“America?”
“He could be the third Harrison president.”
“Your ambition is astonishing.” She would not back down from her anger. Claire flew at her former lover like a lioness protecting her cubs, plastering the newly redone room with hurled invectives.
“You invented this arrangement.” The teardrop sapphire in her cleavage twisted around backwards. “Honor it, dammit! Do something unselfish! Pretend you have a heart in that bloody blue skeleton of yours. Duccio has more honesty in his stubby finger than in your whole damn elegant hand.” The last three words she beat into his chest with her fists.
He caught them, at the same time turning the sapphire around. Her chest was beating hard with anger.
“I don't want your hands on me!” she lied.
“I'm sorry, Claire. I'm so sorry. I tried to be that person I'm supposed to be. But I can't. I love you too much to be away from you. I want you all back.” He took her bream away, once with his words and the second time with his lips. Their kiss was as passionate as any from years before but was now fueled by long-pent-up desires, fervent daydreams, and embers that had refused to burn out. Harrison's caress was a great salve for a long-aching wound. Like a smoke of opium for a past addict or a sip of wine for a recovering lush, there was no going back. In one hungry touch of their mouths he had forgotten his practical solution and she her bond and promise. His fingers knitted around her hair and pulled her waist into his groin, and she sighed to the tune of a thousand remembered moans. When he pressed his fingers on that place on her neck, she stopped trying to resist the perilous thing she wanted most.
She sat up alone on the couch well into dawn, hugging her knees and trying to untangle her emotions. She wasn't only playing with her life—Harrison's, her children, even Duccio's life were in her hands. She had to think of the ramifications for them, all of them. She was startled by a soft noise at the hall door. The clock showed five-thirty in the morning. She waited as if in a trance but couldn't seem to move toward the sound. She watched as an envelope was slipped under her door. Numbly she walked on her legs, moving heavily, feeling as if she were stuck in a thick New England fog. Then the American girl who had evolved into such a fine Italian lady knelt down on the floor to read the handwritten note.
Please meet me in Paris at the Ritz a fortnight from today at 8 p.m. I will wait for you in the dining room. If you can't make it I will understand. Please tell the children I'm sorry I had to leave early.
H.
Claire pondered the sun as it came up over her uncommon Italian palazzo. All of the important Harrison communications were laid down in writing, she remembered. She climbed into bed. It was early Sunday and they weren't going to mass until eleven. She lay on her bed watching the nymphs and painted centaurs playing love games on her ceiling. Her eyes circled up to a young Adonis embracing a shy beauty, her long hair covering her nakedness. They seemed so carefree. Did none of them have mother-in-laws and politically ambitious families? Didn't any of them have secrets to hide? She wondered what it would be like if she could will herself up to the fresco and join the careless lovers cavorting on powdery white clouds, the way she and Harrison had carried on in Lake Como. No, she'd rather be earthbound; whatever mistakes she'd made, she'd live with the consequences. She smiled, remembering. And hadn't it been the love begun at Lake Como that had produced her second child? She couldn't imagine life without Six. She settled back in the pillows to nap before Lorenza arrived with her morning tray. Suddenly she was aware of another person in the room.
Rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the back of his hands, Six stood in the open doorway of his mother's room. Claire invited him in with a warm smile.
“Morning, Mommy.”
Claire pulled back one corner of her coverlet and Six, wearing a wide grin and carrying his bear, climbed in.
“Good morning, Sweet William.” She hugged her son. Surely the silly nymphs overhead didn't know pleasure like this.
She hoped she had made the right decision, choosing between her brain and her heart.
Chapter Thirteen
The Jeweled Collar
Why have we been seduced into abandoning the timeless inner strength of woman for the temporal outer strength of man?
—Anne Morrow Lindbergh
Gift from the Sea
Lorenza brought the most coveted invitation in the world to Claire on a silver tray. The oversized envelope bore the seal of the royal house of Grimaldi, so she didn't have to be a detective to guess what was inside. Ever since it had been announced that Prince Rainier was marrying a Hollywood goddess, half of titled Europe had been jockeying for an invitation to the wedding of the decade. Lorenza was thrilled. Most of the great ladies would be taking their maids along to Monaco to coif their elaborate hairdos and pouf and steam their dresses.
Lorenza was piqued at her lady. Why would she bother to consult her calendar to see if she was free to go? Every lady she knew would have forgone an emergency appendectomy if it coincided with Grace Kelly's wedding. The other chambermaids working for Europe's richest ladies had brayed about how their mistresses had already sent extravagant engagement gifts as bribes to get themselves on the guest list. Lorenza honestly adored her mistress, who, she bragged, possessed goodness as well as la bellezza. She had even found fine homes in Chicago, America, for her dead sister's two youngest babies who otherwise would have gone to a paupers’ state foundling home. Now Lorenza held her breath and watched as Claire thumbed through her inch-thick 1956 agenda, rifling through her heavily scheduled calendar to make sure there was no conflict on April 18 through 20. It was one of Signódra Duccio's unbendable rules that nothing was allowed to interfere with her Eleanor House duties, or, more important, with Six's soccer schedule.
“We shall be able to make it,” she announced, and Lorenza's heartbeat resumed.
At the news of the invitation, Duccio wheeled through the house like he was on roller skates. What a splendid opportunity to seduce his bankers into financing his current costly project, the Claira Mare, sister ship to the Andrea Doria but even more luxurious. Gone were the days when he had to go to the Mafia for funds. While he kept his Neapolitan friendships intact, Claire had elevated him to a new level of legitimacy. With her seemingly effortless grace she had pulled him up the rungs of the social and financial ladder to a place that held only three or four men on one high, narrow step. And so he pushed her out the door to Paris to be properly coutured for the occasion. Alexandre for her hair, Cartier for the jewels, Balenciaga and Dior for her outfits. It was yet another incarnation of the Aunties before Cilla Pettibone's debut. As Auntie Slim always said, “Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.“ Somehow his gruff fussing over her endeared him and his nouveau-riche tastes to Claire, even though she'd have to be careful not to end up looking like his fancy feathered armpiece.
Painful as it was, she'd made the right decision about Harrison. There was no way she could have continued the domestic arrangement at Palazzo Duccio if she had become involved with Harrison again. She wasn't duplicitous enough to have sex with Harrison and dinner with Duccio. She knew she wouldn't be able to conceal her real feelings for him, a love so strong it continued to haunt her dreams, both sleeping and awake. When he had appeared at her dinner for Ambassador Luce two years ago, it became clear that she could barely concentrate with him doing nothing more sensual than standing near her. She hadn't even been able to compose herself enough to dance with him without betraying herself to the whole room. If she were an Oscar-winning performer like Grace Kelly she might be able to convince people she wasn't hanging on his every word or anticipating his next gesture. True, Claire was actress enough to camouflage her dislike of some of her husband's rough habits, but then Duccio was an easy audience. He just needed a little wifely confirmation that he was hot stuff. These days it was only his temper that worried her, especially in front of the children. But he always responded to Claire's calming voice and delicate admonitions. She could soothe away
his black outbursts like the careful handler of an untamed dog.
“Do you want the kitchen gossip?” An older but even more handsome Violet primly seated herself on the corner of Claire's map-sized bed. If anything, age had enhanced her mother's natural charms. Watching her, Claire hoped she'd mature as gracefully. Violet reminded her of the timeless lady in the ivory cameo Duccio had given her. She still carried her delicate frame with her perfect posture, her silvery hair only accentuating the violet eyes and creamy skin never weathered by expensive vacations in the sun.
“Oh, here, dear, your husband handed me these to give you.” She looked confused. She was used to seeing gifts packaged in pretty boxes, but the wide, clumpy gold and emerald bangle bracelets were just tied together like a bunch of green bananas with a yard of gold string and a dangling notecard. The colored stones were so big Violet mistakenly assumed they must be costume instead of real emeralds, or, as Duccio called them, “the Devil's own stones.” The card was written in his wild, speedy scrawl, Thank you for last night's supper. The Swiss bankers are on board. I salute you—Duccio.
“This may be none of my business, and I know I'm not as sophisticated about men as you are, but your wise old mother senses that two married people should spend at least some time together.”
“We're both happy with the arrangement.”
“He seems to want more from you.” A single furrow crinkled Violet's brow. “The kitchen staff apparently thinks so, too. With the few Italian phrases I've picked up it seems your husband has a ballerina and a singer on the side. I don't want to be indelicate or step out of line, but is your husband a … bounder? Do tell me I'm wrong if he's just a great patron of the arts.”
“Indeed he is.” Claire crossed her legs Indian-style and plunged into her grapefruit. “But he patronizes only female artists.” She popped a piece of toast into her mother's open mouth. “Most European men are very different, Mother. They're perfectly content to have a wife who runs their houses and a mistress who satisfies their ids.”
“Oh.” The vowel came out like a soprano's birdcall but it was clear that her mother's insight was as sharp as ever. “Still, I suspect your husband is quite in love with you. Surely you must see it. I haven't dressed more than a thousand brides and grooms for nothing. And,” she said, a blush suddenly rising from her neck to the tops of her cheeks, “I have more experience than you think.”
“Oh, Mother. Picking out china is not the same as understanding the inner workings of the male psyche.”
“Well, I've been keeping company with a widowed gentleman for some time now, and Mr. Zolla's asked me to marry him.”
This time it was Claire's mouth that dropped open. She couldn't imagine her mother having anything to do with a man other than sizing him up for a suit. Of course she was happy that her hardworking mother was going to have companionship. It just startled her that it was going to be a Mr. Zolla instead of a Labrador. In fact, it almost upset her. Claire had always looked to the Aunties as equal parts of the whole, women doing very nicely without men. There had been enough inner strength in the Windermere rental to keep them warm in winter, safe at night, and to create a house full of feminine joy. They didn't need the braggadocio strength of a man, which in her mind was always fleeting anyway and accompanied by strength-sapping side effects. The little band of women that had raised her solved their own problems with dignity and marched on like suffragettes espousing the cause of single womanhood. Even Eleanor Roosevelt had taught her it was safer to befriend women than to rely on men as saviors. She had seen enough of the duchess of Windsor up close to know that “keeping the little man happy” was a twenty-four-hour chore and knew from Pam Churchill that looking after even her temporary men was a full-time career. Claire had taken so brilliantly to her profession as Duccio's public wife because she hadn't come to the table with inappropriate expectations. She had never even seen a marriage that was founded on love, and hadn't Violet and the Aunties prepared her for exactly this kind of marriage, a good old financial swap?
In her own way, she was happy without love. Her children were growing up strong and healthy, and she was good at her “job” as Duccio's aide-de-camp cum social secretary (after all, she'd been trained by Harrison for that detailed type of work). She was secure in the knowledge that with Eleanor House she was doing something that mattered in the world. But the main reason she'd been able to keep her calm and equilibrium was that she never thought of Duccio as a man, but rather as her business partner. All this time she had assumed she was emulating her mother, to whom everything was a trade-off or a deal. Now it turned out that her mother wanted the other side of the coin, too, and it confused Claire.
“But, Mother, I thought you didn't need a man.”
“I don't, dear. It's just that he's a very fine person, and it's never too late to fall in love.” After she took a sip of her morning tea, Violet gave her daughter the 28 Shop look. “You might try it yourself sometime.”
Violet's words startled her. She wondered how much evidence of her passion for Harrison was etched in her face. Claire had come to practical terms with the lack of romance in her life a long time ago, pushing those notions out of her thoughts, but somehow hearing her mother's wedding plans tugged at the heartstrings she thought she had clamped off forever.
“Oh, Mother, I thought you were much too practical for romance.” She leaned forward to kiss her. It suddenly occurred to Claire that Violet might have sacrificed her own amorous desires to put food on the table.
“Yes, I know what you thought. I brought home the bacon, Wren cooked it, and Slim knew how to serve it to the men. We were three females impersonating one mother.”
“But what a mother!” Claire threw her arms up in the air, spilling drops of chamomile tea on the coverlet. She was genuinely happy for her. “All of you gave me the perfect childhood. Every day I call upon one of you to help me say or do the right thing for my children. We didn't need a man around to be happy.” But a childhood memory fluttered back to her, causing her to glance sideways. “You know,” she said, taking her mother's hand in hers, “I did bring Mr. Pettibone home for you.”
Her mother tucked a stray hair neatly into place, relieved that she hadn't turned into Pettibone's lifelong mistress and lived a life of disorder.
“Can I give you away to Mr. Zolla? I could have a beautiful wedding here, or at the gardens at Villa Duccio. Zolla. Zolla? Is he Italian? I won't spare any of Duccio's money. You'll have the wedding you've always deserved, better than all of those you planned for all your clients combined.”
“Why don't we leave that to Grace Kelly? As a matter of fact, Mr. Zolla, of Lithuanian descent, and I will probably be married very quietly in Scottsdale, Arizona, where we're going to retire. Yes, retire. I deserve a rest. You'll like Max. He's a very decent man. He discovered the Southwest as an executive with the Santa Fe Railroad. His wife, Edna, was an occasional customer of mine before she passed away.”
A widower. Someone older and stable. Claire nodded approvingly.
“Mother, I want you to tell me exactly what I can do. When can I meet the divine Mr. Zolla? Nothing could make me happier than to know someone's finally going to cherish you, even if it is among the cactus. I know what! I'm going to send you that big Tiepolo down in the music room. The Allegory of Love. It's pretty racy, though. How's Mr. Zolla's heart? And how tall are the ceilings in your living room in Scottsdale?”
Claire was so used to imagining Harrison's long legs striding around every other corner, only to realize it was her heart playing tricks on her brain, that when she and the duchess of Windsor stepped out of Christian Dior's private salon on the Rue George V in Paris, after having been draped and measured for foodless hours, she chalked up his elegant vision to hunger-induced hallucinations. But when their Rolls-Royce stopped at the traffic light, Léonide Massine, who was eating a chocolate and most decidedly not starving himself, pointed out the window to ask Claire if that wasn't her famous father-in-law strolling down the stre
et. Léonide beckoned him over while the two ladies waited in the car.
“Look, I make for you the reunion.”
Harrison bent his tall frame to greet the car's occupants through the open window. He recognized the duchess at once. She was clad in a cream bouclé suit with a one-legged flamingo pinned to her lapel and wore a brown ocelot hat on her small head. From deep inside the car and out through the window the duchess extended a taupe kid-gloved hand. Harrison remembered Claire saying that Wallis feared her hands were unfeminine and always kept them covered. He politely shook the gloved hand and was getting ready to rush off when he spied Claire on the far side of the seat. Hatless, her soft hair fell to the shoulders of her camel-colored suit, the slim skirt revealing her silk-stockinged legs. She looked thinner than the last time he had seen her.
Harrison searched for something to say.
“Imagine running into the two of you on George Fifth. I don't suppose I could interest you two in lunch at the Ritz?”
“Oh dear, we're on our way to the hatter's, and you're welcome to join us if you need another bowler or two. Of course we have to hurry. If you keep a hatter waiting long enough he goes mad, you know.” Harrison had forgotten how droll the duchess could be.
“Wallis, you go on to the milliner's. I'll faint if I don't get something to eat. Do you mind?”
There was such a look of excitement in Claire's eyes that it caused the duchess's well-drawn eyebrows to rise. She gripped her lizard-skin bag—embossed with the royal insignia she'd made up for herself—tighter to her lap so that Claire could slip past her and out of the car before the light changed.
The two Harrisons felt almost giddy as they requested a table in the back of the Ritz's dining room. The fawning maître d’ accommodated them graciously, finding them a place half-hidden behind a palm, although he usually liked to seat the well-known beauties up front and in full view of everybody else, particularly if they were the wives of the spectacularly rich.
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