Remembrance

by Danielle Steel

  5

  Serena was up at the crack of dawn the next morning. She washed and pulled her golden hair into a knot at the nape of her neck, and then concealed it beneath another dark cotton scarf. She wound the piece of navy blue cloth around her head, bandanna fashion, and then slipped into an old blue cotton dress, which she had worn at the convent in Upstate New York to go berry picking with the younger girls. It had already been patched in a number of places, and it was faded to a color that suggested long years of use. Beneath the dress Serena put on thick dark stockings, sturdy shoes, and over the front of the blue dress she tied a clean white apron, and then looked into the mirror with a serious face. It was certainly not an outfit for a principessa. But even with the dark blue bandanna there was no concealing the beautiful face. If anything, it seemed to provide a contrast for the pale peach hue of her cheeks and the brilliant green of her eyes.

  “You look ridiculous in that outfit.” Marcella looked at her with instant disapproval as she poured their coffee and the first hint of daylight crept over the hills. “Why don't you wear something decent, for God's sake?” But Serena said nothing to the old woman. She only smiled as she sipped the hot coffee and closed her eyes in the hot steam as she held the cup in her hands. “What do you think the Americans will think of you wearing that old dress, Serena?”

  “They will think that I'm a hard worker, Marcella.” The green eyes met hers quietly over the cup of coffee, and she looked older and wiser than her years.

  “Ah … nonsense!” She looked more annoyed than she had the night before. She thought the whole thing was ridiculous. Worse than that, she felt guilty for suggesting to Serena that she get a job at all. She was still hoping that Serena would forget herself and speak to her new employers in good English and that by the next morning she would be working for the commanding officer as his secretary, in one of the large handsome rooms upstairs.

  But half an hour later even Marcella had forgotten those hopes. They were both busy running up and down stairs, helping the orderlies to carry boxes, and figuring out what to put in what rooms. It was mostly Serena who helped them. Marcella was too old to run up and down the stairs. But Serena ran rapidly alongside them and seemed to be in a thousand places, saying little, overseeing everything, and seeming to assist with a dozen pairs of hands.

  “Thank you.” The head orderly smiled at her at the end of the afternoon as she brought him and his men six cups of steaming coffee. “We couldn't have managed without you.” He wasn't sure if she understood him, but he knew that she spoke a little English and she would easily understand the tone of his voice and his broad smile. He was a heavyset man in his late forties, he had a broad chest, a bald head, and warm brown eyes. “What's your name, miss?” Serena hesitated for only a moment, and then knowing that it would have to come sooner or later, she spoke softly.

  “Serena.”

  “Sereena.” He repeated immediately with the American pronunciation, but she didn't mind it. And after a day of watching him work as hard as his men, she didn't mind him. He was a good man and a hard worker, and he had helped her often, taking heavy boxes from her, in spite of her protests. But he simply took them in his huge hands and continued up the stairs.

  He was the first man in the uniform of any country who had actually won one of her rare smiles. “My name is Charlie, Serena. Charlie Crockman.” He put out one of his thick hands and she extended hers. Their eyes met for a moment and he smiled again. “You worked very hard today.”

  “And you too.” She smiled shyly, not looking at the other men.

  But Charlie laughed. “Not nearly as hard as we're going to work tomorrow.”

  “More?” Serena looked shocked. They had already filled every room with boxes and files and cabinets and luggage, desks and lamps and chairs and a hundred other things. Where on earth would they put anything more? she wondered, but Charlie Crockman shook his head.

  “No, nothing like that. Tomorrow we get down to the real work here. The major will be here tomorrow morning.” He rolled his eyes with another grin. “And we'd damn well better have everything unpacked and moving by noon.” The men groaned and broke into conversation.

  “I thought he went to Spoleto for the weekend?” one of the men complained loudly, but Charlie Crockman shook his head again.

  “Not him. If I know the major, he'll be here tonight until midnight, setting up his files and his desk.” Now mat he and his men had moved in, the army had also assigned the major a fresh load of tasks. B.J. Fullerton had been something of a hero during the war, and now he was getting his first shot at something important behind a desk. Hence the palazzo.

  “Shit.” Serena heard one of the men say it and appeared not to hear them, and a few minutes later as they continued the conversation she slipped away. In the cozy kitchen she found Marcella, soaking her feet and sitting back in a chair with her eyes closed. Serena slipped her hands onto the old woman's shoulders and began to massage gently, as Marcella smiled.

  “Sei tu?”

  “Who do you think it is?”

  “My little angel.” They both smiled. It had been a long day.

  “Why don't you let me cook dinner tonight, Celia?” But the old woman wouldn't hear of it. She already had a tiny chicken in the oven, and there was pasta bubbling softly on the stove. There would be fresh lettuce from the garden, and some carrots and some basil, and the little tomatoes Marcella had just started to grow. It was a delicious meal when it was all over, and Serena could hardly keep her eyes open as she helped clear the table and urged Marcella to go to bed. She was too old to work as hard as she had. “And tonight I'm making you hot milk and sugar. And that's an order!” She smiled at the woman who had taken her in only days before, and the old woman inclined her head.

  “Ah, Principessa … you are too good. …”

  But Serena was quick to bridle. Her eyes flashed as she took a step back and straightened her head. “Stop that, Marcella.”

  “I'm sorry.” Tonight the old woman didn't argue. She was too tired, and she ached all over. It had been years since she worked so hard. Even if Serena had done most of it with the Americans, just being there trying to help had exhausted Marcella. She felt guilty for having let Serena do so much. She had tried in the beginning to keep her from it with whispers of “Principessa!” But Serena had silenced her rapidly with a ferocious scowl, and gone on with her own work.

  “Go on, go to bed, Celia. I'll bring you the milk in a minute.” With a sleepy yawn the old woman complied and shuffled off, and then with a glance over her shoulder, she remembered something and paused in the doorway with a frown.

  “I have to go back upstairs.”

  “Why?”

  “To lock up. I don't know if they know how to do it. I want to check the front door before I go to bed. I told them I would. And they told me to make sure that all of the indoor lights are out.”

  “I'll do it for you.”

  She hesitated for a moment and then nodded. She was too tired to argue, and Serena could do that. “All right. But just for tonight.”

  “Yes, ma'am.” Serena smiled to herself as she poured the milk into a cup and went to get the sugar. A few minutes later she stood in the doorway to Marcella's tiny bedroom, but the gentle snores from the bed told her that it was already too late. She smiled and then took a sip of the warm liquid, and then slowly she walked to the kitchen, sat down, and drank the milk herself. When she finished, she washed the cup and saucer, dried them, and put away the last of the dishes, and then with a sigh, she opened the door to their basement quarters and walked slowly up the back stairs.

  She found everything in order in the main hallway. The grand piano still stood there as it had for decades, and the chandelier in the entry burned as brightly as it had when her parents were there. Without thinking, she turned her face up toward it, smiling to herself as she remembered how much it had enchanted her when she was a child. It had been the best part of her parents' parties, standing on the circular ma
rble staircase, watching men in dinner jackets or tails and women in brilliantly colored evening clothes drift beneath the many faceted crystal chandelier as they wandered through the hall and out into the garden, to stand near the fountain and drink champagne. She used to listen to them laughing, trying to hear what they were saying. She used to sit there in her nightgown, just around the bend, peeking at them, and now as she thought of it again she laughed to herself as she walked up the same stairs. It gave her an odd feeling now to be here in the dark of night, with all of the others gone. The memories at the same time delighted and chilled her. They filled her with longing and regret all at the same time, and as she began to walk down the second-floor landing, she suddenly felt a wave of homesickness overtake her, the likes of which she hadn't felt in years. Suddenly she wanted to be in her old room, to sit on her bed, to look out the window at the garden, just to see it, to sense it, to become part of it again. Without thinking, she put a hand up to the now dusty navy blue bandanna and pulled it slowly off her head and released the long shining blond hair. It was not unlike the gesture she used to make when she took off the hat to her school uniform as she came home every day and ran up the stairs to her room. Only now she checked in the doorway, and the room was almost empty. There was a desk there, a book shelf, several file cabinets, some chairs … none of the familiar furniture, none of the things that had been hers. It was all long gone.

  With a determined step she walked to the window, and there she saw it … the fountain … the garden … the enormous willow tree. It was all exactly as she had left it, and she could remember standing at precisely the same spot in the same window, gently frosting the glass with her breath in winter as she looked out there, wishing that she didn't have to do her homework and that she could go outside to play. And if she closed her eyes very tightly, she would hear them, her mother and her friends, laughing outside, talking, wandering along, playing croquet in the springtime, or gossiping about their friends in Rome.… She would see her there in a blue linen suit… or a silk dress … or a big picture hat … perhaps holding some freshly cut roses, looking up to Serena's windows and waving and—

  “Who are you?” The voice she heard behind her sounded ominous, and with a small scream Serena flung out her arms and jumped in terror, wheeling around quickly and clutching the wall behind her with both hands. All she could see was the frame of a man silhouetted in the darkness. The room was still dark, and the light in the hallway was too dim and distant to be of much assistance. She didn't know who he was or what he was doing there, or if he would hurt her, and then as he took a step toward her she saw the shine of the insignia on his lapels. He was in uniform and suddenly she remembered what the head orderly had said earlier that evening, about the major being there until midnight, setting up his desk.

  “Are you”—it was barely a croak as her entire body trembled —”the major?”

  “The question I asked was who are you?” His voice sounded terrifyingly firm, but neither of them moved and he did not turn on the light behind him. He just stood there, looking down at her, wondering why she seemed so familiar. He sensed something about her, even in the moonlight filtering in from the garden. He had the impression that he had seen her somewhere before. He had been watching her since she had entered the room that was to be his office. He had just turned off the light when he heard her footsteps on the stairs. At first his hand went automatically to the pistol lying on his desk, but he had decided quickly that he didn't need it, and now he only wondered who she was and where she had come from, and why she was here, at the Palazzo Tibaldo, in his office at ten o'clock at night.

  “I—I'm sorry.… I came upstairs to turn off the lights.” For an instant she had almost wanted to say “Sir,” and then she was annoyed at her own reactions. It was something about the uniform that she could see more clearly now, the clustered insignia on his lapel, and the imperious tilt of his head. “I'm sorry.”

  “Are you? That still doesn't answer my question.” His voice was cold and even. “I asked you who you were.”

  “Serena. I work here.” Her English was better than she wanted it to be, but under the circumstances she decided not to play any games with him. It was better that he understood her, otherwise, God forbid, he could have had her arrested, or fired, and she didn't want that. “I am a maid here.”

  “What were you doing upstairs here, Serena?” His voice was gentler than it had been at first.

  “I thought I heard sounds … noises. …” Her eyes darted from his in the darkness. Perhaps she would have to play games with him after all. “I came to see what was wrong.”

  “I see.” He looked at her more closely and knew that she was lying. He had made no sound at all for several hours, not even when he turned off the light. “You're very courageous, Serena.” His eyes mocked her and she knew it. “And what would you have done if I had been an intruder?” He looked down at the slim shoulders, the long graceful arms, the delicate hands, and she understood the look he gave her.

  “I don't know. I would have called for … someone … to help me … I suppose.”

  He continued to watch her and slowly walked toward the light he had turned off only moments before. Now he switched it on again and turned to look at her more closely. She was a strikingly beautiful girl, tall and graceful and lovely, with eyes of green fire and hair like Bernini's gold. “I suppose you know that no one would have come to help you. There is no one here.”

  But this time it was Serena who bridled as she watched him. Was that a threat he had just made her? Would he dare to assault her in this room? Did he think that they were alone? She looked at the tall, lean, young American, and she could sense that, even in the uniform, he was something more. This was not just another American major, this was a man who was accustomed to command, and to having his wishes granted, and if what he wanted now was her, she knew that he would see to it that that was what he got. “You are mistaken.” This time she felt no urge to add “Sir.” “We are not alone here.” She spoke with precision and certainty and a look of fury building in the green eyes.

  “Aren't we?” He seemed surprised. Had she brought someone with her? She was a cheeky little thing if she had, but nothing would surprise him, perhaps she and her boyfriend had come to the lovely palazzo to make love. He raised an eyebrow and Serena took a step back.

  “No, we are not alone.”

  “You brought a friend?”

  “I live here with my … zia … my aunt.” She faltered again on purpose.

  “Here? In the palazzo?”

  “She is waiting for me at the foot of the stairs.” It was a brazen lie, but he believed her.

  “Does she work here too?”

  “Yes. Her name is Marcella Fabiani.” She just hoped that the major had never met her. She had hoped to conjure an image of a dragon who would not allow him to hurt her. But a mental image of the ancient, heavyset, soundly snoring Marcella crossed her mind and she almost groaned aloud. If truly this man meant to hurt, or rape, her there would indeed be no one at hand to help her escape.

  “And you are Serena Fabiani, then, I imagine?” He looked her over carefully once again and Serena paused for only a moment before nodding.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I'm Major Fullerton, as I imagine you've gathered. Not an intruder. This is my office. And I do not want to see you here again. Not unless it's during daytime hours and you're working or if I ask you to come up here. Is that clear?” She nodded, but despite the stern words she had the feeling that he was laughing at her. There were little lines beside the gray eyes that made one suspect that he wasn't nearly as serious as he seemed. “Is there a door between your quarters and the palazzo?” He gazed at her with interest, but this time she was looking him over too. He had a thick handsome mane of blond hair given to curls, broad shoulders, and what appeared to be powerful arms. He had well-formed hands and long graceful fingers … long legs … in fact he was very attractive, but also terribly cocky. She found herse
lf wondering what kind of family he came from. He reminded her all of a sudden of some of the old playboys of Rome. And perhaps that was why he was asking her if there was a door between her quarters and the palazzo, and suddenly she stood a little taller and made no attempt to hide the fire in her green eyes.

  “Yes, Major, there is. It goes directly into my aunt's bedroom.”

  Understanding what had happened, B. J. Fullerton had to fight not to burst into laughter. She was really an outrageous young girl and in a way she amused him, but he had no intentions of letting on. Here she was in the middle of the night, in his office, and she was staring him down and implying that he might try to intrude on her. “I see. Then we'll attempt not to disturb your aunt in the future. I was going to suggest mat we have the door between your quarters and the rest of the palazzo permanently closed, so that …er… you are not tempted to go wandering. And of course, once I move in here tomorrow, there will be a sentry posted outside the palazzo, so that if you hear anything at night”—he looked at her pointedly but her eyes didn't waver and she didn't flinch—”you won't need to come to my rescue.”