“Why not?” she said and went to join him, relieved she’d distracted him.
“I think I’d better make lunch,” M announced after five minutes of moving around Larry, bumping into him as he skirted her. “It’s a great kitchen, but it’s not big enough for two cooks. Anyway, too many cooks spoil the broth, so my mother says.”
“But I really want to do it,” Larry shot back, frowning at her. “After all, I invited you here, not to a restaurant, and I am your host, you know.”
M swallowed her amusement at his seriousness about this and exclaimed, “No, no, no, it’s better if I do the cooking. And do be careful, don’t drop those eggs.”
He was now leaning toward a countertop, and the egg carton was precariously balanced in one of his hands.
Hurrying across the floor, she took the eggs from him, placed them on the counter, then untied the white chef’s apron he was wearing over his black cashmere sweater and black jeans. “I shall put this on instead of you, and that means I’m now in charge.”
He grinned. “Yes, General, as you say, General.” He saluted her, grabbed her arm, pulled her to him, and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. His eyes were appraising when he asked teasingly, “Have I fallen for a bossy Margaret Thatcher?”
“I’m afraid you have.” She eyed him flirtatiously, laughter making her black eyes sparkle. “It’s easier if only one person cooks. Now go and sit at the table,” she ordered. “We can chat as I cook. What kind of eggs would you prefer?”
“Poached, fried, scrambled, I don’t care. There’s streaky bacon in the fridge, and Canadian bacon as well. The tomatoes are over there in that bowl. We could have a real fry-up, if you’d like that.”
“I do, and we could, but hey, Larry, what about bacon butties? Don’t you just love them?”
“I do indeed, they’re my favorite, and I always make a beeline for them on an early-morning shoot. The film caterers usually serve them for breakfast. And what about fried egg sandwiches as well?” He grinned at her, enjoying being with her; she was a good sport, and he liked that about her. He couldn’t stand pretentious women who put on airs and graces.
“It will be a fantastic repast,” she confided, sounding sure of herself, and began to move around the kitchen, getting organized, looking across at Larry, listening to him when he told her where to find the things she needed. She loved hearing that marvelous voice of his, so rich and full of cadences, an actor’s voice.
For his part, Larry was thinking that she was probably one of the more adorable women he had met in his life. This morning she looked young and delectable, wearing very little makeup, her hair now pulled back in a ponytail. Yes, she did have a look of Audrey, that was true, but she was also herself and highly individualistic. It suddenly struck him there was something rather exotic about her looks, and he was certain she was photogenic. It was the high cheekbones, of course, the broad brow and hollow cheeks, the perfectly arched eyebrows. Yes, she probably photographed like a dream; no wonder that photographer had been entranced.
He sat back, scrutinizing her as she moved around, energetic, lithe, and so graceful. She paused for a moment to roll up the sleeves of her white cotton shirt, and it occurred to him that she had an elegance unusual in somebody so young. This led him to a question: Was she too young for him? He answered immediately with a resounding no. He was twelve years older than she, as she had pointed out, but then she had also said that numbers didn’t matter. This was true, he’d always believed that. And M was confident, truly self-assured, and had apparently been well groomed to go anywhere, meet anyone, at any time; there was no doubt in his mind that she would conduct herself with great aplomb and lots of charm. She was unusually engaging.
The whistling of the kettle broke into his thoughts, and he made a move to get up, but M shushed him down, exclaiming, “No, no, no! I’ll do it. Do you have a brown teapot?”
“I’m afraid not, love, only my mother’s antique silver pot.”
“Then I’ll have to buy you one.”
“Thank you. I accept,” he said, smiling across at her. Suddenly he had lost interest in food. What he wanted was to take her to bed and slowly and tenderly make passionate love to her.
“You’ve got a funny look on your face,” M said as she carried over the teapot and a jug of milk, peered at him as she put them down on the table.
“What do you mean?”
She shrugged, laughed, and said, “You were sort of ogling me, I guess.” And she laughed again and walked away, murmuring, “Perhaps leering would be a better word.”
He made no response, amazed at her powers of observation. I’m going to have to watch myself when I’m around her, he thought. I’d better put on my actor’s mask and prepare myself to dissemble.
Fourteen
Lunch in the kitchen had been a splendid success as far as Larry was concerned—warm, cozy, and intimate—and he was loath to break this mood by going out to the movies. He wanted to know more about her, to get even closer to her.
Staring across the table at M, he said, “Listen, why don’t we watch a film here? There’s a small screening room in the back, which my father created. It’s simple but comfortable with a big screen, and we have loads of films to choose from.”
“Oh, Larry, I’d love that!” M exclaimed, beaming at him. “We could watch you in Hamlet. That would be brilliant. I loved you in the movie as much as I did on the stage.”
“Oh, no,” he answered, shaking his head with some vehemence, grimacing. “I have no desire to stare at myself acting. Actually, I rarely do that. I only look at the rushes, the film of the day’s shoot. You can gape at my siblings doing their stuff, if you wish, and my parents, but not me. Listen, I’ve a better idea. Give me the title of one of your favorites; you can be certain it’s here if it’s a big movie.”
“Well, there’re a lot I love, so wait, just let me think for a moment. Oh, I know one that’s really special to me. Do you have Julia? Jane Fonda plays Lillian Hellman in it, and Vanessa Redgrave is Julia.”
“I know it well. It’s a Fred Zinnemann film, and one of my favorites, too,” Larry told her.
“I read something once about Zinnemann. A journalist asked him what it was like directing Vanessa Redgrave, and he said, ‘Driving a Rolls-Royce.’ Wasn’t that cool?”
Larry smiled at her. “He also said something that was most astute. ‘The camera’s got to love you,’ and oh, boy, was he spot-on about that. Come on then, let’s go and look for Julia. I’m pretty sure we have it—” Larry paused, frowning, obviously listening, his head tilted, and then said, “Do you have a cell phone in your bag? I can hear one ringing somewhere, and it’s not mine.”
“Oh, God, yes!” M jumped up, ran out into the entrance hall, where she had left her red Kelly and knitted coat on a chair. Rummaging in the bag, she grabbed the phone and pressed it to her ear. “Hello?”
The voice at the other end was faraway, and she could hardly hear it. “Is that you, M?”
“Yes. Who is it?”
“Caresse.”
“Oh, Caresse, hi! Have you heard when Frankie’s coming back? Is that why you’re calling me?”
There was a sudden sound of sobbing at the other end, and then Caresse said in a mumble, “Oh, M, it’s terrible, I don’t know what I’m going to do . . .”
The voice disappeared, and M shouted into the phone, “Caresse, I can’t hear you!”
“Frankie’s . . . dead!”
“Oh, my God, no! Oh, God, what happened?” M’s voice wobbled and she sat down heavily in the hall chair and endeavored to steady herself. Tears sprang into her eyes. She could hardly believe what Caresse was saying.
“He was in a car crash. In France. On something called grancornish.” Caresse’s voice faded for a moment, and then she started to sob. Almost immediately static and sizzle took over.
“Caresse, are you still there?” M asked, pressing her ear to the cell.
“Yes.” Caresse’s voice was back once more.
>
“Where are you, Caresse? Tell me where you are.”
“At Frankie’s. At the studio.”
“Stay there. I’m coming over. Now.”
Larry had not failed to hear the distressed tone in M’s voice, and he had rushed out of the kitchen. The moment he saw the dismay on her face he knew something bad had happened, and he stood in the doorway staring at her, filled with concern.
Once she finished the call, he went over to her. She was unusually pale, and there was a stricken expression in her eyes.
M got up out of the chair. She said, “That was Caresse, Frankie Farantino’s receptionist, and she’s had bad news . . .” Her voice faltered. “He’s been killed in an accident. . . . Frankie’s dead.”
“Oh, M, how dreadful,” Larry responded, his voice quiet, sympathetic. “I’m so sorry. Where did it happen?”
“He was in the South of France. Caresse said it was on grancornish, but I’m sure she was mispronouncing Grande Corniche.”
“Yes, she must have meant that,” Larry agreed. “I know that road. It’s treacherous, especially if someone doesn’t know it well.”
M stood there looking upset, and Larry put his arms around her, wanting to comfort her as best he could.
She clung to him, but after a few minutes she pulled away. Looking up at him, she shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “Very sorry.”
“Don’t be so silly, M. I know how upset you are, and I don’t blame you. It’s a terrible shock. Listen, I heard you tell Caresse you were going to go and see her. I think I should come with you, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do, Larry. Please.”
There was a lot of traffic going downtown, but half an hour later M and Larry were ringing the bell of Frank Farantino’s studio.
The huge, nail-studded black door was opened almost immediately. Standing there was a tall, thin man who looked about seventeen, perhaps eighteen. He had a shock of brown curly hair, a saturnine face, and hazel eyes, which looked somewhat teary.
At once M noticed the strong resemblance he bore to Frankie, and stretching out her hand, she said, “Hello, I’m M, and this is my friend Laurence Vaughan. Caresse is expecting us.”
The young man shook their hands, saying as he did, “I’m Frankie’s son, Alex. Please come in. Caresse is waiting for you.”
“We were so upset when we heard about your father’s accident, such a tragedy.” M touched the boy’s arm lightly and added in a warm, caring voice, “I’m very sorry, Alex. It was so sudden, you must be blindsided.”
Looking more tearful than ever, he started to blink and muttered, “Thank you, thanks very much. Yes, it’s been a shock.” He pursed his lips nervously. It was obvious he was strained and anxious.
Larry now spoke up. “My condolences to you, Alex. This is an awful thing for you to bear, and if there’s anything M or I can do, if we can help you in any way, you must let us know.”
“Thanks, Mr. Vaughan, thanks.”
“Call me Larry, please. I much prefer it.”
The young man nodded and took them through the reception area, heading to the main studio. They followed hard on his heels.
M felt slightly dazed; she could hardly believe this was happening. The last time she had been in the vast main studio was the day Frankie had announced she was Audrey Hepburn’s twin and promised to launch her career as a model when he got back from the fashion shoot in Morocco. Well, he wasn’t coming back now, except in a coffin.
Sorrow swept over her. Frankie Farantino was dead. There would be no launch of her career; her big break had vanished in a flash. But none of that mattered. She could begin again, find her way somehow. But Frankie wasn’t coming back . . . and that was the greatest of tragedies. The world had lost a truly good man and a talented photographer, a brilliant artist.
A wave of memories assailed her as she followed Alex and Larry into the studio. She thought of the fun and excitement of that day of photography, and she couldn’t quite grasp that she would never see Frankie ever again. She remembered him moving around with such agility, telling her what to do, how to pose, focusing his camera on her, snapping pictures . . . encouraging her, praising her . . .
All of the lights had been turned on and were blazing throughout; sitting in a chair in the center of the studio was Caresse. She was hunched over, her arms wrapped around herself, her bright red head bent down to her chest.
M’s throat tightened. She stood perfectly still, aware that Caresse was heartbroken, and somehow she understood that there had been something important between Caresse and Frankie, that he had been much more than her boss.
Taking a deep breath, M went over to Caresse, knelt down next to the chair, and wrapped her arms around the young receptionist. “Caresse . . . I’m so sorry, so terribly sorry. What an enormous shock this must be for you.”
Caresse did not answer, just let out a long, strangled cry, then sighed several times. But after a few seconds, she lifted her head and looked directly at M. Her eyes and nose were red from crying, her skin the color of bleached-out bone. She leaned closer to M, got hold of her hand, but still seemed unable to speak, or perhaps did not want to say anything at the moment, was endeavoring to recoup somehow.
Eventually, Caresse said in a small voice, “We got engaged the night before he left.” Lifting her left hand, she showed the ring to M. “He gave me this ring. It’s a sapphire.” Tears slid down Caresse’s cheeks, and she shook her head, suddenly seemed bewildered. “Why? Why did it have to be Frankie?” she asked, peering at M. “Tell me why.”
M had no words for her, and quite unexpectedly she did not know how to comfort this utterly grief-stricken young woman. After a while, M asked, “When did it happen? How did you find out about Frankie’s accident?”
Caresse, taking several deep breaths, focused on M and explained. “Luke called me this morning on my cell. I just happened to be here. I usually come to make sure everything’s all right over the weekend. After Luke’s call from Nice, I called Alex to break the news. Frankie brought him up; he was a single dad and good at it. Then I called you, M, because Frankie was so excited about discovering you . . . I knew he’d want you to know that . . .” She did not finish her sentence, just burst into tears.
Alex beckoned to M, who got up and hurried over to him.
He was standing with Larry near the small kitchen that opened off the studio. “I can explain a bit more to you,” he said, looking at M and then at Larry. “The accident happened about six o’clock in the evening in France. Noon here. Today. Luke Hendricks called Caresse as soon as the police had been in touch with him, at the hotel where he and Dad were staying in Nice—” He stopped all of a sudden, glanced away, swallowing, and once he had control of himself, he went on. “Apparently Dad was driving to Monte Carlo to have dinner with a French photographer he’d known for years. He had . . . a head-on crash . . . with a truck coming from the opposite direction. They were both killed, Dad and the other driver.” Clearing his throat, blinking again, Alex announced, “I think I’ll go and make some coffee. Okay?”
“Yes, that would be great, Alex, thanks,” Larry answered, and turning to M, he put his arm around her and said, “Let’s go and sit over there. I’m positive Caresse needs to be alone for the moment, and so does Alex, actually. He wants to have another weep, I think, but not in front of us. He’s endeavoring to be brave.”
It was an hour later when M and Larry left the studio. Some of Frankie’s colleagues had come in, and several other friends had arrived to look after Caresse. M and Larry now felt relaxed about leaving, especially since Alex seemed to have found some inner strength and had taken charge.
Standing outside, Larry took hold of M’s hand, and together they walked down the street. It was M who broke the silence between them when she said, “Can we go back to your place, Larry? I don’t want to go home, I want to be with you.”
This pleased him, since he wanted her with him. “Then let’s do that right away. It looks distinctly
like rain, and we don’t want to get caught in a downpour.” He glanced up at the sky, noted the gathering clouds, and hurrying her along, hailed the first cab he spotted.
M was quiet during the ride uptown, and Larry decided to let her sort out her thoughts, not wishing to intrude. It occurred to him that she might be contemplating her future now that the initial shock of Frankie’s death had begun to wear off. Her big break, the launch of her career, had evaporated in the blink of an eye. He wondered how he could help her and realized he had no idea. The problem was, he did not know anyone in the fashion business; if she had wanted to be an actress, he could have been very useful to her. He sighed, and she took hold of his arm, peering at him. “Is something wrong?”
“No, no, I’m perfectly fine.” A faint smile flickered around his mouth. He continued, “Just worrying about you, darling. You’ve got to start all over again, go back to square one.”
“And that’s what I’ll do,” she responded firmly. “I’m not going to give in or give up the idea of being a model. I have to keep on trying.”
“That’s the right stuff! Good girl,” he exclaimed, his voice full of admiration.
When they walked into Larry’s apartment a short while later, there was the sound of thunder rumbling in the distance, and brilliant flashes of lightning were illuminating the rooms overlooking the East River.
Walking over to one of the windows in the library, Larry exclaimed, “My God, look at the sky! It’s extraordinary, and any moment there’s going to be one hell of a cloudburst.”
She went and stood next to him, staring out at the darkening sky. It was filled with bloated black clouds, but oddly, they appeared to be illuminated from behind. Silvery rays of light were streaming across the clouds as if emanating from some source below the far horizon, creating an effect that was otherworldly. Turning to him, she said, “A set designer has been at work here, don’t you think? It’s like a scene out of The Ten Commandments, when Charlton Heston parted the sea.”
Breaking the Rules (Harte Family Saga Book 7) Page 10
