To Love Again (11 page)

Mamma! Alessandro began, then stopped. She hadn't looked like that since they had told him four months before that she had the flu, and that had been when' . Looking at her, frightened, reminded, he ran toward her and began to cry.

Clutching him warmly against her, her voice wracked by sobs, she looked at Mamma Teresa. Where were you?

We went for a ride. The elderly nurse was beginning to understand what must have happened as she looked at Isabella and the phalanx of guards. I thought a change would do the boy good.

Nothing happened? Mamma Teresa shook her head as Isabella looked back at Bernardo. Then it was only ' another one of those calls, she said. But she had believed them. It had been so like those others, those horrible threatening voices. And how had they gotten through? She felt herself swaying and was dimly aware of someone removing the child from her arms.

Five minutes later she came to in her room with Bernardo and one of the maids standing over her, staring anxiously as she returned from unconsciousness.

Grazie. Bernardo nodded dismissal to the maid, handed Isabella a glass of water, and sat down at the edge of the bed. He looked almost as pale as Isabella. She sipped the water silently from a glass held in a trembling hand.

Do you want me to call the doctor?

She shook her head, and they sat for a moment, shaken, silent, stunned by what they had thought.

How did they get through? Isabella said finally.

One of the guards says there is something wrong with the lines today. The intercept system on the phones at the office must have gone out for a few minutes. Or maybe they just missed the call. It could have rang in Amadeo's office for any reason. Even a crossed wire.

But why would they do that to me? Oh, God, Bernardo' . She closed her eyes and leaned her head back on her pillows for a moment And poor Luisa.

Never mind Luisa.

I'll go to see her in a few minutes. I just thought

So did I. I thought this was for real, Isabella. And what if one day it is? What if someone takes him too? He stared at her mercilessly as she closed her eyes and shook her head.

Don't say that.

What will you do? Add another dozen guards to the retinue? Build a fortress just for you and the boy? Have a heart attack the next time you get a crank call?

I'm not old enough to have a heart attack. She looked at him bleakly with an attempt at a smile, but Bernardo did not return it.

You can't live like this any longer. And don't make me speeches about what you're doing for Amadeo, about taking his place. If he knew what you were doing, how you were living, locked in, here, in the office, keeping the child locked up. If he knew the risks you're taking with that boy just by continuing to live in Rome, he would kill you, Isabella. You know it yourself. Don't you dare ever try to justify this by telling me that you're doing it all for him. Amadeo would never forgive you. And maybe one day neither will Alessandro. You are giving him a childhood of terror, not to mention what you're doing to yourself. How dare you! How dare you! Bernardo's voice had risen steadily as he spoke. He stalked around the room, turning to glare at her, waving his hands. He ran one hand through his hair and then sat down again, regretting his own outburst, prepared for Isabella's wrath. But as he looked at her he was stunned to realize that this time Isabella hadn't told him to go to hell. She hadn't invoked the sacred name of Amadeo, hadn't told him that she knew she was right.

What do you think I should do? Run away? Leave Rome? Hide for the rest of my life? she said. But there was no sarcasm this time. Only the shadow of the terror she had just felt again.

You don't need to hide for the rest of your life. But maybe you have to do something like that for a while.

And then what? Bernardo, how can I? She sounded like a frightened, tired, little girl. Gently Bernardo reached for her hand.

You have to, Isabella. You have no choice. They'll drive you mad if you stay here. Go away. For six months, a year. We'll work it out. We can communicate. You can give me orders, instructions, ulcers, anything, but don't stay here. For God's sake, don't stay here. I couldn't bear it if' . He shocked them both by dropping his head into his hands. He was crying. ' if something happened to Alessandro or to you. He looked up at her then, the tears still flowing from his blue eyes. You're like my sister. Amadeo was my best friend. For God's sake. Go away.

Where?

You could go to Paris.

There's nothing there for me anymore. Everyone's gone. My grandfather, my parents. And if these people can do this to me here, they'll do it to me just as easily in France. Why can't I just find a secluded place in the country here, maybe not that far from Rome? If no one knows where I am, it would be the same thing.

But Bernardo looked at her angrily now. Don't start playing games. Get out, dammit! Now! Go somewhere. Anywhere. Not ten minutes out of Rome, not in Milano, in Florence. Get the hell out!

What are you suggesting? New York? She had said it sarcastically, but the moment she had said it, she knew, and so did he. She paused for a long moment, thinking, as he watched her, hoping, praying. Silently she nodded yes. She looked at him soberly, thinking it all out, and then slowly she got up from her bed and walked to the phone.

What are you doing?

The look in her eyes said that she wasn't beaten, that she hadn't given up. That there was still hope. She wouldn't stay away for a year. She wouldn't let them drive her away from her home, from her work, from where she belonged. But she would go. For a while. If it could be arranged. There was fire in her eyes again as she picked up the phone.

A long, lanky blonde, with her hair falling over one eye, sat in a tiny bright yellow room pounding away at a typewriter. At her feet a small brown cocker spaniel slept, and spread around the room were books, plants, and mountains of papers. Seven or eight coffee cups lay empty and overturned, having been checked out by the dog, and tacked over the window was a poster of San Francisco. She called it her view. It was clearly the den of a writer. And the framed covers of her last five books hung crookedly on the far wall, scattered among equally askew photographs of a yacht moored in Monte Carlo, two children on a beach in Honolulu, a president, a prince, and a baby. All of it related somehow to publishing, lovers, or friends, except for the baby, which was hers. The date on the photograph went back five years.

The spaniel stirred lazily in the winter heat of the New York apartment, and the woman at the typewriter stretched her bare feet and reached down absentmindedly to stroke the dog.

Hang in, Ashley. I'm almost through. She grabbed a black pen and made a few hasty corrections with a long slender hand, bare of rings. The voice in which she had spoken to the dog was decidedly southern. Savannah. It was a voice reminiscent of plantations and parties, elegant drawing rooms of the Deep South. It was the voice of gentility. A lady. Goddamn! She grabbed at the pen again, crossed out half a page and scrambled frantically on the floor for two pages she hadn't seen in an hour. They were there somewhere. Reworked, taped, patched. And, of course, essential. She was rewriting a book.

At thirty she still had the same shape she'd had when she'd come to New York at nineteen to model, despite her family's violent protests. She'd hung in for a year, hating it, but admitting it to no one, except her beloved roommate from Rome, who had come to the States for a year to study American design. Like Natasha, Isabella had come to New York for a year. But Natasha had taken a year off from college to try and make it on her own. It was not what her parents had had in mind for her. Rich in aristocratic southern ancestry and poor in cold cash, they wanted her to finish school and marry a nice southern boy, which was not what Natasha had in mind.

At nineteen all she had wanted was to get out of the South, get to New York, make money, and be free. And she had. She'd made money as a model and then as a free-lance writer. She'd even been free, for a while. Until she met and married John Walker, theater critic. A year later they had had a child and a year after that, they'd had a divorce. All she had left was a great body, a sensational face, a talent for writing, and a fifteen-month-old child. And five years later she had written five novels and two movies, and in the literary world she was a star.

She had moved to a large comfortable co-op on Park Avenue, put her son in a private school, hired a housekeeper, invested her money and Natasha Walker was having a ball. Having acquired success to add to her beauty, Natasha had it all.

Mrs. Walker? There was a soft knock on her door.

Not now, Hattie. I'm working. Natasha pushed the long blond hair out of her eyes and began to sift through the pile of papers again.

Are you sure? There's a phone call. I think it's important.

Take my word for it. It's not.

But they said it's from Rome.

The door was opened before Hattie could add another word to her exhortation. There was no longer any need. Natasha marched across the kitchen, her bare feet long and slender on the bright yellow floor, her tight jeans showing her hip bones, the man's shirt she wore tied just beneath her small breasts.

Why didn't you tell me it was Rome? She looked reproachfully at the black woman with the soft, curly gray hair and then flashed her a quick smile. Don't worry about it. I know what a pain in the ass I am when I'm working. Just don't go in there. No clean coffee cups, no plant watering, nothing. I need the mess. Hattie made a mock-frown at the familiar refrain and disappeared down a bright, sunny hall to the bedrooms as Natasha grabbed the phone. Yes?

Signora Natasha Walker?

Yes.

We have a communication to you from Roma. One instant, if you please. Natasha sat very still and waited. She hadn't spoken to Isabella since she'd first heard the news. She had wanted to fly to Rome for the funeral. But Isabella hadn't wanted her to. She had asked her to wait. She had written, and waited, but for the first time in the eleven years of their friendship, there had been no answers, no news. It had been four months since Amadeo had been murdered, and she had never felt as cut off from Isabella since the day she had left the apartment they'd shared for a year and gone back to Rome. She hadn't written during those first few months either, but that was because she'd been so busy with her designing, and then so much in love. So much in love Natasha could still remember the excitement in Isabella's letters when she had written to tell her: ' and he's marvelous ' and I love him ' so handsome ' so tall and blond and I'll work for him at San Gregorio, doing real couture. ' The joy and the excitement had gone on for years. It had been a permanent honeymoon with those two. And then suddenly he was dead. Natasha had sat in shock and horrified silence when she'd heard the story on the six o'clock news.

Signora Walker?

Yes, yes, I'm here.

We have your party.

Natasha? Isabella's voice was strangely subdued.

Why the hell haven't you answered my letters?

I ' don't know, Natasha. ' I didn't know what to say.

Natasha frowned and then nodded. I've been worried about you. Are you all right? The concern in her voice traveled five thousand miles to greet Isabella, who brushed the tears from her eyes and almost smiled.

I suppose so. I need a favor. It was always like that with them. They could pick up where they had left off, not speak to each other for six months, then instantly be sisters again when they met or spoke. It was one of those rare friendships that could always be put down without cooling off.

Name it, Natasha said.

Isabella briefly explained what had happened with Alessandro that day or what hadn't, but could have. I can't bear it anymore. Not like this, she said. I can't take a chance with him.

Thinking of her own child, Natasha felt a tremor just listening to the story. No one could. Do you want to send him to me? Their sons were within four months of the same age, and Natasha was not one to be undone by an additional child. Jason would love it, she added. He keeps bitching at me about not having a brother. Besides, they're two of a kind. A year before, when they'd all met to go skiing in Saint Moritz, the two boys had amused themselves by cutting off each other's hair. I'm serious, Isabella. I think you should get him out of Rome.

I agree. There was a fraction of a pause. How would you feel about having a roommate again? She waited, not knowing what Natasha would say, but her answer was instant. It took the form of a long, delighted, southern little-girl squeal. Isabella suddenly found herself laughing.

I'd love it. Are you serious?

Very. Bernardo and I have come to the conclusion that there's no other way. Just for a while. Not permanently of course. And, Natasha she paused, wondering how to explain that she was not just getting away it may be awkward. I'll have to stay hidden. I won't want anyone to know where I am.

That's going to be a bitch. You won't be able to set foot out of the apartment.

Do you really think people there would know my face?

Are you serious? Not the construction workers going to work on the subway maybe, but just about everyone else. Besides, if you do a disappearing act in Rome, it'll be in the papers all over the world.