The magnificent Venetian glass chandeliers,
154 / Barbara Taylor Bradford which were permanent fixtures in the main dining room, seemed more appropriate than ever at this time of year.
Bill spotted her immediately. Rising, he left the table and hurried forward to meet her.
As he came toward her, she thought how handsome he looked, and he was extremely well-dressed today. He wore a navy blue blazer, blue shirt, navy tie, and gray pants. He was bandbox perfect, right down to his well-polished brown loafers.
Grabbing her hands, he leaned into her, murmured, “You look great, darling,” and gave her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. “Come and meet the other two women I love,” he added as he led her to the table, the proud smile still in place.
Vanessa saw at once how attractive and elegant his mother was, and she seemed much younger than sixty-two. Dressed in a dark red wool suit that set off her beautifully coiffed au-burn hair, she looked more like Bill’s older sister than his mother.
Sitting next to his mother was undoubtedly the most exquisite child Vanessa had ever seen.
She had delicate, perfectly sculpted features, wide-set cornflower blue eyes that mirrored Bill’s, and glossy dark
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blond hair that fell in waves and curls to her shoulders.
“I’ve never seen a child who looks like that,”
Vanessa exclaimed softly, turning to Bill.
“Helena’s…why she’s positively breathtaking.”
He squeezed her arm. “Thank you, and yes, she is lovely looking, even though I say so myself.”
They came to a standstill at the table, and Bill said, “Mom, I’d like to introduce Vanessa Stewart. And Vanessa, this is my mother, Drucilla.”
“I’m so glad to meet you, Mrs. Fitzgerald,”
Vanessa said, taking his mother’s outstretched hand.
“Hello, Miss Stewart.” Drucilla smiled at her warmly.
“Oh, Mrs. Fitzgerald, please call me Vanessa.”
“Only if you call me Dru, everyone does.”
“All right, I will. Thank you.” Vanessa looked down at the little girl dressed in a blue wool dress, who was observing her with enormous curiosity. “And you must be Helena,” she said, offering the six-year-old her hand.
“Yes, I am,” Helena said solemnly, taking her hand.
156 / Barbara Taylor Bradford
“This is Vanessa,” Bill said.
“I’m delighted to meet you, Helena,” Vanessa murmured, and seated herself in the chair Bill had pulled out for her.
“Now, what shall we have to drink?” Bill asked, looking at all of them. “How about champagne?”
“That would be nice,” Vanessa said.
“Yes, it would, Bill,” his mother agreed.
“Is this a celebration?” Helena asked, gazing up at Bill, her head on one side.
“Why do you ask that, Pumpkin?”
“Gran says champagne is only for celebra-tions.”
“Then it’s a celebration,” Bill responded, his love for his child spilling out of his eyes.
“And what’s this celebration?” Helena probed.
Bill thought for a moment, looked at his mother, and answered, “Being here together, the four of us. Yes, that’s what we’re celebrat-ing, and Christmas, too, of course.”
“But I’m not allowed champagne,” Helena remarked, staring at him, then swiveling her eyes to Dru. “Am I, Gran?”
“Certainly not,” her grandmother responded firmly. “Not until you’re grown up.”
Bill said, “But you are allowed a Shirley
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Temple, and that’s what I’m going to order for you right now.” As he was speaking, Bill signaled to a hovering waiter, who promptly came over to the table and took the order.
Vanessa said to Dru, “It was a great idea of Bill’s to suggest coming here for lunch; it’s such a festive place.”
Dru nodded. “You’re right, it’s fabulous. Bill tells me you met in Venice. When he was there with Frank Peterson.”
“Yes…” Vanessa hesitated and then, noticing Bill’s beaming face, she went on more confid-ently, “We spent Thanksgiving together.”
“The only three Americans in Venice on that particular day,” Bill interjected. “So we had no alternative but to celebrate together. And a good time was had by all.”
“I’d like to go to Venice,” Helena announced, looking from her father to her grandmother.
“Can I?”
“One day, sweetheart,” Bill said. “We’ll take you when you’re a bit older.”
“Do you work with my daddy?” Helena asked, zeroing in on Vanessa.
“No, I don’t,” Vanessa answered. “I’m not in television, Helena. I’m a glass designer.”
The child’s smooth brow furrowed. “What’s that?”
158 / Barbara Taylor Bradford
“I design objects, lovely things for the home, which are made in glass. In Venice.”
“Oh.”
Vanessa had been carrying a small shopping bag when she arrived, and this she had placed with her handbag on the floor. Now she reached for it, took out a gift tied with a large pink bow, and announced, “This is for you, Helena.”
The child took it, held it in her hands, staring at the prettily wrapped present. “What is it?”
“Something I made for you.”
“Can I open it now, Daddy?”
“Yes, but what do you say first?”
“Thank you, Vanessa.” Helena untied the ribbon, took off the paper, and then lifted the lid off the box.
“It’s quite fragile,” Vanessa warned. “Lift it out of the tissue paper gently.”
Helena did as she was bidden, held the glass object in her hands carefully, her eyes wide. It was a twisted, tubular prism that narrowed to a point. Its facets caught and held the light, reflecting the colors of the rainbow. “Oh, it’s beautiful,” the child gasped in delight.
“It’s an icicle. An icicle of many colors, and I made it specially for you, Helena.”
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“Thank you,” Helena repeated, continuing to hold the icicle, moving it so that the glass caught the light.
“It is very beautiful,” Dru murmured, turning to Vanessa. “You’re a very talented artist.”
“Thank you.”
Bill said, “May I look at it, Helena?”
“Yes, Dad. Be careful. Vanessa says it’s fragile.”
“I will,” he murmured, his eyes smiling at Vanessa as he took the icicle. “This is quite wonderful,” he said, and then nodded when the waiter brought the champagne in a bucket of ice. “You can open it now, please,” he said.
After the glass icicle was returned to its box and put on the floor next to Helena’s chair, and the wine had been poured, Bill lifted his flute.
“Happy Christmas, everyone.”
“Happy Christmas,” they all responded.
Helena took a sip of her Shirley Temple and put it down on the table. Turning, she stared hard at Vanessa, and, with undisguised inquis-itiveness, she asked, “Are you Daddy’s girl-friend?”
Taken aback by the child’s candor, Vanessa was speechless for a moment.
Bill answered for her. “Yes, she is, Helena.”
He smiled at his little daughter, then looked
160 / Barbara Taylor Bradford over her head at his mother, raising a brow eloquently.
Drucilla Fitzgerald nodded her approval. And she did approve of this pretty young woman whom she had known for only twenty minutes.
There was something about Vanessa that was special; she could tell that, being the good judge of character that she was. Vanessa was to be encouraged, Dru decided. Anyone who could bring this look of happiness to her son’s face had her vote of confidence. He had been so lonely after Sylvie’s death. And morose for years. She had not seen him so buoyant, spirited, and full of good cheer for the longest time.
&nbs
p; Suddenly, she felt as if a weight had been lifted off her shoulders.
“Let’s order lunch,” Bill said. “Do you know what you want, Pumpkin?”
“Yes, Daddy. I’d like to have eggs with the muffin, like we did last time.”
“Eggs Benedict,” Dru clarified. “I’d love it, too, but I don’t think I’d better. Not with my cholesterol. I suppose I’ll have to settle for crab cakes.”
Bill looked at Vanessa. “Do you know what you want?”
“I’ll have the same as your mother, Bill, thank you.”
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“And I’ll keep Helena company, go for the Eggs Benedict,” he said.
Helena touched Vanessa’s arm. “Are you going to marry Daddy?”
Vanessa was further startled by the child’s outspoken question, and by her precocity. She glanced swiftly at Bill.
Dru sat back in her chair, observing the three of them.
Bill grinned at Helena and said, “You ask too many questions, Pumpkin, just like Uncle Frank does sometimes. And we don’t know yet whether we’re going to get married or not…we need to spend more time together, get to know each other better.”
Helena nodded.
Bill went on, “But you and Gran will be the first to know if we do. I promise you.”
Later, as Bill helped Vanessa into a cab, he whispered, “Not a bad idea my kid had, eh?”
“Not a bad idea at all,” Vanessa replied.
“Take this, darling,” he said, pressing something into her hand.
“What is it?” she asked, looking down at
162 / Barbara Taylor Bradford it, realizing that it was a key. “What’s this for?”
“The suite I booked at the Plaza. For us. Suite 902. Can we meet for a drink later tonight? Say around nine?”
“But of course,” she said and slipped the key into her bag.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
Venice, January 1996
It had been raining all afternoon, hard, driving rain that was still coming down in an endless stream. The sky was the color of anthracite, pitted here and there with threatening black clouds, and below her the Grand Canal was swollen, looked as if it might overflow at any moment.
Vanessa turned away from the window and moved into the room, shivering slightly. Although Bill had turned up the heat earlier, when she had first arrived from the airport there had been a chill in the air. It was a dampness that seemed to permeate her bones. She tightened the belt on the bathrobe she
166 / Barbara Taylor Bradford was wearing and shrugged further into it as she huddled in a chair near the radiator.
Vanessa was glad to be back in Venice with Bill. It was the first time they had seen each other since Christmas. He had left New York at the end of December, to travel through the Middle East and Europe. Tel Aviv, Jerusalem, Amman, Beirut, Ankara, and Athens were some of the cities on his list. He was busy preparing his special on international terrorism for CNS; time was of the essence since it had been scheduled to air early in March.
Bill had arrived at the Gritti Palace a day earlier than Vanessa, flying in from Athens the night before just as she was leaving New York.
They would have five days together in their favorite city. She had work to do out at the glass foundry on Murano. Bill was going to polish his script for the show, and they would be together in the afternoons and evenings.
A smile touched her mouth as she thought of Bill and her love for him. He meant more to her than she had ever imagined possible. He was the man of her life. For the rest of her life.
They were meant to be together, and there was nothing that could keep them apart. She knew that now.
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A small sigh escaped as she thought of the past few weeks. Apart from seeing Bill, meeting his mother and Helena, December had been a ghastly month for her. Peter had stayed in London longer than he had intended, and after his return to Manhattan he had left almost immediately for Los Angeles. He had been away so much she had barely had a chance to discuss their private life, and Christmas had been miserable for the most part.
Finally, early in January, she had cornered him one evening when he returned from the office earlier than usual. Endeavoring to be as gentle as possible, while displaying no weakness whatsoever, Vanessa had told him she wanted a divorce.
Peter had reacted badly, overreacted really, and had been adamant that they remain married. Even though he had agreed, in the end, that their relationship was no longer what it had once been, he nonetheless refused even to consider divorcing. Very simply, he balked at the idea and wouldn’t listen to her. At least not that particular evening.
Vanessa had come to realize that there was only one thing to do, and that was to get on with her life, lead it as she saw fit, and be
168 / Barbara Taylor Bradford independent. Ten days before leaving on this trip to Venice, she had taken her courage in both hands and left Peter, moving all of her clothes and possessions into the loft in Soho.
The loft had once been an apartment before she had turned it into a studio-office, and it had a good-sized working kitchen, a full bathroom, plus a guest toilet. Once she had purchased a sofa bed and installed it in the back storage room, turning this into a bedroom, the loft had become a comfortable place to live. Most important, it had made Peter realize just how de-termined she was to end their marriage. Her departure had a tremendous impact on him; he at last understood how serious she was about a divorce.
As her mother had said to her, “Actions make more of a statement than words ever could, Vanny, and it’s best to end this now, while you’re both still young enough to start all over again, find new partners.” Both of her parents had been very supportive of her decision to leave Peter. However, she had not told them about Bill, deeming it wiser to keep her own counsel at this moment.
Vanessa heard Bill’s key in the lock and glanced at the door as he came in. Getting up, she went to him, her face full of smiles.
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He had gone downstairs a few minutes earlier to pick up a fax which had arrived from New York. Now he waved it and said, “Neil Gooden and Jack Clayton love the footage so far. Neil says he can’t wait to see the rest of it.” Bill handed her the fax. “Here, read it yourself, darling.”
She scanned the two pages, digested everything, and handed it back to him. “Con-gratulations, Bill. From what Neil says, you’ve worked miracles and in less than three weeks.
Aren’t you thrilled he thinks it’s going to be a smash?”
“From his mouth to God’s ears,” Bill said with a huge grin, and putting his arm around her shoulders he walked her over to the sofa.
“I do think it’s coming together, though. I just need to cover two more cities and then it’s a wrap, as far as the field reporting is concerned. When you go back to New York, I’ll head for Paris, work there a couple of days with my crew and the producer. Then we’ll all go on to Northern Ireland, make Belfast our last stop. Incidentally, I’ve finally come up with a good title.”
“What is it?”
“I’m thinking of calling the special
170 / Barbara Taylor Bradford Terrorism: The Face of Evil. What’s your feeling about it?”
“I think it sounds good. And it says exactly what you mean.”
He nodded. “Yes, I guess it does. What I’ve managed to do is cover terrorism around the world. I’ve been filming interviews with experts, and some terrorists who are in jail in Israel. I’m backing up the new stuff with footage of past acts of terrorism, from the 1972 killing of the Olympic athletes and Lord Mountbatten’s murder by the IRA to the Lockerbie crash, the World Trade Center bombing, and the Ok-lahoma City explosion. I’ve endeavored to make it very personal, very intimate. I want it to hit home, touch the average American. I’ll be using some interviews I did with survivors of terrorism, and relatives of victims of terrorists. I’m quite gratified by the way it’s come together.”
Bill got up
, walked across to the mini bar, and took a bottle of mineral water from it. “Do you want anything, Vanessa?”
She shook her head.
Bill strode back to the sofa, sat down next to her. After taking a sip of water, he placed the bottle on the coffee table and placed his arm around her. “Moving into the loft was a
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very good idea, Vanessa. It’s shown Peter how serious you are about a divorce.”
“Yes, it has. He phoned me yesterday, just as I was leaving for Kennedy. And while he didn’t actually agree to a divorce, he did sound more amenable, if a little crushed. I have the feeling he’s beginning to accept the idea.”
“That’s a relief.” Bill looked at her intently.
“Did you tell him about me? About us?”
“No, I didn’t, Bill. I didn’t think it was necessary. And anyway, it would be like a red flag to a bull. Very inflammatory.”
“I don’t care if he knows, you know. I’m a big boy. I can look after myself.”
“Yes, but why rub salt in the wound? Anyway, Peter really has come to accept how bad our relationship has been for the last few years…I prefer to leave it at that.”
“Whatever you say, sweetheart, you’re the boss.”
She gave him the benefit of a loving smile.
He leaned closer, kissed her on the mouth.
“The concierge just told me Venice will be flooded by seven o’clock. No Harry’s Bar tonight, I’m afraid. We’ll have to eat here.”
“That’s fine, Bill. The restaurant downstairs is good.”
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