Everything to Gain and a Secret Affair

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  All along he had attempted to keep track of time; he figured he had been a hostage for almost two weeks. When he asked his various guards, they wouldn’t tell him. All they ever said was, “Shut up, American pig!”

  He felt dirty, and wished they would allow him to have another shower. He had only been permitted two since his capture. His clothes had become so filthy he had begged them to give him something clean, which one of his guards had done yesterday. Finally. Cotton undershorts, a T-shirt, and a pair of cotton pants had been thrown at him, and he had been unchained in order to change into them. The clothes were cheap, but it was a relief to have them.

  He had no idea where he was, whether he was still somewhere in Beirut or in the Bekaa Valley, that hotbed of Hezbollah activities where the Iran-backed militia was in control. So many hostages had been held there.

  Bill didn’t even know why he had been taken, except that he was an American and a journalist. But he was certain of one thing—the identity of his kidnappers. They were young men of the Islamic Jihad, the terrorist arm of Hezbollah, and dangerous. Some of them were slightly crazed, on the edge, capable of anything.

  They kept him chained up, shouted abuse at him, beat him every day, and gave him little food or water. And what food they did provide was stale, almost inedible. Yet despite their continuing mistreatment of him, he was not going to let them break his spirit.

  Bill kept his mind fully occupied as best he could.

  He thought mostly of his child, his mother, and of Vanessa, the woman he loved. He worried about them, worried about how they were reacting to his kidnapping, how they were handling it. He had faith in them, knew they would be strong; even his child would be strong.

  As he lay staring at the dirty ceiling, he envisioned Vanessa’s face in his mind’s eye, projected her image onto the ceiling.

  How lovely she was, so special, and so very dear to him. And how lucky he was to have found her. He knew they would have a wonderful life together. The first thing he was going to do when he was free was make a child with her. She wanted one so badly; she had confided that to him the last time they had been together.

  He had worried about her for the first few days he was in captivity, knowing she was alone in Venice, waiting for him. And with no idea why he had not shown up.

  Bill heard the key turning in the lock. He focused his eyes on the door and steeled himself for his daily beating. In the dim light he saw one of his captors entering the cell.

  “Put on blindfold,” the young man said, walking across the room, showing the grimy rag to Bill.

  “Why?” Bill asked, endeavoring to sit up.

  “No speak, American pig! American spy!” the young man shouted and tied the blindfold around Bill’s eyes roughly, pulled him to his feet, and led him across the cell.

  “Where are you taking me?” Bill demanded.

  “No speak!” the terrorist yelled, pushing Bill out of the room.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  Southampton, Long Island, April 1996

  Vanessa sat up with a jerk, feeling disoriented, blinking as she looked around the library. Dimly, in the distance, the thudding noise that had awakened her continued.

  She pushed herself to her feet, hurried across the room and out into the hall. Instantly the thudding sounded louder, and she realized that someone was hammering on the front door of the cottage.

  She ran across the hall, shouting, “I’m coming,” and flung open the door. Much to her surprise and consternation she found herself staring into the face of Bill’s mother.

  “Dru!” she exclaimed, completely taken aback. “Hello! Have you been knocking long?”

  When his mother did not answer, but simply stared at her blankly, Vanessa went on, “Why have you come to see me? What are you doing here?” Her brows knitted together in a frown when suddenly she became aware of Dru Fitzgerald’s troubled face and bloodshot eyes. She also noticed that she looked painfully thin. “Dru, what’s the matter?” she asked, urgency echoing in her voice.

  Dru leaned against the doorjamb, unexpectedly breathing hard, as if she was experiencing some sort of difficulty. She managed to say, “May I come inside, Vanessa?”

  “How rude of me to keep you standing here. Of course, please come in. Can I get you anything?”

  “A glass of water, please. I must take a pill.”

  Vanessa took hold of Drucilla’s arm and escorted her into the cottage. After leading her to the sitting room, and settling her in a chair, she went to the kitchen for the water.

  A moment later Vanessa returned. She handed the glass to Dru, waited for her to take the pill, then said, “I can tell you’re distressed about something. What’s the matter?”

  Drucilla Fitzgerald, staring intently at her, realized with a small jolt that Vanessa did not know what had happened to Bill. How that was possible she wasn’t sure, but, nonetheless, she was quite certain it was true. Dru wondered how to tell her. Tears flooded her eyes, and she clasped her hands together to stop them from trembling.

  Vanessa was about to ask her again what was causing her upset when Dru cleared her throat, reached out, and took hold of Vanessa’s hand.

  Dru said slowly, almost in a whisper, “I’ve been trying to reach you on the phone for days.” No longer able to control herself, she began to weep. She groped in her wool jacket for her handkerchief.

  “I’ve had my phone turned off,” Vanessa explained, and as she said these words she had a terrible sense of foreboding. “It’s Bill! Something’s happened to Bill, hasn’t it?”

  Dru continued to cry, her sobs almost uncontrollable, her pain even more apparent now.

  Vanessa went and sat next to her on the sofa, put her arm around Dru’s shoulders. “I’m totally in the dark, Dru. I’ve had not only the phone turned off but the television as well. I’ve cut myself off from the world for the past two weeks.”

  Dru turned to look at her, the tears streaming down her pale face. Her mouth began to tremble. “He’s dead,” she said in a voice that was barely audible. “My son is dead. My only child has been taken from me in the most cruel way. Oh Vanessa . . . Vanessa . . . Why did they kill him? They shot him. He’s never coming back. He’s gone. Oh, whatever shall we do without him?” She continued to weep, gasping, holding her arms around her body. Her sorrow was unendurable.

  Vanessa was gaping at Dru. She had gone cold all over, and she was stunned, reeling from shock, unable to respond for a moment. Her eyes welled, and she began to shake. At last, she said, “I don’t understand . . . who killed Bill?” Choking on these words, she was unable to continue, just held on to Dru tightly. The two women clung together, sobbing.

  Eventually, through her tears, Dru said, “It was Hezbollah. The Islamic Jihad. They kidnapped Bill, Vanessa. I realize now that you didn’t know, otherwise you would have come to Helena and me, to be with us.”

  “When?” Vanessa gasped. “When was he taken?” Her voice shook and fresh tears flowed; she knew the answer even before Dru spoke.

  “March the twenty-eighth,” Dru answered. “It was a Thursday. They took him that morning in Beirut. He was out with the crew, Joe and Mike—”

  “Oh, my God! My God!” Vanessa cried out, pressing both of her hands to her face, trying to stem the tears. They slid through her fingers, fell down onto her cotton shirt, leaving damp splotches. “I was waiting for him in Venice, and he didn’t come! I thought he’d lost interest in me, that it was over between us. But he couldn’t come, could he? Oh, Dru, Dru . . .”

  “No, he couldn’t. He loved you, Vanessa, he wanted to marry you. He told me that. He also told me that you were married, that you were getting a divorce.”

  Vanessa swallowed hard. “Bill was mine and I was his and that was the way it was. How could I have forgotten that?”

  Drucilla sighed and looked into Vanessa’s face sadly. “When we’re in love, things are always very extreme, intense . . .”

  “I love him with all my heart. I shouldn’
t ever have doubted him in Venice. I should have known something terrible had happened, something beyond his control.”

  Dru was silent for a second, and then she said softly, “You were feeling hurt.”

  Vanessa suddenly lost control again and started to weep bitterly. “When was he shot?” she asked through her tears.

  “We’re not sure.” Dru found it hard to continue. She brought her hand to her trembling mouth, and took a few moments to regain her composure.

  Slowly, she went on, “Andrew Bryce, the president of CNS, and Jack Clayton, Bill’s news editor, came to see me yesterday.” Pausing, she took a deep breath before saying, “To tell me themselves that the Islamic Jihad had just announced they had executed Bill. They left his body at the French Embassy in Beirut, who have given it to the American Hospital to send home.”

  “But why did they kill him?” Vanessa cried. “Why, Dru?”

  “Andrew and Jack don’t know. No one knows. The Islamic Jihad haven’t said anything. They’ve given no explanation.”

  The two women who loved Bill Fitzgerald sat together on the sofa, not speaking, lost in their own troubled thoughts, silently sharing their heartbreak and sorrow.

  After a while, Vanessa spoke. Looking at Dru, she said, “Where is Helena?”

  Dru covered her mouth with her hand once more, the tears starting afresh. After a moment she said, “I brought her with me. I hadn’t the heart to leave her. She’s walking the dunes with Alice, the nanny. The child’s heartbroken, she worshiped him so.”

  Vanessa nodded. Rising, she walked across the room to the window, stood looking out at the dunes, her mind full of Bill and the love they had shared. She thought of his child. And she came to a sudden decision.

  Turning to look at Bill’s mother, Vanessa said, “I think you and Helena should stay here with me for a few days, Dru. Bill would want us to be together.”

  Much later that night, when she was alone in her bedroom, Vanessa wept for Bill once more. She wept for the loss of the man she loved, the life they would never share, and the children they would never have.

  It was a long night of tears and anguish. There was a moment when guilt reared up, but she crushed it before it took hold. It was a ridiculous waste of time to feel guilty because she had doubted him briefly. He would be the first to say that, just as his mother had.

  As dawn broke over the dunes, Vanessa came to understand that her grief would last for a long time, and that she must let it run its course. Bill Fitzgerald had been the love of her life, and she had lost him in the blink of an eye. Lost him because of some insanity on the other side of the world. It was wrong, all wrong. He had been far too young a man to die.

  It should not have happened, but it had, and she was alone. Just as his child and his mother were alone, bereft and lost without him. They were her main concern now. She would do what Bill would want her to do . . . console and comfort them.

  They needed her. And she needed them.

  CHAPTER

  SIXTEEN

  I’m glad Alice listened to you, Dru, and took her vacation,” Vanessa said, stirring the chicken soup she was making, peering into the pot on the stove. “It would have been foolish of her to cancel it, when she had it all planned. But you know, she never did say where she was going.”

  Dru did not respond.

  Vanessa said, “Where has she gone, actually?”

  Still Dru did not answer and Vanessa swung around, exclaimed, “My God, what’s wrong,” threw down the wooden spoon, and rushed across the kitchen.

  Drucilla was leaning back in the chair, her face drained of all color, starkly white against her red hair. She was clutching herself and wincing.

  Vanessa bent over her. “Dru, what is it?”

  “Pain. In my chest. My left arm hurts. I think I’m having a heart attack.”

  “Don’t move! I’ll get the car. Southampton Hospital’s not far away. On Meeting House Lane. I’ll have us there in a few minutes. Just don’t move, Dru. Okay?”

  Dru nodded.

  Vanessa ran to the garage, backed the car out, parked it near the cottage, and leapt across the lawn to her studio. She had left Helena drawing there earlier. Pulling open the door, she called, “Helena, come on, we have to go!”

  “Where?”

  “To the hospital. Your grandmother’s not well.”

  “I’m coming,” the child shouted fiercely, jumped off the stool, and flew across the floor. “Is it her heart?”

  “She thinks so, yes,” Vanessa said, took hold of Helena’s hand, and ran with her to the cottage. “Get in the car, honey, and I’ll be out in a minute with Gran.” As she spoke, Vanessa helped Helena into the backseat and fastened the safety belt.

  Inside the house, Vanessa grabbed her handbag from the hall closet, and dashed back to the kitchen; Dru was slumped in the chair with her arms still wrapped around herself.

  Bending toward her, Vanessa asked, “Dru, do you feel any worse?”

  “No. Just the same.”

  “Can you make it to the car?”

  “Yes, Vanessa. If you help me,” Dru murmured in a weak voice.

  Together the two women walked slowly across the kitchen and outside to the car. “Try not to worry. You’re going to be all right,” Vanessa said as she fastened the seat belt around Dru, praying that she would be.

  And she kept on praying all the way to the hospital.

  “Mrs. Fitzgerald has had a heart attack, fortunately not too severe,” Dr. Paula Matthews said, drawing Vanessa to one side of the waiting room. “She’s going to be all right, but she will have to watch herself, take care of herself.”

  “Yes, I understand, Dr. Matthews, I’ll see that she does. In the meantime, how long does she have to be in the hospital?”

  “A few days. Five at the most. She’s in our cardiac care unit, more for observation and a rest than anything else.” The doctor smiled at Vanessa, then glanced at Helena, who was sitting on a chair near the window. “I’ve never seen such a beautiful child,” she said. “You’re very lucky.”

  “Yes,” Vanessa murmured, not knowing what else to say.

  “Anyway, I know Mrs. Fitzgerald’s anxious to see you both, so let me take you to her room.”

  A moment or two later Vanessa and Helena were sitting by the bed where Drucilla lay looking pale and weak. “I’m so sorry, Vanessa, to put you to all this trouble,” Dru said in a low voice. “What a nuisance I am.”

  “Don’t be so silly,” Vanessa exclaimed. “You’re not any trouble to me at all. And Helena and I are going to come and see you every day.”

  Helena said, “And Vanessa says we’ll bring you things. Like books and magazines.” She smiled at her grandmother. “And flowers, Gran.”

  “Thank you, darling,” Dru murmured.

  “Please don’t worry about Helena,” Vanessa went on, taking hold of Drucilla’s hand, squeezing it. “She’s no trouble, we’ll be fine together.”

  “But your work . . .” Dru began, looking worried.

  “I can do my work and take care of Helena,” Vanessa reassured her. “Just think about yourself and getting better.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “Thanks are not necessary, Dru, you know that. And I’m here for you, whenever you need me.”

  “Bill told me you were a loving woman, and he was right,” Dru said. She averted her face for a moment, blinking back tears. Then, turning to look at them both again, she forced a smile. “A hospital’s no place for you two. Go and have lunch, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  ‘“Half a pound of tuppeny rice, half a pound of treacle. Mix it up and make it nice. Pop goes the weasel!’” Vanessa sang, leading the child around the room in a circle, holding both her hands.

  Helena laughed, much to Vanessa’s relief. She had been in floods of tears all morning, suddenly reacting to her grandmother’s departure for the hospital the day before. Drucilla’s heart attack, coming so quickly after Bill’s death, had been too much
for the little girl to handle.

  Vanessa understood Helena’s concern for her grandmother, but she had not been able to stem her tears, or comfort her. At least not until now. The little game they were playing seemed to have helped. It had brought a sparkle to the child’s eyes.

  “What a funny song,” Helena said. “What’s a weasel?”

  “A little furry animal with a bushy tail that lives in the woods.”

  “How do you know this song?”

  “When I was six, I was living in London for a while with my parents. I had a nanny who was English. She taught me the song.”

  “Can you teach me?”

  “Of course. Sing along with me, Helena. Here we go. ‘Half a pound of tuppeny rice, half a pound of treacle. Mix it up and make it nice. Pop goes the weasel.’“

  Helena sang with her, and they went round and round in circles, holding hands. After half a dozen times Helena knew the words, had committed them to memory.

  She laughed merrily and clapped her hands. “I’ll sing it for Gran when we go to the hospital this afternoon.”

  “What a good idea, Pumpkin.”

  The smile slid off Helena’s face and she recoiled, gaping at Vanessa.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Don’t call me Pumpkin. Only Daddy calls me that. It’s his name,” she cried fiercely, and burst into tears.

  Vanessa went to her, put her arms around her, held her close. “I’m sorry, Helena, I didn’t know. Don’t cry, honey. Please.”

  But Helena could not stop sobbing, and she clutched Vanessa as if never to let her go.

  Vanessa smoothed her hand down the child’s back, endeavoring to comfort her, to soothe her, making hushing noises.

  After a while the sobs lessened, and Helena grew calmer. Vanessa led her across the studio to the sofa, lifted her up onto it, and sat down next to her. Taking a tissue from the box on the coffee table, she wiped Helena’s eyes, then drew her into the circle of her arms. “In a little while we’ll go into town and have a hamburger for lunch. How does that sound?”