Roulette (24 page)

After I board the flight to Venice, I realize I’m having a bit of a panic attack. Only a bit, but still. Alexei got all doting and protective this week and wanted to make me travel with at least one bodyguard, and I refused, so here I sit in first class, and I feel a little unmoored. I relax after we take off and after a glass of champagne, and I begin to make a leisurely pass through the latest issue of
Paris Match
. Rookie mistake.

Rome and some young French actress are holding hands and smiling for the camera. I stare at the photo of the two of them walking into an opening at the Louvre. If I had a magnifying glass and a loupe, I couldn’t be any more obvious. The steward asks if I’d like more champagne, and I hold up my empty glass without looking at him. “Keep it coming.”

I look at the pictures a while longer and then flip the page and almost throw up. Rome and my mother are laughing like they are the oldest best friends at some cocktail party, and I want to call out to the captain to turn this plane around and take me back to Saint Petersburg immediately.

I force myself to keep reading and learn it is actually an engagement party for my mother and Jamie. And Rome is producing Jamie’s next movie.

My stomach is in knots. I hold up the champagne glass again before the steward has to bother asking. I chug it.

Why won’t he get the hell out of my life? It was bad enough worrying about whether he was going to be at Pavel’s stupid house party a few weeks ago; there’s no way I can sit through my own mother’s wedding if Rome is going to be there, hovering. I open my tablet and send her a text.

Is Rome de Villiers going to be at your wedding?

She responds in a few minutes.

Of course not. Where are you?

I let her know I’m on the plane and I’ll see her in a few hours, then put the device back in my bag. I shut the magazine and lean back into the large seat and try to breathe evenly. I’m obviously going to have to see him at some point, but I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready.

I have to change planes in Zurich; I pass through the airport in a fog. I end up dozing off for the one-hour final leg. I wake up when the plane touches down at Marco Polo with a jarring screech. I’m disoriented from the champagne and a rather graphic dream involving Rome in a helicopter, naked. I sit up straighter and pull my hair back into a severe ponytail. I’m off the plane and through customs quickly. My mother has sent a car and driver to pick me up.

Simone and Jamie have rented a beautiful house about thirty minutes outside the city. When I arrive, Jamie answers the door and holds his arms wide for a hug.

“You want to call me Dad?” he volleys.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

F
or some reason, it strikes me as hilariously funny and I hug him, despite the past few years of thinking he was a complete jackass. So what if he’s thirty-five and my mother is fifty-three? Maybe there’s some sexy synergy there. I should stop being such a judgmental bitch.

“I think I’ll stick with ‘Jamie what’s-his-name,
’ 
” I reply lightly when I pull away from the hug.

He smiles, a sweet, happy smile that I’ve never seen before, or never bothered to look for. “That sounds about right,” he says. “I’m glad to see you, Miki. It’s been too long.”

“It’s good to see you, too, Jamie. How is she?” I set down my bags and look meaningfully toward the sweeping staircase as I follow him into the living room. He’s set up a small bar with an ice bucket and few glasses on the sideboard.

“She’s wonderful. Want a drink? How was the flight?”

“I’d love a drink. Whiskey, please. The flight was fine. By the way, congratulations—I saw an article about Jérôme de Villiers and your production company.”

Jamie looks up at me from where his hands are putting a few ice cubes into a lowball glass. “So you know he’s producing my next documentary, and that’s cool with you?”

“Of course. I’m fine with it.” What else am I going to say?

Jamie hands me my glass and sits in the chair to my right. “His foundation contacted my production company, and I didn’t know who he was. I mean . . .” He looks into his glass and shakes the ice, then looks back up at me. Jamie’s a handsome guy, no question, with dirty-blond hair that’s very California-surfer long and dark eyes that have an intensity that somehow never feels too serious. “I mean, I knew about the Clairebeau Foundation, but I didn’t know about any of your . . . dealings with him.”

I shrug. “Look, it’s been a hectic year. With my dad and . . .” My voice falters.

Jamie is holding his glass with two hands, his forearms resting on his thighs. He’s in jeans and a dark button-down linen shirt. I see how his fingers tense on the glass at the mention of my father.

“Jamie, she loves you.”

He looks up at me. “I know you’ve disliked me for ages—”

“I saw too many jerks. I’m sorry I judged you based on all her past . . . missteps.”

His lips quirk, and he looks up when my mother swans into the living room in some Moroccan-looking white caftan thing. Her short hair is slightly messy, and she looks beautiful. I stand up and hug her. “Congratulations,” I whisper.

She looks into my eyes. “You’re happy for me? For us?” She peers over my shoulder to include Jamie.

“Of course I’m happy for you!” I exclaim.

The three of us stay at the villa while we finish our drinks. They ask about my life in Saint Petersburg, and I ask where they’re going to be living for the next year. Then we go out to dinner at my mother’s new favorite restaurant, in Rubano. As I watch her and Jamie interact, I realize what a wonderful effect he has on her—a settling patience, it seems to me. He doesn’t try to tamp her down, like some of her older boyfriends used to do, nor does he simper and hang on her every word, like some of the previous boy toys.

Over coffee, he turns to me. We’ve had a few bottles of wine, and we’re all feeling happy and relaxed. “So, what are you going to do about Rome?” Jamie asks easily.

My mother’s eyes widen at him as she takes a sip of coffee, like that subject is Off-Limits and Jamie has broken some code.

“Sorry, are we supposed to pretend he doesn’t exist?” Jamie laughs.

I smile, too. All the wine and the delicious food, and seeing my mother happy and content, makes Rome seem distant and easy to discuss. “No. We don’t have to pretend he doesn’t exist.” I pick up the teaspoon and stir my coffee. “What do you want to know?”

“Was it just a fling, or do you think about the future?” Jamie asks.

I start to see why he’s growing into an award-winning documentary filmmaker. He gets right to the point. He’s sprawling against the sleek chrome-and-leather chair with one arm slung casually across the back of my mother’s chair, and he’s just asking a straightforward question. I can answer it or not. He makes it sound like it doesn’t have to be some bloody mess.

“Both, I guess.” I put the teaspoon down and keep staring at the table. “You’ve met him.” I look up, and both my mother and Jamie nod but don’t say anything. “He’s pretty great.”

“Yes,” Simone adds, slightly breathless, as if she’s been dying to enumerate Rome’s stellar qualities. “He is quite fabulous—”

Jamie places a gentle hand on her forearm, and I want to hug him so hard. He’s not shutting her up or anything, but he totally understands how her enthusiasm might hurt me. She looks at him quickly, kisses his cheek, and then turns to me and says, “Yes, Rome is pretty great. Go on.”

“What I mean is, I’d be a total liar if I said the idea of a future with him hasn’t crossed my mind. But he’s just so . . . assertive.” I shake my head sadly and look back down
at the table, dragging
my fingernail in straight lines across the white tablecloth.

“He’s a pretty forceful character. I hear you.” Jamie sounds like he knows from personal experience.

I look up and see he’s smiling ironically.

“But so are you!” Simone blurts, no longer able to hold her tongue. “Who better for a man like that than a woman like you!” She extends one long, elegant hand to encompass my existence. “Beautiful. Brilliant. Stubborn as an ox.”

Always with the backhanded compliments.

“I mean that in the best way possible,” she backtracks.

“I know, Mom. Let’s move on to another topic, okay? That’s about all I can handle for the moment. If I happen to cross paths with Rome at some point this week, so be it, but I’m not going to pursue him.”

Simone looks like she wants to add something, but Jamie simply says, “Fair enough.” And that’s the end of it.

I fall asleep in the Italian countryside that night thinking my mother and Jamie are probably going to make it after all. Not that I have any idea about that sort of thing.

The next day, their wedding is exactly as Simone predicted: Small. Quiet. Beautiful. The two of them are completely at ease with one another, without any of the bickering and sniping I used to associate with my mother and her boyfriends
du moment
. They are nearly always together, but I never see them being annoyingly touchy-feely, either.

The wedding reception is a casual dinner party with a few of her older friends and some of Jamie’s younger friends, and it is wonderful. We all sit under a very large tree in the expansive formal gardens. A cook came with the rental, and she and my mother have become best friends, as is Simone’s habit. I want to warn the poor Italian woman that she will never hear from my mother again (while my mother promises they will see each other forever and always, as the innocent woman teaches her new best friend how to make pasta from scratch from her secret family recipe that’s been passed down for generations). The pasta is delicious and the wine is local and simple and the fourteen or so people at the table, including me, are enjoying themselves.

A young producer, George Kendall, is sitting to my left. He lives in LA, and I sort of grill him for local details. I love hearing the neighborhood updates—he also lives in the Abbot Kinney area—and I realize I’m missing it less and less, to the point where I mention I might be willing to rent out my place in Venice, or eventually sell it.

“Oh, I’d love to take a look,” George says, with a hint of something more suggestive in his tone. I think he’s kind of checking me out, and it feels fun to flirt.

“You should,” I encourage. “It’s close to the beach. Do you surf?”

“I used to. Who has time anymore?” He turns his chair slightly, giving me his full attention.

“I always made time to do it,” I say, twisting my wineglass as I remember, and I make a silent promise to go to Biarritz or even Cornwall to catch some waves here in Europe. “It’s definitely what I miss most about living there. But Saint Petersburg is pretty amazing. I feel like I’ve landed on Mars and I need to do a lot of exploring.”

“Sounds fascinating.”

“You should visit sometime.”

“Are you inviting me?” He looks genuinely interested.

I smile at the memory this invokes. The Rome memory. I promise myself I will not carry a torch for the rest of my life, like my father did, but I realize in that moment that I am not willing to give up entirely on Monsieur Jérôme de Villiers just yet. Because when Rome said the same thing—nearly those exact words—I remember feeling like a long fuse was being lit and the sparking cord ignited me from the tips of my toes to my tingling scalp.

I smile easily, but with no promise whatsoever. “I know some wonderful bilingual guides who could show you around the city and take you out to the Catherine Palace and the Summer Palace. The Hermitage is wonderful also.”

He smiles and gets the hint that I’m not interested in pursuing anything more. “Sounds good. Maybe when Jamie and Simone are there, we could all meet up?”

“Oh,” I say, after I swallow another sip of wine. “My mother has vowed never to step foot in Russia. It’s a long-standing family argument, you might say.”

Simone overhears me from the other side of the table and interjects. “Never say never, darling. Now that you’re actually
living
there”—she shudders dramatically—“I’ll have to come and see in person how deplorable it really is.”

“See?” I say to George. “Russia is
deplorable
.” I do a fair version of Simone’s breathy voice when I say it with her sexy French accent, and Simone and a few other people sitting near us laugh at the imitation. The rest of the evening passes in that same breezy way, and I feel like I might be able to have a proper social life again at some point.

I stay with them a few more days, and on Thursday a car comes to take me into Venice. I hug my mother and Jamie good-bye. We’ve got plans to sit together at one of the gala dinners on Saturday night at the festival, so we don’t have to have one of her usual dramatic farewells.

The car drops me off at Piazzale Roma, where I hop on the vaporetto to Vivian’s rental house. I knock at the front door, and when it swings open, Isabel is there to greet me. She has grown so much in the past few months, I barely recognize her. She’s leggy and her hair is longer. She is going to keep Vivian on her toes for the next ten years at least.

“Miki! You’re really here!” She hugs me quickly and then stands aside to show me into the villa. “Isn’t it fantastic?”

I look up and see it is indeed fantastic, from the ornate tile work on the walls to the frescoes of cherubs three stories above us. “Phenomenal!” I drop my bags and turn to look at her. “Where’s your mom?”

“Meetings.” She rolls her eyes.

“Good! More time for the two of us! Let me take a look at you.”

She smiles and appears awkward while being inspected.

“You’re so grown-up.”

“No, I’m not,” she despairs. “I’m only eleven. It’s so bor—”

I hold up my hand. “I forbid you to use that word while we are here. In this magnificent place!” I throw my hands wide, and she smiles at me.

“Okay. Fine.” She gives in. “So what should we do first? Gelato? A gondola ride? The museum? I can’t wait. My mom was so bor—I mean, she was really busy on the flight over, so I’m really excited to see you.”

“Me, too.” I pick up my bags again. “So where are we sleeping?”

“This way. You won’t even believe it. The windows open right out onto the canal, and I just can’t wait for it to be nighttime. We can get in our pajamas and sit by the window. It will be so awesome.”

I follow her up the large stairway that hugs the walls of the central portion of the grand house, until we reach the fourth floor. She opens the double doors to our room with a flourish. “Ta-daaaaa!”

“Look how lucky we are.” There are two queen-size beds against one wall, and they each face out two arched windows with stone window seats. I put my bags in the corner and walk toward one of the windows. It’s the middle of the day, and the ornate wood shutters with leafy fretwork designs are closed to keep out the heat and sun. Patterns of shadow and sun speckle the terrazzo floor.