By the time Eve returned to her Manhattan apartment, Clara had scrubbed out every trace of Billy Shears—and Nico Caesarone.
But his letters flooded her mailbox. She returned each one unopened and refused to take his calls.
He might have broken my heart, but he’ll never break my will, Eve resolved.
In spite of what he had done, she knew she could never deprive him of his child. She left arrangement of the details to her lawyers and busied herself with designing the nursery and reading Drs. Brazelton and Spock.
In January her mother came to visit, and begged to know what had caused the breakup. Eve never told.
February brought a dismal Valentine’s Day dinner with Jenna, whose husband, Luis, had requested a trial separation only the week before. “Midlife crisis strikes again,” Jenna cracked, tossing salad with a vengeance. They heated up Bertino’s frozen pizza, cursed the selfish egotistical arrogance of men and rented Thelma and Louise. That night Eve felt the baby kick for the first time.
“It’s got to be a girl,” Jenna cheered, and raised her glass of Chianti. “A feminist in training.”
Eve clinked her root beer bottle against the wineglass. “Amen.”
March brought Eve the relief of work with a Good Housekeeping cover and a week of head shots for Estée Lauder. Her cropped hair started a raging trend. At the end of the month she trudged off to Lamaze classes with a fluffy feather pillow and her coach, Delia, in tow.
She hadn’t heard a word from Margo.
Or spoken one to Nico.
And she allowed herself no sympathy for the bereft Ragamuffin who slept on Nico’s pillow and prowled the closet with piteous meows in search of Nico’s belongings.
She decided against going to Michigan to attend Teri and Brian’s wedding. It was their day, and she didn’t want to spoil it by heightening the media circus that had been raucously converging on every follow-up story to the soap-opera turn of events on Maui. She sent them her best wishes and a crystal punch bowl set from Neiman-Marcus, along with a glog recipe Nana had given her years earlier.
For Adam she enclosed box-seat tickets to the upcoming Pistons-Lakers series at the Palace. As she handed the package to the postal clerk, she decided she must have basketball on the brain. Every time she looked in the mirror, she was convinced she’d swallowed one.
On the day of Teri’s wedding, Margo called from Paris. Eve was too stunned to think of hanging up.
“I’ll be in New York for a meeting next month. We have to talk. Save the twentieth for lunch.”
* * *
They were all there—the Randazzos, the Michaelsons, Hilda and the gang from the Hair and Now, Teri’s regular customers, the guys from the tool and die shop, local reporters and their camera crews attracted by the local-girl-involved-in-celebrity-hostage-taking angle. Everyone was at St. Bartholomew’s Church to witness Teri and Brian exchanging their vows.
Everyone except Andrew Leonetti.
Teri’s father beamed through tears as his family crowded into the tiny bridal room. “If only your mother were here today...”
His son, Tony, handed him a starched linen handkerchief. “She is, Dad. Just like you always say, she’s smiling down at us—at Gina—from heaven,” he told his father as Celia and Lena passed out the bouquets. “Right, Gina?”
Teri nodded wordlessly. If only Ma were here, everything would be truly perfect. Her absence was the only empty corner in a heart full of happiness.
Moments later, Teri’s nieces, Nickie and Lauren, danced down the aisle, sprinkling their flower petals between the jewel-toned sunbeams bouncing down from the stained-glass windows. Adam, his hair slicked in place with mousse and his face shining as brightly as the rings he carried on the lace-trimmed brocade pillow, bounded down the aisle and stood alongside the groomsmen in front of the first pew.
Teri was radiant, her dark hair pinned in a mass of abundant curls spilling from beneath her simple pearl headpiece. Tiny diamond stud earrings winked in the sunlight, almost as brilliant as her smile. She wore the Vera Wang gown she’d chosen courtesy of Perfect Bride. Brian wore the biggest grin of any man in the church and a white morning tux with a Kelly green cummerbund and bow tie. There were shamrocks tucked into his boutonniere for luck.
When Mass ended and the priest introduced the new Michaelson family to the assembled guests, Brian and Teri shared a Hollywood-style kiss that went on and on, to the delight of the crowd, and then knelt to throw their arms around Adam.
Monique dabbed at her eyes and threw the first handful of rice as the Michaelsons sailed out the door, past the sea of photographers and into the waiting limo.
* * *
Pete Lambert. What do you know.
As Monique accelerated along the road snaking toward the country house, her breath caught in her throat at the sight of the familiar pickup truck visible through her rain-spattered windshield.
She didn’t bother to pop open her umbrella but dashed up the front steps balancing the huge white box wrapped in plastic.
Laughing voices led her to the terrace, where she found Maman and Pete munching on chicken salad sandwiches.
“Don’t let me interrupt,” Monique announced airily, “but when you’re finished, Maman, I brought something to show you.”
“And hello to you too, Comtesse.” Pete slanted a wink at Mireille. “Or must your subjects bow down before you recognize them?”
Monique was chagrined at the flush of crimson suddenly heating her face. “I thought you’d taken your two-by-fours and set off for greener pastures,” she breezed. Without looking at him, she set down the box and bent to give Mireille a kiss.
“Hurry, petite,” Mireille urged, her face aglow with eagerness. “Go try it on. I can’t wait another minute.”
Monique let herself glance for the first time at Pete Lambert. Why did he have to look so good in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt? “What about him?” she asked, jerking her thumb.
Mireille’s laugh tinkled like tiny crystal bells in the sun-washed terrace. “Silly, it’s bad luck only if the groom sees you in your dress before the wedding. Go.”
Twenty minutes later Monique reappeared, feeling shy for the first time since she’d tried on her first bra. The dress was so personal, so much her own, that entering the terrace, she felt almost as if she were naked.
Mireille exclaimed in delight, but it was Pete’s reaction Monique couldn’t help but take in. He was staring at her, at the dress, with unchecked appreciation.
The gown was captivating, a regal vision of voluminous satin generously spangled with gold sequins and appliqués. The low-cut, tight ruched bodice outlined in gold ribbon was cinched at her waist, dramatically emphasizing her breasts. The gown was daring, sophisticated, and elegant—pure Monique panache. Instead of buttons, tightly coiled gold satin rosettes shimmered from the nape of her neck to the skirt’s hem threaded with matching thin gold ribbon. Gold rosettes also studded the yards and yards of skirt that billowed like a satin sail full with the wind on a dazzling June day.
“That’s some dress,” Pete managed to say in a choked tone as Monique performed a flawless runway turn and finished with a flowing curtsey.
“Magnifique,” Mireille breathed, her face alight, as Dorothy joined them, clapping her hands with approval.
“It took the patience of a saint to button, but I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as this dress,” the nurse exclaimed. “Ms. D’Arcy, you’re in the wrong business.”
“Are the gold sequins too much? Are the sleeves full enough? Maman, tell me the truth.”
“Don’t change one stitch, or I’ll disown you. It’s perfect. Isn’t it Pete? Is my daughter beautiful, or is she not?”
“She’s beautiful.”
Monique felt a giddy pleasure warm her and had to fight to maintain her nonchalance. Pete looked serious. More serious than she’d ever seen him. Her color deepened to a lovely rose blush.
Idiot, are you sixteen or what?
To cover her discomposure, she turned to Mireille and babbled, “Most of the arrangements are in place for the ceremony. With the videotape, Maman, you’ll have a better view than if you were sitting in the front row of St. Patrick’s. Did I tell you the florist made up a sample bouquet for me and it was heavenly? Oh, and the cake, Maman, the cake will look like café-au-lait dotted Swiss, the most elegant cake imaginable, piped with white accents and topped with champagne-colored roses. And the minute we leave the cathedral, the Plaza is sending a driver here with the video and a complete wedding supper for you and Dorothy.”
“Sounds like all that’s missing is a diamond-studded ball and chain.” Pete walked over to the expanse of windows and stared out at the budding rosebushes, flowering fruit trees, and beds of crocuses, daffodils, pussy willow, and forsythia that lilted in the light spring rain.
Monique shot a narrow-eyed look at his broad back. “Sounds like you’re not the marrying kind, Mr. Lambert.”
“Au contraire, Comtesse,” he retorted, turning to face her. “Only problem is, I’ve never been able to escape the feeling that the ladies are after me only for my money.”
She laughed. “Couldn’t be your charm, looks, or personality,” she pointed out affably. She started toward the door. “Dorothy, can you help me out of this thing?” Then she caught the wistful look in her mother’s eyes.
“What is it, Maman?” she asked, dropping down on one knee in a billow of glowing satin.
“Oh... nothing important... it’s just that I, well... I wish I could be there to see you dance in this dress.”
“How about a sneak preview?” Pete didn’t wait for an answer, but strode to the entertainment center in search of a CD.
“Looks like you did get my Christmas present,” he commented, lifting up The Three Tenors’ concert disc and slipping it into the player.
“I would have thanked you if I’d had a forwarding address,” Monique started acidly before she was scooped into his arms and spun across the terrace to the strains of ‘Memory.’”
“See, Mireille, how she’ll dance in the arms of her true love?” Pete’s cobalt eyes glinted into Monique’s smoky ones. “How he’ll sweep her across the floor, and off her feet?”
Monique’s heart fluttered like the wings of a captured bird. The terrace flew by in a whirr as he spun her, holding her ever more tightly, more possessively, filling her with dizzying euphoria.
The flowers outside whirled by in a pastel blur, her mother’s and Dorothy’s rapt faces blinked in and out, the voices from the speakers floated through the air, but only Monique heard Pete whisper insistently into her ear.
“I love you, Comtesse. Don’t throw yourself away on someone who can’t appreciate you.”
Had she heard correctly, or was she imagining it? His rugged face was an unreadable mask, but his arms nearly crushed her.
The dance was over. Monique stepped back, breathless and unsure. She managed an airy little laugh.
“Thank you, monsieur. My last waltz as a single woman. I’ll remember it always.”
And after a curtsey performed on shaking legs, she swept from the room and out of sight.
* * *
“Bambina, please don’t hang up.”
“Nico,” Eve said through a blur of tears, “you’re drunk.”
“Only a little... what the hell does it matter?... I have to talk to you!”
Eve hugged her arms around herself in her lonely bed. The baby shifted low in her belly, making her wince as a tiny foot or hand pressed on a nerve. Okay, kid, I’ll listen to him, she promised blearily, though it hurt even to hear Nico’s voice after all this time. For two minutes, no more. Then—finito.
“Tomorrow would have been our wedding day... Bambina, please, don’t do this. Don’t throw away everything we had because of one idiotic mistake.”
“You’re the one who threw everything away, Nico. I have to go.”
“No... wait! Please... Eve... my beautiful Bambina. Listen to me. There is a fine gold thread between Bologna and New York that’s been damaged, but it can never be broken. The heat of our passion can solder it whole again. If you’ll only give me one more chance... I swear to you, I haven’t so much as seen your sister since you told me about the baby. She meant nothing to me... nothing, Eve. You have to believe me.”
“I could never believe you again.” Eve battled the tears congesting her throat. “This conversation is pointless, Nico. From now on say whatever you have to say through the lawyers.”
She hung up the phone, terminating the torrent of words still pouring over the line. Eve slumped down on to her side, melting into the rose and cream comforter to weep.
I’ll get over him someday, I swear it, she vowed as the tears streamed on to the pillowcase. It’ll take time but the pain will go away. It has to. Resolutely, she stared Ragamuffin down.
“He’s gone for good and you’d better get used to it,” she informed the cat coldly, rubbing the tears from her face.
She went into the kitchen, drank a glass of milk, and poured some for the cat, “Small consolation,” she told her, “but better than nothing.” She tried not to think about what might have been... about the shower gifts she’d returned, the Finnish lace tablecloth she’d sadly packed into a hope chest, about the excitement she should have felt the night before her wedding...
She didn’t know when she fell asleep, a copy of Parents magazine across her chest, but she awoke to the drone of the morning news blathering from the clock-radio. She groaned. Monique was arriving at nine to take her to breakfast.
As Eve wearily swung her legs off the bed and set her swollen feet on the floor, the eight o’clock news continued, and the words began to penetrate her sleep-fogged brain.
“... ironically, has been killed in an auto crash. Witnesses say the car skidded wildly across the narrow mountain path before plunging off the shoulder into a ravine eighty feet below. One of the great race car drivers of the century, Nico Caesarone had set more records than anyone else in racing history. In recent months he has been dogged by rumors of heavy drinking following his breakup with international supermodel Eve Hamel, but there is as yet no evidence to indicate if alcohol was involved in the fatal crash...”
No. Eve’s arm swept the radio off the nightstand. Her eyes were mirrors of horror. “No!” she screamed.
Nico couldn’t be dead. She had talked to him last night...
No!
She sank to the floor, her legs too numb to hold her. A freezing, feverish sweat drenched her. She closed her eyes, shuddering and nauseated, and through the filmy blackness saw a dreamily handsome face... silky jet hair... mesmerizing bedroom eyes... she saw the man who had rescued her from the crowds in Lisbon, fed her panettone in Bologna—and broke her heart in Maui.
Nico, please, no, she wept, caught between paralyzing grief and a fury that went deeper than the gates of hell. My poor, stupid, lost Nico.