To Love Again (19 page)

About what? And then suddenly Natasha was grinning. About Corbett? For a long moment she laughed until tears came to her eyes. Are you kidding? Oh, Isabella ' did you think? ' Oh, Jesus! And then she looked at her friend, amused. I can't imagine anything less appealing to me than getting involved with Corbett Ewing.

Are you serious? You're not involved with him? Isabella looked stunned. But I had assumed ' And then she looked even more puzzled. But why not? I thought that you two

Maybe you thought, but Corbett and I never thought. We've been friends for years and well never be anything more. He's almost like a brother and he's my very best friend. But we're both two basically very high-powered people. As a woman, I'm not gentle enough for Corbett, not fragile or helpless enough. I don't know, I can't explain it. He always says I should have been a man.

How unkind. Isabella looked disapproving.

Doesn't Bernardo say unkind things to you?

Isabella smiled in answer. At least every day.

Exactly. It's like brother and sister. I can't imagine anything different with Corbett She grinned to herself again, and Isabella shrugged, feeling a little silly.

I must be getting old, Natasha. All my perceptions are off. I truly assumed right from the beginning' . But Natasha just grinned and shook her head. And Isabella was pensive for a long moment as they walked along. She was suddenly thinking of Corbett Ewing in a very different light.

They didn't speak again until they approached the building and Natasha noticed Isabella smiling as they walked along.

You should have gone to the opera ball, you know, Isabella said. It would have been fun.

How do you know?

We have a marvelous one in Rome.

I mean how do you know there was one here and that I was invited to it?

Because I'm an excellent detective and the invitation didn't quite burn.

Suddenly there were tears in Natasha's eyes. Her lies, her sacrifice, had been a disservice to her friend. All right, she said, throwing her arm around Isabella's shoulders and hugging her briefly. You win.

Thank you. Isabella marched into the building with a look of victory and an awesome glint in her eye.

Isabella turned the light off in her office. It was eight o'clock in the evening and she had just made her last call to Rome. Poor Bernardo, it was two in the morning for him, but the summer collection had just opened and she had to know how it had gone.

Exquisite, cara, he had said. Everyone declared it a marvel. No one understands how you could do it with the pressure you've been under, with the difficulties, with everything. While she listened to him, her eyes had glowed.

It didn't look too peculiar with all those new colors instead of the red? Working this way, on paper, from a distance was a little bit like being blind.

No, and the turquoise lining in the white evening coat was sheer genius. You should have seen the reaction of the Italian Vogue. Va b+?ne. She was happy. He had given her every detail until at last there was nothing left that she didn't know. All right, darling, I guess we've done it. I'm sorry I woke you. Now go back to bed.

You mean you don't have any other projects for me at this hour? No frantic instructions about your new ideas for the fall? He missed her, but his need was fading. It had been good for both of them her escape had been an escape for him too.

Domani. Tomorrow. For a moment her eyes clouded over. The fall ' would she have to design the collection from here then? Would she never be able to go home? Two months. It had already been two months since she had come to the States. Two months of hiding and running her business from five thousand miles, on the phone. Two months of not seeing the villa, not sleeping in her own bed. It was already April. The month of sunshine and gardens and the first burst of springtime in Rome. Even in New York the weather had been a little warmer as she had strolled every evening to the edge of the park and a few times to the East River to watch the parade of joggers and sturdy-looking little boats. The East River was not the Tiber, and New York wasn't her home. I'll call you in the morning, she told Bernardo. And by the way, congratulations on the soap.

Please. Don't even mention it. It had taken four months to do the research, another two to put it on the market. But at least it had paid off. They had just received an order for half a million dollars from F-B, of course.

Bernardo was describing the orders, but she wasn't listening. The soap. Even that reminded her of her last day with Amadeo. That fateful day when she had argued with Bernardo and then left them to run off to lunch. It had been almost seven months. Seven long, lonely, work-filled months. She dragged her attention back to Bernardo.

What's it like in New York now by the way? he was asking.

Still cold, perhaps a bit warmer, but everything is still very gray. They don't see spring here until May or June.

He didn't tell her that the garden at the villa was in full bloom. He had been there to check on things only a few days before. Instead he said, B+?ne, cara. I'll talk to you tomorrow. And congratulations!

She blew him a kiss and they hung up. Congratulations. In Rome she would have watched with terror and fascination as they opened the show. She would have stood by, breathless, suddenly unsure of the colors, the fabrics, the look, unhappy with the jewelry, the music, and the models' perfectly done hair. She would have hated every moment, until the first mannequin stepped onto the gray silk runway. Then, after it had begun, she would have felt the thrill of it as she did each season. The sheer excitement, the beauty, the madness of the high-fashion world. And when it was over, she and Amadeo would have winked at each other secretly from across the murderously jammed room and then found each other later for a long, happy Kiss. The press would have been there, and there would have been rivers of champagne. And parties in the evening. It was like a wedding and a honeymoon four times a year.

But not this year. Tonight she was in blue jeans, in a tiny one-room office, drinking coffee, and very much alone.

She closed the door to her office and glanced at the kitchen clock as she walked past. She heard the boys in the distance and wondered why they weren't in bed. Alessandro had learned English, not perfectly, but enough to be understood. When he wasn't, he shouted to compensate for it, as though otherwise he might not be heard. The odd thing was he rarely spoke it. It was as though Alessandro needed his Italian as a reminder of home, of who he really was. She smiled to herself as she walked past their room. They were playing with Hattie, had the television going, and Jason had just set up his train.

She had missed her walk tonight. She had been too nervous, waiting to call Bernardo, wondering what had happened at the opening of the collections that day. And she was growing tired of the familiar route now anyway, even more so now that Natasha didn't always come along. She had picked up her life again, and in the evenings Isabella was often alone. Natasha was going to be out again that evening. A benefit ball.

Pausing at her own doorway, Isabella stopped for a moment and then walked slowly to the end of the hall to Natasha's door. It was nice to see her looking pretty again, wearing bright colors, doing something elegant or surprising with her long blond hair. It brought fresh life to Isabella, so tired of looking in the mirror and seeing her own face, her dark hair pulled back, and the constant sobriety of her austere black clothes on her ever thinner form.

She knocked softly once and smiled as Natasha muttered, Come in. She had long tortoise-shell hairpins clenched in her teeth, and her hair was already swept in a swirl of loose Greek curls, which cascaded softly from a knot on the top of her head.

That looks pretty, madame. What are you going to wear?

I don't know. I was going to wear the yellow one until Jason checked it out. She groaned again as she jabbed in another of the long pins.

Don't tell me, fingerprints? Isabella glanced at the discarded yellow silk.

Peanut butter with his left hand. Chocolate ice cream with his right.

Sounds delicious. She was smiling again.

Yeah, maybe, but it looks like hell.

What about this one? Isabella went into her closet and came out with something familiar and pale blue. She had thought of Natasha when she bought the fabric. It was the same color as her eyes, a kind of lavender with a bluish hint.

That? It's gorgeous. But I never know what to wear with it.

What about gold?

Gold what? Natasha looked at her quizzically as she finished her hair.

Sandals. And a touch of gold in your hair. She was staring at her as she did the models at their fittings for the collections in Rome. Eyes narrowed, feet wide apart, seeing something different than what actually was. Creating her own magic with a woman, a dress, an inspiration.

Wait! You're going to spray my hair gold?

Natasha shrank at the frilly white dressing table, but Isabella ignored her and disappeared. She was back in a minute with a needle and some very fine gold thread.

What's that?

She threaded the needle as Natasha stared.

Sit still. She wove it in airily with a deftly moving hand, clipping thread, making the ends disappear, and working miracles with the needle again until it was done, creating only an impression, as though mixed in with Natasha's own hair she had grown little summering wisps of gold.

There.

Natasha stared at her reflection in astonishment and grinned.

You're amazing. Now what?

A little of this. She set down a box of powder, transparent, translucent, shimmering with tiny flecks of gold. The impression it created was one of dazzling beauty, a shining luster to an already lovely face. Then she disappeared into Natasha's closet and came out with gold sandals with low heels. You'll look like a goddess when I'm through.

Natasha was beginning to believe her as she strapped her own forgotten sandals to invisibly stockinged feet.

Nice stockings. Where'd you get them? Isabella looked down with interest.

Dior.

Traitor. Then, thoughtfully, Don't apologize. They look nicer than ours. She made a mental note to say something to Bernardo. It was time they did something new and different about theirs. Now' . She pulled the dress out of its plastic case and grunted with satisfaction as she dropped it perfectly without disturbing a hair on Natasha's head. She sapped her up in businesslike fashion and walked around to the front, tucking, smoothing, approving. The dress was one of hers. She had done it for their spring line, only three years before. For jewelry she picked from among her own things a ring of pale mauve amethysts, edged with diamonds and set in gold. There was a pair of tiny, delicately fashioned earrings, and a bracelet as well. It was a remarkable set. Where did you ever get it?

Amadeo bought it for me in Venice last year. They're nineteenth century, I think. He said the stones are all imperfect, but the setting is remarkably fine.

Oh, Jesus, Isabella. I can't wear this. Thank you, but, darling, you're nuts.

You bore me. Do you want to look lovely or don't you? If not, you might as well stay here. She closed the necklace around Natasha's throat. It fell to precisely the right depth of the necklace, sparkled dazzlingly from the pale mauve chiffon folds. Here, put these on yourself. She held out the earrings after closing the bracelet on Natasha's wrist. You look marvelous. Isabella gazed at her in sheer delight.

I'm scared stiff. What if I lose them, for chrissake? Isabella, please!

I told you, you bore me. Now go out and have a good time.

Natasha glanced in the long mirror and smiled at Isabella and her own reflection. The doorbell rang almost instantly, and a stockbroker in a dinner jacket arrived to claim his date. Isabella went to her room and waited until she heard the door close again. There had only been a soft knock before Natasha left with him, and a hastily whispered thanks.

And with that, Isabella was left with the sounds of the boys again, and the whoosh and whistle of Jason's little toy train.

She looked at her watch half an hour later, and went to kiss them both in their bed. Alessandro looked at her strangely. Non esce pi+|, Mamma? You don't go out anymore?

No, darling. I'd rather stay here with you. She turned out the lights for them and went to lie down on the fur throw on her bed. ' non esce pi+|, Mamma? ' No, caro. Mai. Never. Maybe never again.

She tried to sleep as she gazed at the fire, but it was useless. She was still too nervous, too excited, too on edge after the day of waiting for news of the collections in Rome. And she hadn't had any air all day long. Hadn't walked. Hadn't run. With a sigh at last she turned over, looked into the fire, and then stood up. She went to find Hattie, in her room watching television, her hair in curlers and a copy of Good Housekeeping near her bed. You'll be home for a while?

Yes, Mrs. Parelli. I'm not going out.

I'm going for a walk then. I'll be back very soon.

Isabella closed the door again and returned to her own room. The borrowed navy blue coat hung in her closet now, and she no longer needed the wool hat. She shrugged quickly into the coat and picked up her bag, glancing around the room for a moment as though she were afraid to leave something behind. What? Her handbag? Her compact? Long white kid opera gloves? She looked down somberly at the jeans that she wore, and for an instant a pang of jealousy shot through her. Natasha. Lucky Natasha. With her benefits and her gold sandals and her beaux. Isabella smiled to herself when she thought back to their conversation about Corbett.