Frank had been watching Bill alertly, and now he said, “What happened?”
“She can’t join us tonight. For obvious reasons. The Italian is on the scene again.”
“Is that him over there now? The guy she met this afternoon?”
“Yes. Giovanni. However, she has agreed to have dinner with us tomorrow night.”
Frank looked impressed. “That is an accomplishment, old buddy. How did you do it?”
“I reminded her that it’s Thanksgiving, pointed out that we were more than likely the only three Americans in Venice, and added that it would be a crime if we didn’t celebrate the holiday together.”
“And she agreed?”
“On one condition.”
“And what’s that?”
“A turkey dinner. She wants a traditional
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Thanksgiving meal with all the usual trimmings.”
“You didn’t promise it, did you?”
“Sure I did. Why are you looking skeptical, Francis?”
“Where the hell do you think you’re going to find a turkey? In Venice, of all places, for God’s sake! This is pasta land, Billy.”
“I know, and don’t worry. Just trust me.”
“But Bill, a turkey—”
“Did I ever let you down in Baghdad? Who’s the one who always managed to find the most delectable stuff in that war-torn city…from Johnnie Walker to cans of corned beef.”
“Well, you were pretty good,” Frank admitted, grinning.
“I know what I’m doing,” Bill remarked. “I booked us a table at Harry’s Bar tonight. And we’ll go there again tomorrow. Everyone from Arrigo Cipriani, the owner, and the maître d’
to the youngest busboy knows me well. Please believe me, Harry’s Bar will make us a real American Thanksgiving dinner. They’ll get a turkey, no matter what. After all, the mainland’s not far away.”
“I know better than to argue with you, Billy.
And what’s the lady’s name?”
54 / Barbara Taylor Bradford
“Vanessa Stewart. She’s from New York. She knew who I was.”
Frank threw him an amused look. “Good God, don’t sound so surprised, Bill. The whole of America knows who you are. Your face is in their living rooms every day of the week.”
CHAPTER
FOUR
Do you think she’s stood us up?” Frank said the following evening. He and Bill were sitting in the bar of the Gritti Palace, waiting for Vanessa Stewart to arrive. He glanced at his watch. “It’s twenty past seven.”
“Stood us up! Never,” Bill answered in a joc-ular tone, with a quick laugh. “Two dashing war correspondents like us. Good Lord, Frankie, don’t you know by now that we’re irresistible?”
When Frank merely threw him a sharp look and made an exasperated noise, Bill added in a more sober tone, “But seriously, I don’t think she’s the type to do that.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“I just am, trust me on this,” Bill replied
58 / Barbara Taylor Bradford firmly. “I thought she seemed like a serious person yesterday, and although we spoke only briefly, I detected something in her, an air of breeding. I know she would have phoned us here by now if she weren’t coming, to make some sort of polite excuse. I sensed that she was not flaky, not the flighty kind at all.”
“If you say so. And I guess it’s a woman’s prerogative to be late,” Frank responded. Then he and Bill exchanged swift looks and promptly sprang to their feet as Vanessa Stewart appeared in the doorway of the bar. She hurried in, glid-ing forward at a rapid pace.
The young woman, who was of medium height and slender, wore a burgundy-colored outfit made of crushed velvet and carried a matching wool coat. The narrow velvet pants were paired with a loose, tunic top, which, with its square neckline and long sleeves cut wide at the cuffs, had a medieval look about it. Strands of amethyst-and-ruby-colored glass beads were twisted into a choker around her neck, and small gold medallions gleamed at her ears.
Both men wore admiring expressions as she drew to a standstill in front of them, a look of concern on her face.
“Sorry I’m so late,” she said in an apolo-
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getic voice, shaking her head. “So rude of me, but it was unavoidable. I was delayed at a meeting this afternoon. When I got back to the hotel it was late and I had to change. I didn’t want to lose any more time by calling you in the bar. I thought it best just to dress and hurry down.”
“Are you staying here?” Frank said.
“Yes, I am.”
“It’s not a problem,” Bill exclaimed, wanting to put her at ease. Smiling warmly, he went on,
“Vanessa, I’d like to introduce you to my friend Francis Peterson of Time magazine. And Frankie, this is Vanessa Stewart.”
“It’s very nice to meet you,” Vanessa said, shaking Frank’s outstretched hand.
“And I you,” the journalist answered, offering her a welcoming smile, thinking how personable she was and how attractive, in an offbeat way.
Bill had described her to him as being gamine, and it was true, she did have a roguish, saucy kind of charm. With her huge gray eyes in that small, piquant face and her short, curly, dark hair she looked very young and vulnerable. She reminded him of someone, someone he couldn’t quite place.
Vanessa put her coat on a chair and sat down.
60 / Barbara Taylor Bradford Bill said, “Would you like a glass of champagne or do you prefer something else?”
“Oh, champagne’s lovely, thank you.” She settled back in the chair and crossed her long legs.
Champagne was poured, and after they had all clinked glasses Bill said, with unconcealed curiosity, “You mentioned you were delayed in a meeting. So are you here on business?”
“Yes, I am.” Vanessa cleared her throat, and went on, “I’m a designer. Of glass. I get most of it blown here. On Murano, to be exact. So I’m coming and going all the time.”
“Are you a New Yorker?” Frank asked.
“Yes. I was born there.”
“Do you live in Manhattan?”
She nodded. “In the East Fifties.”
“Good old New York,” Frank murmured.
“There’s nowhere else like it in the whole world.”
Bill said, “What kind of glass do you design?”
“Vases, fancy bottles, big plaques and plates, decorative objects mostly, things to put on display. But I also make jewelry, like these beads.”
She touched the choker on her neck and explained, “But mostly I create objects for
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the home. Last year Neiman Marcus launched a line of mine, which I designed exclusively for them, and it’s been a big success. That’s why I’m here right now, to supervise the new collection.”
“Oh, so it’s currently being made, is it?” Bill said.
“Yes, at one of the oldest glass foundries on Murano. There’s nothing like Venetian glass, in my opinion anyway. I think it’s the best in the world.”
“Where did you study in the States?” Frank probed.
“The Rhode Island School of Design, but also here in Venice. I did a graduate course for a year.”
“So you lived in Venice!” Bill exclaimed.
“How I envy you. I love this city.”
“So do I.” Vanessa’s face took on a glow; she smiled at him. “La Serenissima…the Serene Republic, and it’s so aptly named, isn’t it? I always feel truly content here, peaceful, yet very alive. Venice is a state of being, I think.”
Bill looked at her closely. He knew exactly what she meant about Venice. Struck by her openness, he nodded, returned her smile, and found himself staring into her luminous gray
62 / Barbara Taylor Bradford eyes. He averted his face, picked up his drink, and took a quick swallow. He felt suddenly self-conscious of his awareness of her, of his sexual attraction to her.
Frank, conscious
of Bill’s sudden discomfort, said, “And tell me, Vanessa, where do you normally spend Thanksgiving?”
“With my mother, if we happen to be in the same place. And sometimes with my father, if Mom’s away. It depends on the circumstances.”
“You make it sound as if your mother travels a lot,” Frank remarked, raising a brow questioningly.
“She does.”
“For pleasure or business?” he asked, still probing.
“Her work.”
“And what does your mother do?”
“She’s an actress.”
“In the theater?”
Bill sipped his champagne, leaning back in the chair, listening, thinking that Frankie was asking too many questions. But at the same time he wanted to hear her answers. She intrigued him in a way no woman had for the longest time.
“Oh, yes, my mother works in the theater, and in films,” Vanessa said.
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“Would we know her?” Bill leaned forward, focused his attention on her.
Vanessa laughed. “I think so. My mother is Valentina Maddox.”
“Is she really!” Bill cried. “Well, now that I know who she is I must admit you have the look of her, a very strong resemblance, in fact.”
Frank said, “And Audrey Hepburn many years ago, when she was in Sabrina. That’s who you reminded me of when you first walked in.
Hasn’t anybody ever told you that you look like her?”
Vanessa was still laughing. She nodded.
Frank now asked, “Aren’t your parents divorced?”
“Yes. But they’re still friends, and they see each other from time to time. They both live in New York. Well, Dad does. My mother’s really a gypsy, flitting around the world, going wherever her work takes her.”
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” Bill inquired.
“No.” Vanessa sat up straighter and looked from Bill to Frank, then began to laugh again.
“What a lot of questions you both ask!”
“We’re journalists. It’s our job to ask questions,” Frank replied.
64 / Barbara Taylor Bradford They walked to the Calle Vallaresso, just off San Marco, where Harry’s Bar was located.
It was a cold night. Frost hung in the air and ringed the moon, a clear silver sphere in an ink-dark sky. Cloudless and clear, it was littered with a thousand tiny pinpoints of brilliant light.
The streets were relatively deserted. Only a few people were about. As the three of them walked along, they could hear the clatter of their own shoes on the cobblestones.
“Hollywood couldn’t have done it better,”
Bill remarked at one moment, glancing at the sky. “Hung that moon up there like that. What a fantastic film set Venice is, actually.”
Vanessa exclaimed, “That’s what my mother used to say when she came to visit me! She has always thought Venice to be the most theatrical of places in the whole world.”
“She’s right,” Bill said, taking hold of Vanessa’s arm, guiding her as they went down the narrower streets in the direction of the famous restaurant. He loved the closeness of her, the scent of her perfume. It was light, floral.
Enticing. Just as she herself was enticing. He was very drawn to her, just as he had been
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yesterday, but tonight the feeling was more powerful.
They walked on in silence for a few seconds until Bill said, “I suppose you know all about Harry’s Bar.”
“Not really,” she responded. “I went there with my parents, but only once. Didn’t Ernest Hemingway make it his hangout?”
“He did, yes, along with a lot of other writers and journalists and celebrities. It was founded in the nineteen thirties, when an American, Harry Pickering, the now famous Harry, bor-rowed money from a hotel barman. The bar-tender was Giuseppe Cipriani, and when Harry paid him back he gave him additional money to open a bar. And voila! The restaurant was born.”
“I love stories like that,” Vanessa said, and then shivered slightly, drew further into her coat.
“Are you cold?” Bill asked solicitously.
“No, no, I’m fine.”
Frank, who had been silent during the walk to the restaurant, announced, “There’s Harry’s Bar, straight ahead. We’ll be inside in a minute.”
They were given a royal welcome when they walked into Harry’s Bar. Once they had
66 / Barbara Taylor Bradford shed their coats, they were escorted to one of the best tables at the back of the room. “Welcome, Signore Fitzgerald,” Arrigo Cipriani said.
“And ’appy Thanksgiving.”
“Thanks, Arrigo. Now, how about some Bellinis to celebrate the holiday?”
“Good idea,” Frank said.
“That’d be lovely,” Vanessa agreed, and once they were alone she turned to Bill, and said,
“I’ve forgotten what a Bellini is. I mean, I know it’s champagne but what’s in it besides that?”
“Fresh peach juice.”
“Now I remember! They’re fabulous.”
A great deal of camaraderie had developed between them in the short time they had known each other. Vanessa had taken their probing questions at face value, had not been offended, and they in turn had been struck by her attitude, realizing what a good sport she was. And so the gaiety and banter continued at Harry’s, only to be interrupted when a waiter arrived at their table, presenting the menus with a flourish.
“I ordered a special main course for us all last night,” Bill explained.
“Si, Signore Fitzgerald, I know. But you didn’t order a first course.”
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“True, I didn’t. What do you suggest?”
“What about risi e bisi, I know you like it.”
Looking at Vanessa and then at Frank, the waiter continued, “It’s a wonderful risotto.
Mmm.” He kissed his fingertips. “Rice with peas, ham, and Parmesan cheese. Delicious.”
“Sounds good enough to eat,” Frank joked.
Bill grinned at Vanessa. “It is good. I think I’ll have it. How about you?”
“All right. Thank you.”
“We’ll all have it,” Frank added. “And let’s take a look at the wine list, please, Antonio.”
“Si, Signore Peterson.” The waiter nodded and departed.
Vanessa pushed back her chair and said,
“Excuse me for a moment,” and left the table, heading for the ladies’ room.
Bill leaned over and said to Frank, “So, what do you think of her?”
“She’s lovely, and you were right, she’s not a bit flaky. In fact, I think she’s a very nice young woman, one who’s rather serious by nature.”
Bill said, “I like her.”
“It’s more than like, Bill, that’s too soft a word.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re bowled over by her, and you’re going to get involved with her. She with you.”
“I’m not so sure.”
68 / Barbara Taylor Bradford
“About yourself? Or her?”
“Both of us.”
Frank smiled broadly, and a knowing glint entered his black Irish eyes. “Oh Bill, my boy, take my word for it, you are heading for the big one here. She’s irresistible to you, has all the things you love in a woman. As for her, she can’t take her eyes off you. She’s intrigued, flattered by your interest in her, and she hangs on to every word you say.”
“I think you exaggerate.”
“Trust me, I don’t. I’ve got eyes in my head, and I’ve been watching you both for almost two hours now. You’re both trying to hide it, but you’re falling for each other.”
“I wonder who that Italian is? Giovanni?”
Bill muttered.
“We can’t very well ask her. Anyway, she’s not wearing any rings, at least not a wedding ring, only that crested signet on her little finger.”
“But that doesn’t mean anything these days.
“That doesn’t mean anything either, Billy.
I’m telling you, that young woman—” Frank stopped as Vanessa glided up to the table.
The two men rose, and Bill helped Vanessa into her chair.
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Once she was seated, she smiled across at him, and said, “You reminded the waiter you’d ordered a main course last night. Not a turkey?”
“Of course it’s a turkey. I ordered a traditional Thanksgiving dinner for us, and fortunately they were able to oblige. After all, that was your condition, Vanessa.”
She stared at him for a long moment, and shook her head slowly. Her eyes twinkled mischievously when she finally murmured, “But I was only teasing. I never thought for one moment that you’d find a turkey in Venice…”
Bill stared at her.
Vanessa’s touch was featherlight as she rested her hand on his arm. “You see, I wanted to spend Thanksgiving with you…with or without a turkey.”
CHAPTER
FIVE
What Francis Peterson had predicted finally came to be.
Bill and Vanessa fell in love.
As Bill said much later, they probably did so on Thanksgiving night at Harry’s Bar, although it took them several days to acknowledge their feelings.
During the Thanksgiving weekend they got to know each other better. In fact, they were a threesome, since they spent Friday and Saturday with Frank.
For these two days Vanessa became their guide, showing them places in Venice that not even Bill, the Venice aficionado, knew about.
These were small, unique art galleries, museums and churches off the beaten track, bars and cafés known only to the
74 / Barbara Taylor Bradford Venetians themselves, shops where the best bargains were to be had.
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