me, because I was never here. Is that clear?

  Yes ' yes ' I'm sorry' . Good God, the woman was truly mad. But there was something else about her too. Something ' the bag ' it didn't look so heavy now. She swung it over her shoulder as though it were suddenly light. What had she had in there that had been so important and so heavy?

  Did you understand me? Isabella was still staring at the receptionist, the exhaustion of three sleepless nights making her indeed look crazy. Because if you didn't, if you tell anyone, anyone that I was here, you will be out of a job. Permanently. I'll see to it.

  I understand. So she was selling her jewelry then. The bitch. The young woman nodded politely as Isabella hurried out the door.

  Isabella had Enzo drive her straight home. She sat waiting for hours by the phone. She never moved. She just sat there in her bedroom, behind a locked door. An inquiry about lunch from Louise brought only a terse no. The vigil wore on. They had to call. It was Monday. They wanted the money by the next day. They would have to tell her where to leave it and precisely when.

  But by seven that evening they still hadn't called. She had heard Alessandro clattering through the halls and the voice of Mamma Teresa admonishing him to remember that his mother had the flu. And then all was silent again, until at last there came a fierce banging on the door.

  Let me in. It was Bernardo.

  Leave me alone. She didn't want him in the room if they should call. She wouldn't even tell him about the jewelry. He'd probably tell the police. And she'd had enough of that nonsense. She was taking care of it now. She could promise them a million dollars half tomorrow, the other half by next week.

  Isabella, I have to talk to you. Please.

  I'm busy.

  I don't care. Please. I must ' there's something I I have to show you. For a moment she heard his voice crack.

  And then she told him, Slip it under the door.

  It was the evening paper. Page five. Isabella di San Gregorio was seen at Paccioli's today ' It described what she had worn, how she had looked and almost every item she had just sold. But how? Who? Alfredo? And then she knew. The girl. The eager little bitch at the desk. Isabella's heart dropped as she unlocked the door.

  Bernardo was standing there, crying silently, staring at the floor.

  Why did you do that?

  I had to. But suddenly her voice was flat. If it was in the papers, then the kidnappers would know too. And they would know more: that if she was selling her jewelry, her accounts were probably frozen. They would know that she had told the police. Oh, no.

  They said nothing more to each other. Bernardo simply walked into the room and silently took his place by the phone.

  The call came at nine. It was the same voice, the same man.

  Capito, signora. You squealed.

  I didn't. Really. But her voice had the frantic ring of untruth. But I had to get more money. We couldn't get enough.

  You'll never get enough. Even if you didn't tell the cops, they'll know now. They'll come snooping around. Someone will tell them if you don't.

  But no one else knows.

  Bullshit. How dumb do you think we are? Listen, you want to say good-bye to your old man?

  No, please ' wait ' I have money for you. A million' . But he wasn't listening, and Amadeo was already on the phone.

  Isabelleza' darling' everything's all right.

  Everything's all right? Was he crazy? But she didn't care if he was. He had never sounded so good to her, and her heart had never turned over, then soared as it did now. He was still there, somewhere; they hadn't hurt him. May be everything would be all right. As long as Amadeo was still there, somewhere, anywhere, it was all right.

  You've been a very brave girl, darling. How's Allessandro? Does he know?

  Of course not. And he's fine.

  Good. Kiss him for me. She thought she heard his voice tremble then and she shut her eyes tightly. She couldn't cry. Not now. She had to be as brave as he thought she was. Had to be. For him. I want you ' always ' to know how much I love you, he was saying. How perfect you are. What a good wife. You've never given me a single unhappy day, darling. Not one. She was openly crying now and fighting back the sobs that clutched at her throat.

  Amadeo, darling, I love you. So much. Please ' come home.

  I will, darling. I will. I promise you. And I'm right there with you now. Just be brave for a little while longer.

  You too, my beloved. You too. With that the connection was silently severed.

  The police found him in the morning near a warehouse in a suburb of Rome, strangled and still very beautiful, and very dead.

  Chapter FOUR

  Police cars surrounded the limousine as Enzo guided it slowly into the heart of Rome. She had chosen a church near the House of San Gregorio, not far from the Piazza di Spagna. Santo Stefano. They had gone there when they were first courting and wanted to stop somewhere to rest for a moment after their long walks during lunch. It was ancient and simple and pretty and seemed more appropriate to her than the more elaborate cathedrals of Rome.

  Bernardo sat beside her in the car as she stared unseeingly forward, looking only at the back of Enzo's head. Was it he? Was it someone else? Who were the betrayers? It didn't matter now. Amadeo was gone. Taking with him the warmth and the laughter, the love and the dreams. Gone. Forever. She was still in shock.

  It had been two days since her visit to Alfredo Paccioli, when she had gone clutching her scarf filled with jewels. Two days. She felt leaden, as though she also had died.

  Isabella ' bella mia. Bernardo was gently touching her arm. Silently he took her hand. There was so little he could do. He had wept for an hour when the police called him with the news. And again when Alessandro had flown into his arms.

  They killed my Daddy' they' they' .

  The child had sobbed as Isabella stood by, letting him find what solace he could from a man. He would have no man now, no father, no Amadeo. He had looked at his mother with such terror in his dark, unhappy eyes. Will they ever take you? No, she had answered. No, never. As she held him so tightly in her arms. And they will never take you either, tes+|ro. You are mine.

  It had been more than Bernardo could bear as he watched them and now this. Isabella, frozen and icelike in black coat and hat and stockings and a thick black veil. It only enhanced her beauty, only made her seem more, rather than less. He had brought her back all the jewelry without saying a word. Today she was wearing only her wedding ring and the large anniversary solitaire she had gotten only a few months before. Was that all? Was it only five days since they had last seen him? Would he truly never return? Bernardo had felt like a five-year-old child himself as he had looked down on the face of Amadeo di San Gregorio, so still and peaceful in death. He looked more than ever like the statues, the paintings, the young graceful boys of long-ago Rome. And now he was gone.

  Bernardo helped her quietly from the car and held her arm tightly as they stepped inside. Police and guards at every entrance, and armies of mourners seated inside.

  The funeral was brief and unbearably painful. Isabella sat silently next to him, tears rolling relentlessly down her face beneath the black veil. Employees and friends and relatives were sobbing openly. Even the gargoyle was there, with her gold and ebony cane.

  It seemed years before they returned to the house. Contrary to tradition, Isabella had let it be known that she would see no one at home. No one. She wanted to be left
alone. Who knew which of them had betrayed him? But Bernardo knew now that it was unlikely to be someone of their acquaintance. Even the police had no clue. They assumed, probably correctly, that it had been lucky amateurs, greedy for a piece of the San Gregorio wealth. There were no fingerprints, no bits of evidence, no witnesses, there had been no more calls. And there wouldn't be, the police were sure of it. Except from the hundreds, maybe thousands, of cranks who would start their macabre games. The police manned her telephone now, waiting for the onslaught of minor madmen who took pleasure in haunting and taunting and teasing, confessing, and threatening, or breathing obscenities into the phone. They had told Isabella what she could expect. Bernardo cringed at the thought of it; she had been through enough.

  Where's Alessandro? Bernardo sipped a cup of coffee after the funeral, thinking how unbearably empty the house suddenly seemed and ashamed to find himself grateful that if it had to be someone, it had been Amadeo and not the child. Isabella wouldn't have been able to make that choice. But to Bernardo it was clear. As it would have been to Amadeo. He would have gladly sacrificed himself to spare his only child.

  He's in his room with the nurse. Do you want to see him? Isabella looked at him lifelessly over her cup.

  I can wait. I wanted to talk to you about something anyway.

  What? She wasn't easy to talk to these days, and she wouldn't let the doctor give her anything to help. Bernardo guessed accurately that she hadn't really slept in almost a week.

  I think you need to get away.

  Don't be absurd. She set her cup down viciously and stared at him. I'm fine.

  You look it. He stared back at her, and for a moment she gave in to the flicker of a smile. It was the first taste of the old tension between them in a week. It felt comfortable and familiar.

  All right, I'm tired. But I'll be fine.

  Not if you stay here.

  You're wrong. This is where I need to be. Near his things, his home ' near ' him. '