Gabrielle told Gwen to go home then, and said she was going to stay with Federico.
“Will you try to get some rest, please? Or we’ll be here for you next.”
“No, you won’t. I don’t suffer from anxiety. You know how Italian and dramatic he is.” She rolled her eyes and Gwen laughed. Gabrielle and Federico had some major fights from time to time, with unbridled passion, and then it all blew over. Gabrielle got fiercely jealous if she thought he’d looked at another woman, and Federico did the same, with high drama.
“If you stay here, get some sleep, and give Federico my love.” Gwen kissed her mother and a minute later Gabrielle disappeared into his room. He had an ice pack on his groin, from where they had put the catheter into his artery for the angiogram. It was a frightening, unpleasant procedure and Gabrielle felt sorry for him.
“Are you all right?” she asked gently, as a nurse slipped quietly out of the room, and Gabrielle pulled a chair up next to him and sat down.
“I’m fine, let’s go home,” he insisted. But he looked more tired than he wanted to admit, and he seemed suddenly small in the bed. He had such a mane of hair, and with his bulky sweaters and heavy work boots, one forgot how thin he was. He appeared frail now, which frightened her.
“They said you can go home in the morning.”
“Then you go home now and get some sleep. I’m sorry I scared you.”
“You just did it for attention.” She smiled.
“I saw you looking at that boy tonight,” he teased her about Olivia’s new beau. “You don’t fool me. You’re a wanton woman,” he accused her with a grin.
“Well, you don’t need to fake a heart attack to find out how much I love you. You know I do.”
“Do you, Gabbie?” he asked gently, suddenly appearing vulnerable and old to her. Seeing him that way made her feel old too, although she wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone, least of all to him.
“Of course I do. I wish I could climb into bed with you,” she said gently, and he smiled.
“Why don’t you? It’ll shock the nurses. It’s good for them.” He pulled back the covers for her and she laughed and tucked him in again.
“Do you want anything?” she asked him.
“Yes,” he said with a smug look.
“What is it?”
“I think we should get married,” he said seriously. It had been his mantra for years.
“There are no shoulds at our age. We can do whatever we want.”
“Good. I want to marry you,” he said stubbornly.
“We don’t need to get married. We already are in all the ways that matter.”
“Not legally. What do you have against marriage? You’re such a rebel.” She took it as a compliment and smiled at him.
“It’s such a bourgeois institution, it’s embarrassing. We’re more creative than that.”
“We can be creative and married.” He never got anywhere with his arguments. She had been resistant to the idea of marriage all her life. Both before she married at thirty-five, which was considered old at the time, and after she was widowed at thirty-seven. She had never been tempted to try again. She had had lovers and long-term relationships, especially with him for fourteen years, but she had no desire to legalize it or make it official, and he did. “You might give me another anxiety attack if you refuse,” he threatened with a grin.
“Oh shut up. Now go to sleep, you need to rest or they won’t let you go home tomorrow.”
“I’ll leave anyway,” he said, and reached out and held her hand. They sat that way for a long time, dozing off, until at last they both fell asleep, she in the chair and he in bed, holding hands. They slept that way all night.
The nurses smiled when they came to check on him, and left the room soundlessly.
“That’s true love in there,” one of them said to the other, and they exchanged a smile. “That’s how it’s supposed to be.”
“They’re cute together. I wouldn’t mind finding one like that.”
“I don’t think they get like that till they’re about a hundred,” one nurse said, and the other laughed, and eventually, they just let them be, to sleep for the rest of the night. They never let go of each other’s hands as they slept.
Chapter 16
Eileen’s first event for Eileen Jackson Events went off seamlessly. The crystal tents arrived on time and went up without a problem. They were “crystal” because they were transparent and you could see the lush gardens through them. There were three tents on the grounds, one for eating, with tables set with gleaming crystal and silver, one for dancing, big enough for a twelve-piece band, two singers, and a dance floor that had been painted pink, and another for the ceremony, filled with pink flowers. Each tent had to accommodate all three hundred guests. There were chandeliers in each tent.
The linens were perfect, the exact shade of the bride’s dress. There was a gift for each guest at their place, a Tiffany silver heart dish, engraved with the bride and groom’s initials and the date. The flower arrangements on each table were spectacular, done by a florist Max had found who charged them a tenth of what everyone else wanted to. There were garlands of pink flowers, rented topiary trees, lily of the valley everywhere, among the pink flowers. The food was delicious, supervised by both Eileen and Max, and the wedding cake was a masterpiece. Max made it himself, in pink, with pink sugar work Eileen had done, and real flowers on it, tiny pink roses and more lily of the valley. Eileen had gotten the bride an appointment at Oscar de la Renta, for an exquisite pale pink organdie dress with a long train, which was ready on time and fit her like a glove.
The videographer showed up, and the wedding photographer had given them a decent rate.
Mrs. Melling, Sandy, had spent seven hundred thousand dollars on the wedding without batting an eye, and thought she got a deal because everything was so perfect, stress-free, and effortless for her. To make that happen, Max and Eileen had jumped through flaming hoops to get the best quality supplies, the prettiest décor, the freshest flowers, the most talented people willing to work for lower prices for the exposure. They had watched every single detail, pressured every supplier, tasted all the food, checked the quality of everything. Nothing had gone awry or escaped their notice. And the results were flawless. The bride wasn’t beautiful in a classic sense, but she looked lovely on her wedding day, had gotten the pink wedding that she dreamed of, and said everything was more beautiful than her first wedding, which was done by a famous wedding planner, had cost her parents two million dollars for five hundred people, and wasn’t nearly as nice.
Sandy Melling had thanked them a thousand times all night long. There were a few things that Eileen thought she might have done differently for efficiency’s sake, and Max agreed, but they were learning.
By the end of the evening, Eileen had had four requests for meetings with new clients, three of them for weddings and one for a fiftieth anniversary party, where they wanted everything in gold, flatware, china, crystal, tablecloths, dance floor, tents. Their business was off and running. The last guest left at four A.M., and then they had to break everything down by morning to return to the rental companies. Max and Eileen oversaw it all themselves as the men worked taking it all apart. One day, they might have staff to supervise the breakdown, but for now it was only them. They had made a handsome profit on the wedding, and Max a healthy commission, but it wasn’t the money that thrilled either of them, although that was nice. The real thrill was knowing that everything had gone perfectly, and the client was happy. No one had failed, disappointed anyone, or not shown up. And the quality of the food had been exceptional.
Everything had been broken down by eight o’clock Sunday morning, including the fancy crystal tents and the chandeliers that were removed and crated. There was a long line of trucks heading out of Sandy Melling’s driveway with the undoing of the party while she slept. It
took as big a crew to dismantle it all as to set it up.
“We did an amazing job,” Eileen said, sitting on a big crate with the chandelier in it from the dinner tent. She looked at Max as men in white overalls took away the Chivari ballroom chairs with silver backs and pale pink cushions that had been used in all the tents. There had been about eight hundred chairs in all with custom-made cushions. Every detail had been thought of and addressed. Max returned the smile as the early morning sun shone down on them. Neither of them had been to bed that night, and they were energized by their success.
“You are an amazing woman,” he said. “You’re brilliant. Your business is going to be a bigger success than you can dream of.” He was thrilled that he had come to work for her. He hadn’t imagined that she was so capable and efficient. She was relentless until every detail was addressed and problem solved, and always pleasant to work with. She never lost her temper, although he did, frequently. He said he was “just Italian.”
He walked over to her and sat down next to her on the crate. Whatever their roles of employee and boss, they had been partners for the event, and had worked equally hard and tirelessly to ensure perfection in everything, no matter how many hours it took them.
“Your pink wedding cake was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” she complimented him. They had saved the top of it at the bride’s request, to freeze for her so the couple could have it on their first anniversary, for good luck.
“Your sugar designs made the cake,” he said to her. “I’m really proud of both of us. We did a good job.”
“Better than that,” she said, leaning against him. Now that they’d stopped moving and running, she realized how tired she was, and knew he must be too. He put an arm around her, leaned down and kissed her on the mouth. She thought he was just being exuberant and Italian at first, and then the kiss went on and deepened and she was swept into it and kissed him back. She looked startled when he stopped. “What was that?”
“Un bacio,” he said in Italian. “A kiss.” He acted as though it was perfectly normal to kiss her like that.
“Did you mean to do it?” She looked shocked, not sure whether to be angry or pleased, but before she could decide, he kissed her again, harder this time to show her he meant it. “Max, what are you doing?” she asked breathlessly when he stopped.
“I’m kissing you, because you’re the most wonderful woman I’ve ever met. You’re strong and brave like a man, gentle like a woman, you’re a creative genius, and a fantastic chef. I want to be with you as a man and a woman, always.” He made it perfectly clear as he looked at her with love in his eyes. She didn’t know what to say for a minute. She hadn’t expected it, and didn’t know how to respond.
“I’m forty years old. You’re thirty-three.”
“Yes? So? Are you trying to frighten me or impress me?”
“Both.” She laughed. He didn’t seem to care about their ages.
“We are a man and a woman, we work brilliantly together. And I’m willing to work till I fall over to make your business a success. You deserve that, Eileen, and some happiness. Who takes care of you? Who watches over you while you take care of everyone else? I see what you do. Everything for others, nothing for you. I want to take care of you.” She loved being with him and working with him, they were a fantastic team, they laughed a lot and he made everything possible. He never accepted defeat, and neither did she. He was smiling as he looked at her. “Stop looking so surprised. When was the last time a man told you he loved you?”
“I can’t remember,” she said softly. Everything about him was unexpected, his age, his nationality, his talent, and now he was telling her he loved her.
The men came to take away the chandelier crate they were sitting on, and he swept her into his arms and carried her to his Fiat. She didn’t protest or attempt to get out of his arms. Her bag was already in the car. He set her gently down on the front seat and smiled at her.
“Dove andiamo, Principessa?” he asked her when he got in and turned the key in the ignition. “Where are we going, Princess?” They had been working together for three months, and he thought he had waited long enough. He had wanted to kiss her for the past two months.
She thought about his question for a minute. Knowing that she’d be working around the clock all weekend, she had sent the children to Paul at his new house. They loved it, and spent all the time they could in the pool now that school was out.
“Home, I guess,” she answered, and grinned at Max. This was not how she had expected the wedding to end. It was an interesting twist to a perfect weekend so far, and it was getting better by the minute, with his kisses and surprise announcement.
He drove to her house, parked his Fiat in the garage, and closed the doors so no one would see it there in the early morning. He didn’t want to ruin her reputation or shock her children if they drove by with their father.
“Thank you,” she said, appreciating the thoughtful gesture. She was so tired she could hardly get out of the car, but they were both smiling as he followed her into the house and locked the door behind them.
* * *
—
Olivia spent most of June in New York, running the New York branch of her business, while Jean-Pierre ran the Paris office. At the end of the month, she left to spend July and August in France with him. They were planning to go to Saint-Tropez, Corsica, and Sardinia to see friends of his for long weekends, and then she was going to come back to New York at the end of August to spend September there. She could see a lot of commuting in her future, but it was good for the business, and good for them. They were looking forward to the summer together. She wasn’t staying at the Ritz this time. She was going to stay with Jean-Pierre.
* * *
—
With Olivia gone over the Fourth of July weekend, and no plans to go away herself, Gwen decided to finish the last painting she’d been working on. She had work to do over the summer, studying the script, doing research, and preparing for her role in the movie she would start filming in September. It was a period role, and Gwen liked to steep herself in historical research about the character before she began a role like that. She wanted everything about it to be authentic, and her mother had been right, it was likely to be one of the most demanding and important parts she had ever played. She wanted to give it her full attention, so it was time to finish the painting, before her mind was engaged with something other than an Italian landscape. They were her favorite subjects to paint and she did them well. She was planning to give it to her mother for her ninety-third birthday, which was approaching. Gwen liked spending holidays in the city when everyone else was away.
She had just finished a particularly challenging section of the painting when Federico called her on Sunday morning, and spoke to her in barely more than a whisper. He hated talking on the phone, so she was surprised when he called her. He never did.
“I’m worried about your mother, but don’t tell her I called you. She’s had a bad cold for the past week. It’s gone to her chest. I think she should see a doctor, but she doesn’t want to. She has a terrible cough. I’m afraid that she might have bronchitis or something worse. Can you just call her casually and, when she coughs, insist that she see a doctor?” Gwen thanked him for alerting her and called her mother half an hour later, just to see how she was. Two minutes into the call, Gabrielle was hacking as Federico had described, in a fierce coughing fit that wouldn’t stop.
“Wow, Mother, that doesn’t sound good. Have you seen a doctor?” Gwen asked innocently. Gabrielle hated doctors and medicine and always said they killed people, and she believed it. She had avoided them all her life.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You sound like Federico. It’s just a summer cold. You don’t go to a doctor for a cold.” Gwen thought he was right. It sounded like it was deep in her chest, bronchitis at the very least.
“You don’t
want to wind up with pneumonia, Mother. You might need an antibiotic.”
“Medicine is for children. I’m not a child.” It was the kind of resistance he’d been meeting. Her mother hated any kind of medical treatment, and was rarely sick.
“I’ll call you again tomorrow to see how you are. If you’re not better, you should see someone tomorrow. Stay out of air-conditioning in the meantime. That’s lethal in the summer, especially if you already have a cold. Let me know if you need something or if there’s anything I can do to help.” It was all she could do. Her mother didn’t like being fussed over.
“You’re not a doctor, and I don’t need help.” Nothing made Gabrielle crankier than being sick. She took it as a personal affront.
But on Monday morning, Federico called Gwen secretly again, and said Gabrielle was worse. He said she had a high fever and hadn’t gotten out of bed. Gwen thanked him again and decided to go downtown to see for herself. The fever frightened her.
Federico let her into the warehouse where they lived, and she climbed the stairs to the loft they used as their bedroom. Gabrielle was in bed, shivering with fever and chills, her eyes were glazed and she had a racking cough that sounded even worse. Gwen and Federico exchanged a look while Gabrielle dozed between coughing fits.
Gwen sat down next to the bed and spoke gently to her. “I think you need to go to the hospital, Mother. I don’t want this to get any worse.” Her mother nodded and seemed distant and disconnected. She didn’t argue with Gwen, which was a bad sign. She seemed semi-conscious as they bundled her up in a bathrobe over her nightgown, wrapped her in a blanket, and Gwen helped her put on shoes. She didn’t even insist on getting dressed, which was unusual for her. Gwen could feel that Gabrielle was blazing with fever, while her mother shook with chills.
Ten minutes later, they had her in an Uber on the way to NYU hospital. Gwen was frightened, which she didn’t say to either of them. She went to the nursing desk to check her mother in when they arrived. They had Gwen fill out several forms. They kept Gabrielle waiting for an hour to see a doctor, and then finally took her to an exam room in a wheelchair. Federico looked near tears. Gwen tried to reassure them both, but she was afraid herself.
The Numbers Game Page 21
