To Love Again (8 page)

You're crazy. You can't go on living like this. You've already lost twenty pounds. You're practically scrawny. He didn't mean it of course; she was always beautiful to him but still she looked ill.

That has nothing to do with the phone calls. It has to do with what I eat, or don't . She tried to smile at him from across her desk, but she was too tired to argue anymore. They'd been at it all morning.

You're jeopardizing the child.

For chrissake, Bernardo, I'm not! Her eyes raged at him now. We have seven guards on the house. One with Enzo in the car. Another at school. Don't be a horse's ass.

Wait, just wait, you bloody fool. Did I tell you that day, did I, about the way you two lived? Was I wrong?

It was a bitter blow.

Get out of my office, Isabella shouted.

Get out of my life!

Va cagare! He slammed the door as he left. For a moment she was too stunned to go after him to apologize and she felt too tired even to try. She was so goddamn tired of fighting with Bernardo. She tried to remember if it had always been like that. Hadn't it been fun before too? Hadn't they laughed together at times? Or had they only laughed when Amadeo was there to coax them away from their battles? She couldn't remember anymore. She couldn't remember anything except the mountains of papers that lay on her desk except at night. Then she remembered. Too much. She remembered Amadeo's soft sleeping sounds in the bed at night and his hands on the warm flesh of her thighs. She remembered the way he yawned and stretched when he awoke, the look in his eyes as he smiled at her over the morning paper, the way he smelled just after he had shaved and bathed, the way his laughter rang out in the hall when he chased Alessandro, the way' . She lay with the memories every night. She took work home with her now, hoping to keep the visions at bay, hoping to lose herself in fabric orders and collection details, statistics and figures and investments. The nights were too long after Alessandro went to bed.

She shut her eyes very tightly and sighed as she sat in her office, trying to will herself back to work, but there was a soft knock at her door. Unwillingly she jumped, startled. It was the side door to Amadeo's office, the door he had always used. For a moment she felt herself tremble. She still had that mad feeling that he was going to come back. That it was all a bad dream, a terrible lie, that one of these evenings the Ferrari would slide down the gravel driveway, the door would slam, and he would call out to her, Isabellezza! I'm home!

Yes. She stared at the door as the knock came again.

May I? It was only Bernardo, still looking strained.

Of course. What are you doing in there? He had been in Amadeo's office. She didn't want him in there. She didn't want anyone there. She used it to find refuge sometimes, for a moment, at lunch, or at the end of a day. But even she knew that she couldn't keep Bernardo out. He had a right to access to Amadeo's papers, to the books he kept on the wall behind his desk.

I was looking for some files. Why?

Nothing. The look of pain in her eyes was unmistakable. For a moment Bernardo ached for her again. No matter how impossible she was at times, no matter how they differed in their aspirations for the business, he still understood the magnitude of her loss.

Does it bother you so much when I go in there? His voice was different now than it had been a little while before when he had shouted and slammed the door.

She nodded, looking away for a moment and then back at him. Stupid, isn't it? I know you need to get things from his office sometimes. So do I.

You can't turn it into a shrine, Isabella. His voice was soft, but his eyes firm. She was already doing that to the business. He wondered how long it would go on.

I know.

He stood uneasily in the doorway, not sure this was the time. But when? When could he ask her? When could he tell her what he thought? Can we talk for a minute, or are you very busy?

I have some time. Her tone wasn't very inviting. She forced herself to gentle her voice. Maybe he wanted to apologize for what he had just said as he slammed out of her office a little while before. Is there something special?

I think so. He sighed softly and sat down. There's something I haven't wanted to bother you with, but I think that maybe it's time.

Oh, Christ. Now what? Who was quitting, what had been cancelled, and what wasn't going to arrive? That goddamn soap again? She'd already heard enough, and every time they had to discuss it, it reminded her again of the day when ' when Amadeo ' that last morning' . She averted her eyes.

Don't look like that. It's nothing unpleasant. In fact he tried to convince her by smiling it could be very nice.

I'm not sure I could stand the shock of something very nice.' She sat back in her chair, fighting exhaustion and a pain in the small of her back. Nerves, strain, it had been there since' . All right, out with it. Tell me.

+ecco, signora. And suddenly he regretted not taking her to lunch. Maybe that would have been better, a few hours away, a good bottle of wine. But who could get her to go anywhere anymore? And moving three feet out of the building meant taking with them her army of guards. No, it was better here. We've had a call from the States.

Someone has ordered ten thousand pieces, we're dressing the First Lady, and I just won an internationally coveted award. Right?

Well' For a moment they both smiled. Thank God, she was mellower than she had been earlier that morning. He wasn't sure why, maybe because she needed him so much, or maybe she was just suddenly too tired to fight. It wasn't quite that kind of call. It was a call from Farnham-Barnes.

The omnivorous department store monster? What the hell do they want now? In the past ten years F-B, as it was called, had been carefully devouring every major top-notch department store in the States. It was now a powerful entity to be reckoned with, and an account coveted by everyone in the trade. Were they happy or not with their last order? No, never mind. I know the answer to that, they want more. Well, tell them they can't have more. You already know that. Because of the number of stores in their chain, Isabella was careful to keep the reins well in hand. They could only have so much of her ready-to-wear line and a minuscule quantity of the designer line. She didn't want women in Des Moines, Boston, and Miami all wearing hundreds of the same dress. Even in ready-to-wear Isabella was careful and kept an iron control. Is that it? She glared at Bernardo, already bridling, and he felt his upper lip grow stiff.

Not exactly. They had something else on their minds. The parent company, something called IHI, International Holdings and Industries, which happens to own Farrington Mills, Inter Am Airlines, and Harcourt Foods, has been making discreet inquiries of us since Amadeo's ' for the past two months.

What kind of inquiries? Her eyes were black slate. Cold and hard and flat.

But there was no point beating around the bush any longer. They want to know if you'd be interested in selling out.

Are they crazy?

Not at all. For them it would be a brilliant addition to what they've done with F-B. They've acquired almost every major department store worth having in the states, yet they've maintained each one's identity. It's a chain without being a chain. Each store has remained every bit as exclusive as it was before, yet it benefits from being part of a much larger organization, more extensive funding to draw on, greater resources. Business-wise, the system is brilliant.

Then congratulate them for me. And tell them to go screw. What do they think? That San Gregorio is some little Italian department store to add to their chain? Don't be absurd, Bernardo. What they're doing has nothing to do with us.

On the contrary. It could have everything to do with us. It gives us an international feeding system for all other lines, production facilities, mass marketing if we want it, for the colognes, the soap. It's a top-ranking operation and would fit in perfectly for all our main lines.

You're out of your mind. She looked at him and laughed nervously. Are you actually suggesting that I sell to them? Is that what this is all about?

He hesitated for only a fraction of a second and then nodded, fearing the worst. It was quick to come. Are you mad? She was shrieking at him and rapidly got to her feet. Is that what that bullshit was about this morning? About how tired I look? How thin? What is it, Bernardo? Are they offering you an enormous fee if you can talk me into it? Greed, everyone is motivated by greed, like the ' those' . She choked on the words, thinking of Amadeo's kidnappers, and turned away quickly to hide a sudden dew of tears. I don't want to discuss this. She stood with her back to him, looking out the window, unconsciously searching for Amadeo's car. It had already been sold.

Behind her Bernardo's voice was surprisingly quiet. No one is paying me a fee, Isabella. Except you. I know it's too soon for you to think about this. But it makes sense. It is the next obvious step for the business. Now.

What does that mean? She wheeled to face him, and he was pained to see the tears still in her eyes. Do you think Amadeo would have done this? Sold out to some commercial monster in America? To a corporation? An F-B and an IHI, and a God-knows-what-else. This is San Gregorio, Bernardo, San Gregorio. A family. A dynasty.

It is a empire with an empty throne. How long do you really think you can manage this? You'll die of exhaustion before Alessandro comes of age. And not even that. You run the same risk that Amadeo did and so does Alessandro. You know what's happening in Italy now. What about you? What if something happens to you? How constantly can you keep yourself guarded, every time you go in or out, or stand up or sit down.

For as long as I have to. It will die down. You actually think selling out is the answer? How can you even say that after what you've put into it, after what you've built with us, after' . Again the tears filled her eyes.

I'm not betraying you, Isabella. He fought for control. I'm trying to help you. There's no other answer for you except to sell out. They're talking about enormous sums of money. Alessandro would be an immensely rich man. But he knew as he said it that that wasn't the key.

Alessandro will be what his father was. The head of the House of San Gregorio. Here. In Rome.

If he's still alive. The words were spoken softly, with a film of anger.

Stop it! Stop! She stared at him, her hands trembling, her face suddenly contorted into a hideous frown. Stop saying that! Nothing like that will ever happen again. And I won't sell out Ever. Tell those people no! That's all, that's final. I don't want to hear the offer. I don't want you to discuss anything with them. In fact I forbid you to talk to them!

Christ, women! Don't be a fool. Bernardo shouted, We do business with them. And in spite of your asinine restrictions IHI is still one of our biggest accounts.

Cancel it.

I won't.

I don't give a damn what you do, damn you. Just leave me alone!

This time it was Isabella who slammed out of the room and took refuge in Amadeo's office next door. Bernardo sat in hers for only a moment, then retreated to his own quarters down the hall. She was a fool. He knew she'd never agree to it, but this sale was her best bet. Something was happening to her. Once, the business had added joy and zest and something wonderful and powerful to her life. Now he could see it destroying her. Every day in these offices made her more lonely, more bitter. Every day surrounded by guards made her more frightened, no matter how much she denied it. Every day dreaming of Amadeo broke off another piece of her soul. But she had the reins now. Isabella di San Gregorio was in control.

The next morning Bernardo called the president of IHI and told him Isabella had said no. After he did and thought mournfully of the opportunity Isabella had turned down, his secretary buzzed him on the intercom.

Yes?

There's someone here to see you.

Now what?

It's about a bicycle. He said you told him to deliver it here. Bernardo smiled tiredly to himself and let out another sigh. The bicycle. It was about all he was ready to handle after a difficult start to his day.

I'll be right out.

It was red, with a blue-and-white seat, and red, white, and blue streamers flying from the handlebars, a bell, a speedometer, and a tiny license plate with Alessandro's name. It was a beautiful little bicycle, and he knew it would delight the child, who had been dying for a real bike since the summer. Bernardo knew that Amadeo had planned to give him one for Christmas. He had ordered this one, a tiny silver astronaut suit, and half a dozen games. This was going to be a difficult Christmas, and with a glance at his calendar as he stood up, he realized that it was only two weeks away.

Mamma, Mamma ' it's Bernardo! Alessandro's nose was pressed to the glass; the Christmas tree sparkled behind him. Isabella put her arms around him and looked outside. She was smiling. She and Bernardo had set aside the wars a few days before. She needed him this year, desperately, and so did the child. She and Amadeo had both lost their parents over the last decade, and as only children they had nothing to offer Alessandro in the way of family, except themselves and their friend. As always Bernardo had come through. Oh, look ' look! It's tremendous! He has a package ' and look! More! Bernardo did a hilarious pantomime, staggering under the weight of his bundles, all of them shoved into a huge canvas sack. He was wearing a Father Christmas hat with one of his dark suits.