The Rich Shall Inherit (37 page)

There were a dozen more pages and Mike turned them over quickly, searching for the signature at the end.
Your loving mother, Angel Konstant Rinardi
, she’d written, in the old-fashioned manner.

He held the pages in his hand, almost trembling with excitement. He had the answer at last, right here in his hands. Maria-Cristina had handed the letter on to her son, Paolo, and he’d kept it—in case his children should ever need to know the truth.

Pulling the lamp closer, he pored over the pages of flowing script, absorbed in what Angel had to tell her daughter. After half an hour, he sat back in his chair, analyzing what he had just read. It wasn’t the complete answer, not totally, because it was from Angel’s point of view and she hadn’t told her daughter all of the truth. But it filled in the next chapters of Poppy’s life.

1898, ITALY

Florence had been hot and Rome impossible, and now even Venice shimmered under a breathless haze of heat as Poppy, alone again on one of her secret afternoon walks, crossed the Piazza San Marco and stepped into the cool, welcoming dimness of Florian’s. Taking a seat at a little round marble-topped table by the window, she ordered a glass of iced tea and began to read Greg’s letter again. It was a nice letter, she decided with a sigh, the kind of letter any brother might write to his sister—except for the end where he said: “Don’t forget me, Poppy. And don’t forget I love you.” The trouble was that she really
loved
Greg, too, but it wasn’t with that soaring-on-eagle’s-wings love that she’d always imagined existed. Sighing, she tucked the letter into her purse and with a questioning finger to her slightly parted lips, she turned her attention to the tempting array of pastries displayed on silver cakestands.

“I recommend the hazelnut torte, Signorina,” Felipe Rinardi said in English.

Poppy’s eyes opened wide. “But how did you know I was American?” she gasped.

“A simple process of deduction, Signorina.
You
are obviously not Italian—though you have the coloring of a masterpiece by Titian; you are not haughty and cold like the French—though you are wearing a very chic Parisian dress; you are not Nordic or German—though you have their height. And you are not English—though you speak almost the same language.”

She laughed appreciatively. “That’s very clever—and thank you for your recommendation, but I think it’s too hot today for cake.”

“Then why not try a dish of
granita?
It’s the best water ice in the world. I should be delighted if you would allow me to order you some—after all, as you are a visitor to my country it’s my duty to show you the very best it has to offer.”

Poppy’s eyes sparkled; of course, Aunt Melody had expressly forbidden them to speak to strangers, especially men—but then, Aunt Melody was sleeping away the afternoon in her shuttered room at the Gritti Palace and didn’t even know she was here. And he was so
very
handsome. He looked the way she’d always imagined a starving artist might look, tall and slender with prominent cheekbones that left romantic hollows around his beautiful greenish eyes. His thick fair hair fell smoothly across his forehead and the hand he held out to her across the cafe table as he introduced himself was as fine and long-fingered as a musician’s.

“Of course, it wouldn’t be right for you to accept without first being introduced,” he said. “The Barone Felipe Rinardi, Signorina.” Then his firm fingers gripped hers and his lips brushed coolly across her flesh, sending a little tremor up her arm. “Obviously a lady doesn’t usually speak to a stranger in a café,” he added with a charming grin. “But I can offer two impeccable references. My family is one of the oldest in Venice; and I’ve been coming here, to Florian’s, since I was an infant. If you wish, you can check with the waiters about my respectability!”

Poppy laughed delightedly as he waved an arm for the waiter. “Carlo,” he called.
“Una granita cioccolata per la bella signorina.”
Then he said,
“Permesso?”
And without waiting for her reply, he took a seat beside her on the red banquette. Poppy gazed at him warily. “Let me guess where you come from,” he said. “It must be some deep forest glade in the northernmost part of America where the sun never penetrates to warm your skin? Or no, no … there is a hint of southern warmth lurking there, too, perhaps, in the Mediterranean blueness of the eyes and the shape of the mouth … and are those freckles I see like gold dust along the bridge of that perfect nose? It’s the southern states then? The land of bayous and moss-covered oaks and plantation houses … but no, you do not have the proper ‘lazy’ quality of a true southern belle.” He sighed dramatically. “I must confess—I am lost. And I don’t even know your name.”

“It’s Poppy,” she told him, dazzled.

“Poppy? But how wonderful, it’s the perfect name for you. Poppy,
che bella.
But … Poppy who?”

“Poppy Konstant,” she said instantly, blushing a fiery red as she did so.

“Konstant? That’s a very unusual name,” he said as the waiter placed a dish of chocolate
granita
in front of her.

Poppy stared down at it unhappily. She really shouldn’t have said that, but it had just slipped out somehow, as though all her longings to be a Konstant had finally come true. “It’s Russian,” she murmured, “the original name was Konstantinov.”

“Russian? But no, you don’t look Russian either.” Felipe smiled. “Taste this,” he ordered, “and tell me if it is not the very best thing in the whole world on a hot afternoon in Venice.” He lounged back against the banquette, arms folded, watching her as she took a tiny spoonful. Poppy glanced at him sideways with a catlike slyness that was almost flirting. “You still haven’t guessed where I’m from,” she said, licking the chocolate from her lips with a small, pointed pink tongue.

“California?” he hazarded.

She gasped, “But how did you know?”

“Where else could it be? Of course you are a true California poppy—and just as beautiful as the flower you were named for.”

Poppy glanced at him shyly from beneath her lashes, unsure whether he was teasing her, but he looked quite serious. She wished desperately that she had watched the older girls more closely at the dances in Santa Barbara, so that she’d know what to say when a man told you you were beautiful, but instead she was tongue-tied. Despairingly she scooped up another spoonful of chocolate ice.

“Poppy,” he said, looking serious, “will you please have supper with me tonight?”

“Oh, but I can’t!” she cried. “Aunt Melody doesn’t even know I’m out alone.” She dropped her eyes, thinking, damn, now I’ve done it, he’ll think I’m just some silly schoolgirl with a chaperone and that I’m much too young for him….

“Then why not invite Aunt Melody along?” he suggested, smiling.

“No, oh, no … well, there’s my sister, too, you see. Angel.”

Felipe laughed. “Angel, Melody, Poppy? Where do you find such charming names? The Konstants must be quite a lyrical family! But why not invite Angel too.”

“No … please,” she whispered, agonized, “I can’t. Aunt Melody wouldn’t allow it … she’d never take her eyes off me if
she knew I’d been out, let alone that I’d spoken to a strange man.”

Removing the spoon, Felipe placed it on the table and took her hand in his. “But I
must
see you again, Poppy,” he murmured, gazing into her eyes. “It would be unfair of you to say no. I’ve never met anyone like you before. Please, tell me when we can meet.”

Poppy’s knees felt weak; she couldn’t breathe; it was as though the whole world had stopped and there were just the two of them, isolated in this corner of Florian’s; nothing else existed. “Tomorrow,” she whispered, “here in Florian’s.” Then, as panic swept over her at her daring, she gathered up her purse and hurried to the door.

“Tomorrow, Poppy,” he called, rushing after her. “At the same time then …” He watched as she sped lightly along in the shadow of the colonnade until, with a last shy backward glance, she disappeared into the labyrinth of alleys off the Salizzada San Moise.

“Barone,
perdone
…” the waiter murmured, holding out a silver platter with the bill.

“Put it on my account, Carlo,” Felipe replied casually as he sauntered through the door.

“But Barone, there is still last month’s bill as yet unpaid …”

Felipe frowned. “Nonsense, Carlo, of course it will be paid … eventually, as always.”

“Sì, Barone,” the old waiter muttered, shaking his head regretfully as he pocketed Felipe’s tip. He’d known several generations of Rinardis and their fortunes never seemed to improve!

“Poppy, whatever is the matter with you?” complained Aunt Melody, over dinner at the Gritti Palace that evening. “You’ve sighed three times in the last five minutes and I swear you’ve dropped your fork at least as many times!”

“Sorry.” Poppy sat up straight and tried to concentrate on what she was doing, but somehow her mind kept slipping back to Felipe and their meeting that afternoon, and his wonderful greenish eyes, so deep and long-lashed that when you looked into them you felt you were drawing back the curtains on his soul … and somehow she knew that Felipe’s soul must be a very romantic one….

“Poppy!” prompted Angel as the waiter hovered, waiting to remove her plate.

“Oh, sorry … sorry …” she said again, startled from her dream.

“Well, girls, shall we take a stroll in the Piazza?” suggested Aunt Melody. “The evening is warm and I could use a breath of air.”

“Oh, yes, yes please,” cried Poppy rushing through the vaulted hall to the door before Aunt Melody could change her mind. Maybe, just maybe she might see Felipe there.

As they approached the Piazza, they could hear the little orchestra playing popular melodies and she hurried ahead, impatiently.

“I declare, Poppy,” cried Aunt Melody irritably, “you are like a racehorse heading for the finishing post! We are out for a stroll, my girl, not a four-furlong gallop!”

“Sorry,” she apologized again. “Angel, don’t you fancy an iced drink, or maybe
a granita
in Florian’s? It’s so hot,” she added, fanning herself extravagantly with her hand.

“Why not?” Angel agreed amiably. “I feel quite breathless with the heat.”

“I think we’ll try Quadri’s,” declared Aunt Melody, leading them firmly to the cafe on the opposite side of the Piazza.

“Ohh,” wailed Poppy, throwing a despairing glance at Florian’s long plate-glass windows.

“Whatever’s the matter, Poppy?” asked Angel, surprised. “Both cafes seem about the same to me.”

“Oh … it’s just that someone told me they had the best chocolate
granita
at Florian’s,” she replied, forcing a smile.

“Chocolate
granita?”
inquired Aunt Melody. “What is that?”

“It’s the most delicious water ice you ever tasted, Aunt Melody,” Poppy said quickly, hoping she’d change her mind, “I promise you, you’ll love it.”

Aunt Melody’s eyebrows raised a notch. “And how do you know so much about Florian’s
granita
, might I ask? Since you’ve never been there?”

Blushing, Poppy tried to cover her tracks. “I suppose someone at the hotel must have told me … but of course they could be wrong ….”

“Never trust a recommendation unless you know the person’s character,” Aunt Melody said, settling into one of Quadri’s comfortable basket chairs, “but if
it’s granita
you want, I’m quite sure it will be just as good here.”

“Poppy,” whispered Angel as Aunt Melody turned her head to
listen to the orchestra, “you’re behaving very strangely. What are you so excited about? And where did you go this afternoon?”

Poppy hesitated; one part of her longed to tell Angel of her meeting with Felipe, but another part wanted to keep it to herself. Later, she promised herself, she would tell Angel everything, but for now it was her own magical secret.

“Oh, I just went to Florian’s,” she whispered back. “I suppose it’s the heat that’s making me restless.” But as she spooned up her
granita
she tried to imagine again that it was Felipe sitting opposite, smiling at her with that confident faintly sardonic look, telling her she was beautiful as a Titian, and kissing her fingers lightly with his cool firm lips. And she simply couldn’t wait for tomorrow afternoon to come.

Poppy tried the snug little cream jacket and tobacco skirt that Madame Monet had copied from an original Worth design and decided it was too elaborate. Flinging it aside, she tried a yellow ruffled dress made by Miss Matthews and decided despairingly that it made her look too young! A simple white silk shirt and a dark green skirt seemed the only answer, and piling up her red hair, she skewered it hastily with a dozen pins. She was late as she hurried along Venice’s quiet afternoon alleyways and across the tiny bridges, pushing back the rebellious tendrils of hair that fell in her eyes and stuck to her cheeks, already moist with heat.

The clock on the Campanile tower showed ten minutes past three as she half walked, half ran into the Piazza, smoothing back her hair nervously and slowing to a discreet stroll as she drew nearer. With her heart in her mouth in case he wasn’t there, she peered through Florian’s glass-paneled door and then went in.

“Poppy! I’m so glad. I thought you weren’t coming!”

Felipe’s greenish eyes shone with sincerity as he took her hand in both his, looking at her as though she was just the most wonderful girl on earth. Again Poppy felt as though he’d swept her into his privileged, private world where only she and he existed. Her eyes locked with his, she murmured, “I’m sorry I’m late. It was for the most foolish of reasons. I just couldn’t decide what to wear.”

They took a seat at the same table …
their
table, thought Poppy, as Felipe called the same black-moustached waiter, Carlo, to bring
“Una granita cioccolata per la bella signorina.”

“I was here in the Piazza last night,” she said shyly, “I looked for you …”

“Ah, but I wish I had known!” Felipe exclaimed. “Last night I had dinner with my uncle at our country villa. It’s my refuge from Venice’s summer heat. It’s a fairy-tale place, Poppy. It has the most beautiful gardens in the world, full of waterfalls and secret grottoes. And one day,” he added proudly, “the villa and its gardens and all the estates will be mine.” What he didn’t tell her was that the wonderful gardens designed and planted by his forebears were overgrown, that the vast estates with their tumbling cottages and farms and vineyards were unproductive from years of neglect, and that the sagging roofs of the villa let in the rain.