SIX

The casino was finished. The last decorator had left, the last curtainmaker had settled the drapes and swags of silk and velvet, the last piece of furniture was in place. They were a month late. The opening was now scheduled for September. Steven and Angela toured the rooms. He wanted to share his triumph with her first. He brought her there at night, to see it illuminated in its glory, as the rich and famous would see it.

The baccarat tables were in place in the salon privé, where only the richest were admitted. There were roulette wheels and tables for blackjack in the outer rooms, where the stakes were more modest. He held Angela’s hand as they made their tour, and at one of the roulette tables, Steven paused and spun the wheel, throwing the little ball. It rattled into a red socket.

“Seven,” he said. “My lucky number, darling. And so much of it is due to you. You’ve made it beautiful for me.” He took her in his arms. “I want you to be part of this. I want you to be excited by what we’ve done together. You are, aren’t you?”

“You know I am,” Angela told him. “It’s wonderful, Steven. I’m very proud of you.”

“We’ll have a good life,” he said. “We’ll make lots of money and we’ll have a fine business to hand on to our boy. I’m not going to stop at this, darling. This is just the beginning. I’m going to build a hotel next. I’m going to invest in property. There’s so much scope here on the coast. So I won’t be just a gambler. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “I would. I worry about one thing.”

“Tell me,” he said gently. “Tell me what it is.”

“Ralph’s stories about people killing themselves because they’d gambled everything away. You won’t let that happen, will you?”

“I don’t believe half of what he tells us,” he said. “He likes to make an impression. It’s part of his job. What about the people who’ve made fortunes and walked off?”

“That doesn’t happen very often,” she answered.

“Thank God for that,” he teased her. Then he said seriously, “But if it would make you happy, we’ll have a policy. If it’s known someone’s getting in too deep, we’ll close down the game. How would that be?”

“Oh, darling, will you really do that? I would be so much happier. And so would you.”

He said softly, “I guess I would. I’ll set it up.”

It was a perfect night for a gala opening. The weather was hot, with a light sea breeze, the sky a backdrop of black velvet, diamond-studded with stars. The casino was bathed in light; even the gardens were illuminated.

Steven was there early, supervising the last details. Maxton had spent the day on the premises. He changed into evening dress upstairs in his private office. He was excited, and amused by that excitement. For years he had felt immune to strong emotions. Only the visceral thrill of gambling ever affected him, sending adrenaline pumping, making his hands tremble. But tonight was special.

It had come together very quickly at the end, as such projects tend to do, after delays and frustrations that made the opening date recede into improbability. Then it was ready! Everything was done, down to the last flower arrangement. The staff had lined up and passed inspection, and the croupiers and dealers were in their places, immaculate in evening dress.

Maxton had ordered champagne to be brought up to his handsome office, with its elegant desk and comfortable leather chairs and a cocktail cabinet for entertaining. He popped the cork and poured a full glass, then he raised it in a private toast.

“To you, Great-uncle Oleg. Wherever you are, you old devil. You’d have enjoyed tonight.”

He had persuaded Steven not to change the name. And Angela had been his ally. Casino Poliakoff had a dignified, romantic sound. And it was good publicity. To whet public curiosity, Maxton had circulated stories, true and invented, about the origins of the splendid house built by a crazy czarist aristocrat for his French mistress. As a final touch, he had suggested that a portrait of the count be placed in the entrance hall.

“But there isn’t one,” Steven objected.

“I think I can get hold of a photograph. Then all we have to do is get someone to copy it in oils.”

And to Angela he said later, “I didn’t say anything to Steven, but the old boy was a sort of ancestor. His sister married my grandfather.”

“He knows,” she said. “Have you got a photograph?”

“Yes,” he said. “I have. I actually brought an old album back with me last time I went to England. It had pictures of my mother I rather liked, and it seemed a pity to take them out, so I made off with the whole thing. There’s a splendid snap of Oleg in uniform. I think we could commission a rather handsome portrait from it.… I didn’t know Steven knew there was a connection,” he added casually.

Angela said, “Steven knows everything about you, Ralph. Don’t ever try to hide anything from him, will you? He wouldn’t like it.”

“I wouldn’t be able to, it seems. Fair enough.”

He hadn’t been pleased, she could see that. He left her rather quickly. When she saw him two days later he was his charming, easygoing self.

They’d brought the boy over to attend the opening. Ralph thought it a ridiculous thing to do. Charlie was a nice fellow, in Ralph’s view, but in danger of being ruined by his parents. Steven was the most indulgent stepfather, worse than Angela, who at least tried to insist that he not skip school and that he take his exams seriously. Steven’s obsession with another man’s son was very odd. He didn’t seem the type to lavish paternal love on a stepson. Maxton resented the relationship. It upset his theories on fathers’ attitudes to their sons. But he was intelligent enough to suspect that his own bleak family background was the reason.

It was laughable, but whenever he saw Steven and Charlie going off together, he felt a jealous pang. Steven was teaching the boy to play golf. He was not interested in sports, but he had taken up tennis and riding and now golf, so as to be a companion to Charlie when he stayed with them. And then there were Charlie’s friends. They flew in at Steven’s expense and were put up at the villa. A boat with a skipper was chartered to take them sailing; every facility from waterskiing to scuba diving was paid for and organized. Again, Maxton recognized that he was jealous. He envied Charlie Lawrence his good looks, his self-confidence. He envied him the kind of love and attention that had never come Ralph’s way.

And he watched Angela with her son; it gave him a new perspective on the role a mother plays in a boy’s upbringing. She was gentle and affectionate, firm when it was in Charlie’s interest, but above all, she was a friend to whom her son could turn if he felt in need of comfort or advice.

He marveled at her kindness, not only to those close to her but to him, the stranger who’d come into her life whether she wanted him or not. No woman had ever been kind to Ralph. He’d been made to feel he was a changeling by his family.

That was what his old nanny used to say when he’d been naughty. “I don’t know where you came from, you’re such a bad boy! A real little changeling you are.”

He felt cold with hatred when he remembered her. He was always being punished. His bottom would sting from angry beatings with a hairbrush. There were six children under her care, but he was always judged the culprit, even when he wasn’t guilty. “Up to bed with you—no supper. That’ll teach you.” There was no appeal against her tyranny. His mother was a remote figure who drifted in and out of her children’s lives at set times, and her embraces were brief and never encouraged intimacy. Nanny ruled the nursery kingdom. She cuddled his brothers and sisters, settling them in her big lap and tickling them, or rocking them to and fro, but it seemed to Ralph that she hated him. He lived in fear, and those who wanted to stay in Nanny’s good graces showed him no favor.

“I’ve spoken to her ladyship. You’re not going to the pantomime!”—the Christmas treat before he went back to preparatory school. He was seven, and the pantomime was Dick Whittington. He’d been looking forward to it all through the holidays. Now his mother had sided with the enemy and confirmed her sentence.

He watched from the window as the others set off by car, and he cried as if his heart would burst. There was no kindness in women. Even the nursery maid tattled on him to curry favor.

No kindness and no pity. They punished you when you were a child, and when you grew up, you knew what to expect from them. So you used them for pleasure, but you reserved your love for yourself. He was twelve when his tormentor died; a governess took her place with the smaller children, but it made no difference to Ralph.

He was growing up fast, a clever, ugly youth with a wild streak in him. No one understood him or tried to win his confidence. He seemed to have a natural penchant for trouble and no interest in the solid pursuits of horse, gun and rod. In fact, he hated hunting—a crime in his father’s view. But he loved racing and even as a schoolboy had been caught making book on the derby and threatened with expulsion. He had shamed them all. He’d heard someone say once when he was still in his teens and in disgrace for some misdeed he’d since forgotten, “It’s the Russian blood, I suppose—totally unreliable.” He thought it was an aunt, talking to his father, but he couldn’t be sure.

Steven was displaying a degree of nervousness about the opening that surprised Maxton. He was even more surprised at the new house rule that Steven had introduced. Clients were not allowed to gamble in excess of their known means. Experienced staff could quickly tell when a man or woman had begun to gamble out of desperation. They were instructed, on pain of dismissal, to close the game. Maxton had mentioned that such a ruling was unheard of in any gambling establishment.

Steven had dismissed the objection. “That’s the way Angela wants it. She got upset by all the suicide stories you told her. I promised, and that’s the way it’s going to be.”

He hadn’t struck Maxton as a man likely to be swayed by his wife’s moral scruples, but Ralph was wrong about that too.

The love of a good woman, Ralph Maxton mocked to himself, but it was self-mockery. And envy was deep there too. Lawrence didn’t deserve her. He couldn’t think of anyone who did. “I warm my cold heart at your hearth.” He enjoyed poetry, and that line from a Renaissance verse often came to mind when he was with Angela.

He’d been ill with flu the month before, when preparations were most hectic, and she herself was working long hours on the decorations and the final touches in the public rooms at the palace. No one had ever bothered with Ralph when he was sick. The ladies who’d lent him money had received favors in return, not least a buoyant cheerfulness. When he was hungry and broke, he’d sung for his supper. Illness and depression were endured alone.

But Angela amazed him. And embarrassed him. She came to his flat with food and old-fashioned remedies for coughs and colds that made him wince with memories of his childhood. And he felt a strange sense of weakness as he let her arrange his removal to the villa. “You can’t lie here all on your own with a temperature like that. No arguments. You’re coming home, where I can keep an eye on you.” He’d tried to laugh it off, but he was wrapped up and hustled out of the apartment, on his way up to her villa at Valbonne to be nursed.

It had quite unnerved him. He wasn’t falling in love with her, he insisted, just because she was kind and made a fuss over him.

He had never been in love with any woman. Madeleine, the avaricious little poule de luxe who’d shared his Christmas bounty at the Hôtel de Paris, was his soulmate, his choice of female company. He felt safe with her.

No, he was not going to open his cold heart to Angela Lawrence. Perish the thought. As if to strengthen that resolve, he had included Madeleine and her aging protector in the guest list for the gala opening. He finished a second glass of champagne before going downstairs.

Steven was waiting in the main hall. He looked at his watch. Charlie was escorting his mother. He saw Maxton and said, “They’re late. Five minutes late.”

“The traffic’s heavy,” Maxton reassured him. He gave a quick glance at his own watch, a handsome gold Rolex. A present to himself. His old one had been pawned during the lean years.

“I see headlights.” He came away from the glass doors opening out onto the portico entrance. “They’re here,” he said.

The doors were swung open by two liveried doormen, and Angela walked through them with her son.

“You look beautiful,” Steven said. He took both her hands. “Doesn’t your mother look beautiful?” he asked Charlie, and then, without waiting for an answer, he said, “And you look great, son. A white tuxedo—very smart.”

“Mum chose it,” Charlie explained. “Gosh, doesn’t everything look terrific! Look at the flowers and all the lights.”

Steven ushered them to the stairs. “We have fifteen minutes before the first guests arrive. Champagne’s on ice upstairs. Come on. Let’s drink to success tonight!”

Maxton watched them go. It was a very wide stair, so Steven was able to walk up between his wife and the boy, an arm around each. Maxton turned away.

He had engaged a fashionable string quartet to play during the reception. They were placed discreetly in the hall, with orders to provide light popular music for the first hour and a half.

Maxton checked his watch again. The gendarmes were on duty to direct the traffic, and a crowd of sightseers stood on either side of the entrance. Red carpeting ran across the courtyard and up the flight of marble steps, protected by a long red awning in case it rained. He had dressed the doormen and waiters in red and gold livery, with powdered wigs. Yes, he had agreed when Angela protested, it was very vulgar. But the clients would love it. He wondered how much his efforts had been appreciated by that smug bastard. Then he quickly shrugged aside the silly self-pity. Just because he hadn’t been invited to join the family gathering upstairs …

He sent a flunky out to see if the cars were approaching. The big fish would arrive late. Only the arrivistes would be on time. He smiled at his own witticism. It made him feel better. He could tell Madeleine. She would appreciate it. He hoped she would bring her rich, ridiculous lover early rather than fashionably late. He wanted someone to share the evening with him. The flunky reappeared.

“There are cars approaching, Monsieur Maxton.”

“Right. Go upstairs and tell Monsieur Lawrence.”

Charlie was just proposing a toast. Angela remembered he had done the same on their wedding day. She was so proud of him, and he was so proud of Steven.

“Here’s good luck tonight, Dad. Good luck, good fortune and lots of lovely money!” They all laughed and drank with him.

Steven said, “Thanks, Charlie. To la bella fortuna—and to you, my darling, who’s done so much to make it come to pass.” He took Angela’s hand and kissed it.

Charlie grinned at them. “Mum’s blushing,” he said. Then, glancing out the window: “Gosh, I can see masses of cars.”

The flunky knocked, and Steven said, “It’s time we went downstairs. You ready, Angelina? And you too, Charlie. I want you with us.”

The main hall was soon full; the buffet and champagne bars set up in the ground-floor reception rooms were crowded with people. The music was drowned out by the sustained chattering of four hundred people circulating around the food and drink, greeting each other, vying for the house photographers to take their pictures. Steven had given up shaking hands, trying to hear names; Maxton presented the important guests as they arrived, and he was close at hand when the prize guest arrived on the arm of a big, handsome man.

Maxton moved forward, taking a hand that glittered with diamond rings and kissing it. “Nettie, my sweet. How absolutely fabulous you look! Come and let me introduce you.”

Angela saw the woman approaching. She was more than beautiful. There were so many beautiful women, exquisitely dressed and bejeweled, that she had lost count. But this one was exceptional. She was tiny, and yet she created space around her. She was always center stage. Dark hair with a single streak of blond from her left temple, a perfect face with huge blue eyes, and a pink, pouting mouth that opened in a charming smile as she came up to Steven.

“May I present Monsieur Lawrence. And Madame Lawrence? Her Highness Princess Orbach.”

She lingered for a moment, letting her hand stay in Steven’s. Her neck and bosom were hung with sapphires and diamonds, and huge earrings danced and flashed as she moved her head. Then she paused by Angela. “Madame.” She inclined her head and kept the charming smile, but the blue eyes were filmed with indifference. She passed on, and her escort, who had an unpronounceable name, kissed Angela’s hand, muttered, “Enchanté,” and hurried after his princess. After that, everything threatened to be anticlimax.

“Well,” Maxton murmured. “At least she turned up. That’s something.”

“But she accepted,” Angela said. “I saw her name on the list.”

“That doesn’t mean a thing,” he corrected. “She says yes to anything that looks amusing, but she’s quite likely not to come at the last minute. Now let’s see how long she stays. That’s going to be important. What did you think of the Hungarian hunk?” He laughed mirthlessly.

Angela had always hated his laugh. It cackled without a note of kindly humor in its high pitch. It was cruel, she thought suddenly, as if he laughed only at misfortune or at someone’s expense.

“I don’t know,” she said. “He didn’t exactly stop to make conversation.”

“He daren’t,” Maxton said. “She calls the tune. She has the money. He thinks she’s going to marry him, poor sod, but she won’t. She’ll suck him dry and then suddenly tell her friends he’s such a bore, darling, I simply couldn’t stand another moment.…” He mimicked her mercilessly. “And that’s the sentence of death among the so-called smart set down here.”

Angela didn’t smile. She said, “What an awful woman she must be. I’m going to find Charlie.”

“He’s through there.” Maxton indicated the supper room. “Let me get you something to eat,” he said quietly. “You’re quite right. She is absolutely ghastly, but I’ve lived among those sorts of people so long I’ve got used to them. Thank God you haven’t.”

“I hope I never will,” Angela said.

At eleven-thirty the gaming rooms were opened. Maxton had left Angela in Charlie’s care after supper and hurried after a very pretty girl who signaled him from the doorway.

“I can’t eat another thing, Mum,” her son said. “Can I get something else for you? There’s a super pudding called a Bombe Surprise. Have a bit of that?”

“No, thank you, darling. Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Yes, I’m having a super time. Who’s Ralph gone off with? Jolly pretty, isn’t she?” He watched Madeleine admiringly. She had an overweight man in tow and was introducing him to Maxton.

“No pudding for me,” Angela said. “Let’s go and find Steven. I haven’t seen him for ages.”

It was silly to feel ill at ease. Silly to be lonely among such a throng of people, some of whom she knew and had come up to her, all smiles and congratulations. Ralph had taken care of her. Charlie was solicitous in his concern that she share his enjoyment of the “super” food and drink, but she realized that he, too, was out of his element.

“Come on,” she said.

He caught her arm. “Look, he’s over there. I’ll get him.”

“No, don’t. He’s talking to people; we’ll go and join them.”

Madeleine was laughing. She pinched her protector’s plump cheek and made a charming little grimace at him.

“Now, Bernard, my sweet, you know you’re dying to go upstairs and win some money for me. You go on, and I’ll come and bring you luck. One glass of champagne and then I’ll join you, eh?”

Her fingers had left a little red mark on his sallow skin. He glanced at the ugly man, with his hooked nose and narrow features, and decided he could safely leave Madeleine with him for a little while. He was itching to play, and she was encouraging him. She always encouraged him to do what he liked, whatever form it took. And she had such an adorable laugh, like a naughty little girl. A vicious child, he called her, vicious and wicked and irresistible, like the gambling demon that devoured him equally. He left her with the ugly Englishman.

“Oh, Dieu merci,” she breathed when he had gone. “He’s so boring, Ralphie … and such a dirty old devil. You know what he wanted me to do to him before we came here?”

“No,” Maxton said firmly. “And you’re not going to tell me. To me you’re just a sweet little innocent. Now let’s sink some champagne, shall we?”

She hooked her arm through his and pressed against him. “Okay,” she said. “Then we go up and I get some chips from him and we have a bit of fun, eh?”

They settled into a sofa upholstered into an alcove. Madeleine made him laugh; she cheered his spirits and encouraged him to show the snide and cynical side that had upset Angela. He felt at home with Madeleine. They were part of the same worthless, superficial world. He poured and drank, never becoming drunk, just blurring the edges of sensitivity.

“Is that your boss?” Madeleine’s strong little fingers gripped his wrist. “I saw him shaking hands with people in the hall.”

“Yes. Didn’t you meet him?”

“No.” She lifted one silky shoulder in disgust. “My old fart wouldn’t queue up—you know what he’s like. My God, Ralphie, isn’t he attractive?”

“If you say so,” Maxton answered.

Steven was talking to a couple whom Maxton had invited to the villa. The man had made a lot of money out of property on the coast. Angela was busy with the wife; she’d feel more comfortable with the pleasant French matron than with the glittering Nettie Orbach and her kind. Maxton realized he was being nasty about Angela because she had rebuked him. He had never been able to accept criticism—a major failing. His father used to thunder at him, “Never in the wrong, are you, my boy? Well, God help you, you’ll find out one day.”

Madeleine was staring at Steven. Maxton knew that look: the narrowed eyes, the full, greedy mouth parting to show the tip of a libidinous tongue.

“You can forget him,” he mocked her. “That’s his wife, the blonde in the white dress.”

“So what?” she demanded. “She’s not anything special. His son’s so good-looking too. Why don’t I meet him, then?”

“He’s seventeen, darling,” Maxton jeered. “And it’s his stepson anyway.” He tipped the last of the champagne into his glass.

Madeleine turned to him, her eyes wide open now. “Don’t be silly! Stepson, my foot! They’re the image of each other. They must be father and son.”

He’d never noticed it before. He took a long look at them, a proper look for the first time. She was right. Absolutely right. The same hair and eyes; very similar features; gestures and expressions that mirrored each other. You say stepson and nobody bothers to take a second look.

“You’re bloody clever, aren’t you?” he murmured. “Sharp eyes, haven’t we, sweetheart? You’re bloody right. The boy must be his.”

She smiled and squeezed his wrist again. “Have they been telling Ralphie lies? And Ralphie swallowed them? Ooh, that’s not like you, darling. You can spot a lie coming before it gets around the corner.”

“That’s because it’s usually my lie,” he countered. “I tell lies to people, and they tell them back to me. Let’s go and see what your fat friend is up to, shall we? Maybe he’ll give you a few francs to play with.”

She got up, linking arms with him, and walked with the provocative hip swing that made men stare after her. He was cross, she realized. Poor Ralphie; the con man had actually been conned. She giggled. How very funny. He really was cross; she could tell by the set of his thin lips.

They went upstairs to the salon privé. Her friend was at the baccarat table. He had been losing, and he looked up, scowling, when she touched him.

“Where have you been? You said one drink,” he complained.

“I’m so sorry, my sweet, but I’m here now, and don’t you worry. I’ll change your luck.”

She did, and Maxton stood beside her as the cards came out of the shoe and he began to bet and to win. An hour later she demanded, and was given, ten thousand francs. She went off with Ralph to play roulette. She was lucky that night. Her excitement grew as her chips piled up.

He wondered whether she banked her money. The looks and the body wouldn’t last forever, if he was right about the Moroccan blood.

“I’d stop now, if I were you,” he said.

She looked up at him. There was a bright flush on her cheeks. “Why?” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “You mean the wheel’s fixed?”

“Nothing like that,” he answered. “We play on the law of averages here. We don’t run any crooked games. The law of averages says you’re going to start losing. But it’s up to you, darling.”

“I always do what you tell me,” she declared. “I always think a man knows best.” She gave him a huge wink, gathered her winnings and left the table. “I’d better go back to Bernard,” she said. “I shan’t tell him I won. Then if he’s lucky he’ll give me a present. When will I see you, Ralphie?”

“When’s he going home?”

She changed the chips for cash, folding the notes into a tight little wad that fitted into her evening bag. It was a large bag, not a smart little pochette. I bet she banks every penny, he thought. Good for her.

“I’ll let you know,” she promised. She reached up and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “You’re such fun, darling,” she said. “I love our afternoons together. I’ll telephone you.” Then she slipped away, the bag with the money pressed close under her arm.

“My darling,” Steven said. “If you’re tired, why not go home? It’s been a long evening. I’ll call the car, and Charlie can go with you. Has he enjoyed himself?”

“Yes, he’s loved every minute. But he’s a bit young for it. I wouldn’t let him gamble. He was very disappointed.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Steven said. “You wait there, and I’ll send him along to you. You were right. I’m going to tell him so.”

He had to look for Charlie. He wasn’t in the supper room, where breakfast was being served. He’d slipped away, sulking perhaps, and left his mother. No excuses, Steven insisted. He must learn. He must learn to take care of her and to respect me. I love him enough to be angry, even tonight.

Charlie was upstairs in the smaller salon, watching the roulette. He started when Steven came up behind him.

“Oh, hello, Dad. Dad, I wanted to cash some money and have a try on the wheel, but they won’t give me any chips. Can’t you say something? It’s pretty stupid.”

“The cashiers are doing what I told them,” Steven said quietly. “You are not to gamble. Come with me, Charlie.”

He unlocked his office, switched on a battery of lights and said, “Close the door. I want to show you something.”

Charlie followed him. He felt embarrassed, even uneasy. Steven had never been angry with him before. He slouched, wondering whether he dared put up an argument. He shouldn’t have left his mother. He was sorry he’d done that, but she’d made him feel like a child, when he wanted to feel grown up.

Steven flicked a wall switch, and the paneling slid back. “Come here, Charlie,” he said. “Look at this.” It was a closed-circuit television screen. It showed the salon privé. Steven flicked another switch, and the camera moved into close-up on one of the tables. There was no sound, just a picture. He changed it, from one salon to another, the roulette wheels, the card tables, zooming into focus, the faces enlarged until they filled the screen.

Charlie said, “Gosh, I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s fantastic. You can watch everything that’s going on.”

“Yes. I can watch the games and the players and my own staff. I can see if anyone cheats or seems to be cheating. I can sit here and see people losing fortunes, making fools of themselves, getting drunk. I can see greed and cunning and people risking money because they want people to look at them.”

Charlie said, “You make it sound awful. I thought it looked like good fun.”

Steven said quietly, “That”—and he pointed to the overall view on the screen of the big gambling room beneath them—“that isn’t fun. That is business. My business, and one day yours too. I don’t gamble, and you never gamble, you hear me? You leave that to the suckers. Business isn’t fun, Charlie. That’s something I’ve got to teach you. It’s not like anything else. It has different rules. If you want to succeed, if you want respect, you have to play by those rules. If you run a casino, you don’t play around with the profits. That’s number one. If anybody had given you chips or let you play at a table tonight, he’d have been fired. And number two, when I say take care of your mother, I mean it. You understand me?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

“Now she’s waiting downstairs. The car’s on its way, and you’ll take her home. And you’ll apologize to her.”

“I will,” Charlie said. He had blushed red at Steven’s tone. “I only went for a few minutes,” he said. “I only wanted to join in, like everybody else.”

“You’re not everybody else,” was the answer. “That’s something else you’ll have to learn. Now go on down and find your mother.”

He switched off the screen. The panel slid into place. He sat down at his desk, searching for a cigarette. He had been hard on the boy. But it had to be done. He could have the world, but he must play by the rules. He was a kid still, Steven admitted. His life had been turned upside down by Steven’s advent—money, travel, glamour, and anything he wanted. It hadn’t turned his head, but it might in the end. The boy’s pride was hurt. His feelings too, because of the way he had been judged and admonished.

Steven stubbed out his cigarette. He’d been sitting there longer than he realized. He was unhappy that he wouldn’t see his son before midday. He locked up and went downstairs. The supper room was nearly empty, the bars not quite, but most of the midnight crush had disappeared. It was four in the morning.

He went upstairs on a tour of the rooms. Maxton was watching a game at the baccarat table. The hard core were still there. They’d be there till the casino closed. Steven went up to him.

“How’s it going?”

“Fine. Two of the high rollers are fighting it out over there.”

Steven was surprised to hear him use a crap-game term. “How high?”

“Half a million francs. Don’t you want to watch? They hate each other’s guts when they play, but outside they’re the best of friends.”

“Who are they?” Steven could see two men, competing in cold fury with the bank.

“French. Stinking rich. One’s electronics, the other one’s got steel and shipping interests. This is their idea of relaxation. It’s a good omen they’ve stayed on. And so did Nettie Orbach. She didn’t leave till after two. That means we’ve arrived!” He looked tired, his thin face sunken around the eyes and mouth. A very little drunk, Steven decided. Just a touch over the edge. Maxton smiled and said, “Congratulations. I think you’ve made the grade tonight, Steven.”

“If it’s true, then we’ve all made it. You especially. Thanks.”

Maxton made him a little ironic bow. More than a touch over the edge. “Thank you! This time last year I had paper in my shoes.”

Steven said, “Close down in twenty minutes. I’m going home.”

Angela had let him sleep. He stood on the balcony in his dressing gown and stretched in the warm sunshine. Rich garden scents drifted up to him, and he saw her moving among the shrubbery. She must have been up for several hours. She loved gardening. She would grow things in the desert if she were set down there. Steven smiled, watching her. He loved her more than he’d thought possible. He loved her directness, and the honesty she had brought into his life, and the odd streak of obstinacy that nothing could move. He loved her for her gentleness of heart and her kindness.

Standing with the sun on his face, he thought of Sicily, and suddenly he longed for the red earth and rugged hillsides, for the hot skies and sun-bleached buildings. It was his homeland, the place of his birth. He wanted to go back to the spot where he and Angela had poured wine into the dust and made love for the first time. And he wanted to take his son and show him where the other half of him belonged.

He called down to her. “Angelina!”

She looked up and waved. “Morning, darling. Do you want breakfast?”

“I’m coming down. Order some coffee for me.”

“I let you sleep on,” she said as they sat together on the terrace. “It was such a long day. I woke up very early, I was still so excited about it all. It did go well, didn’t it, darling?”

“According to Ralph, it was a great success. And he would know. I thought so too. You get a feel for atmosphere. You’ll get a crowd wherever there’s free food and drink and people to stare at. It’s the electricity in the air that tells you. And the big gamblers came and stayed till the end.” He smiled, holding her hand. “I want to go down and check the figures. I want to see what our profit’s likely to be.”

“When do you think we’ll break even?” Angela asked.

“We won’t begin to break even for a year,” he said. “The winter is a slack time. But I can calculate pretty accurately what the revenue’s likely to be. When we’ve recovered our expenses for the gala, we begin to recoup the initial outlay. Before you know it, we’ll be rich!”

She said, “Charlie’s gone out for a walk. He was awfully sorry he annoyed you. Don’t be cross with him today, will you, darling?”

“Don’t be silly. Last night was last night. Let’s take a walk through the garden, shall we?”

“Why can’t we talk here? I’ll only bore you to death showing you the plants. You don’t know a weed from a wisteria!”

“And I don’t want to know,” he agreed. “The garden’s yours. I leave it all to you. I want to walk with you because I can’t even kiss my own wife without that old bat Janine spying on me. Come on.”

“You know she’s a treasure,” Angela teased.

“She’s a snoop,” he retorted, pulling her to her feet. “She needs to get a man of her own.”

Janine was a domestic marvel. She cleaned and scrubbed and kept everything in spotless order. But she was incurably nosy. There were times when it got on Steven’s nerves.

Out of sight of the house, shielded by trees and a great bank of flowering crimson oleanders, Steven took Angela in his arms. “I missed you when I woke up this morning,” he said.

“I missed you,” Angela answered, and drew his head down to kiss him on the mouth. It was a long kiss, and they stood pressed close together afterward.

“I was thinking how much I loved you,” he said. “I saw you down in the garden and I thought, I love her more and more every day.”

“I love you like that too,” she said, “In the beginning I used to worry. I used to think about what I’d made you give up.”

“Like what?” He stroked her hair.

“Your family. Your whole way of life. I don’t mean the bad parts, but your home and your friends. I was so frightened you’d regret it. I didn’t see how I could make up for all that, even with Charlie.”

“Then will you believe me if I tell you something? And never speak like that again? You promise me?” He was serious. The warm desire had gone out of him.

“All right, tell me,” Angela said.

“I am happier than I’ve been in the whole of my life. I miss my family, yes. I love them. I love my father and my mother and Piero and my nephews and niece. I’m a Sicilian. We have very deep family ties, you know that. I’d give anything to bring you and Charlie and them all together. But as for the rest of it, you listen to me. Listen good, as we say. I don’t miss the States. I lived there. I grew up there, but it’s not my home. I didn’t have any friends outside of the business. And I don’t miss that. I don’t miss traveling with bodyguards, riding in a bulletproof car, looking up and down the street every time I came out the door. I don’t miss living off crime, Angela. I have a hunch I’ll die in my bed as an old man, and I like the idea. I have a home, a wife and a son, and I love my life. And I have a business that doesn’t have blood on the balance sheet. So will you look at me and promise to put all that stuff out of your head?”

“Oh, darling,” she said. “I really will, from now on. So let’s go for our walk, shall we?”

“I was thinking,” he said. “We deserve a short holiday. I want to take Charlie to Sicily. We could spend a long weekend touring around.” He slipped his arm around her waist. “Maybe go back up the hillside where we went the first day.”

“He’s due back at school,” Angela said. “We promised he’d go back at the end of the week. Couldn’t we go in the Christmas holidays?”

“Don’t you remember how cold it gets in the winter? No, darling. I meant now, while the weather’s good. It’s the best time of year. Just a couple of days won’t hurt. I’ll show you Etna at night. That’s really something to see. Say yes, sweetheart.”

“If you want to that much, then we’ll go,” she said.

“No wonder I’m so crazy about you,” Steven murmured. “And I’ll call the school and make it right with them. They want a contribution to the new swimming pool, don’t they?”

As they walked back to the villa, Angela said, “What are we going to tell Charlie? Why Sicily?”

“Because I was born there. It’s my home. One day, when he knows I’m his father, he’ll have something to remember. Let’s see if he’s back from that walk.”

It began as a whisper, passed behind the hand in bars and trattorias, in the kitchens and living rooms in Little Italy. A whisper among the small people, the common soldiers in the mighty Mafia command: Don Aldo Fabrizzi talks business with his daughter. It had started with the cousin, Anna, who told her father that the Don shut himself up with Clara and discussed topics forbidden to women, while her mother and Anna worked in the kitchen. She hated Clara, who was cold and superior toward her. She liked Luisa Fabrizzi.

Her father sucked his teeth and didn’t believe her. But he spoke about it, and like a tiny ripple on still water, the rumors began to swell into a tide. Roy Guglielmo and his brother, Victor, came to hear of it. They were incredulous. But they were curious too. They sent for the bridegroom-to-be, and over a hearty dinner with lots of wine, they congratulated him on his good fortune and asked about the bride. A clever girl, they’d heard. Her papa’s favorite. He had himself a good thing going. Bruno was flattered and expansive. He boasted to the men who had been his bosses since he was a runner on the streets.

He laid her good and often, and she ate out of his hand. Sure, she had the Don’s ear over most things. Which was good, he said defensively. Good for him, when he was the husband. Then he’d be the one to see the books.

She sees the books, the accounts, the figures? Victor asked him.

Wine made Bruno truculent. He’d resented being shut out, or sent away because Clara had to talk to her father. When he was married to her, he assured them, she’d learn a woman’s place. They all laughed and made coarse jokes, and he staggered home feeling good about himself.

The Guglielmos were independent operatives, chiefs of a small but effective family. They ran the brothels and exacted protection money from every small business in their district. They had strong affiliations with the Licianos in Chicago.

Roy said to Victor after Bruno had left, “It looks like it’s true. Holy shit! She goes through the books!”

Victor didn’t answer in a hurry. He was a big, slow-moving man, but he wasn’t slow-witted. “It figures,” he said at last. “After a guy like Falconi, why pick an arsehole for a son-in-law? You think Fabrizzi’s going to put Bruno in Falconi’s place when he dies? Nah! He’s got other ideas, Roy. Bruno’s the frontman.”

“It can’t happen,” Roy declared. “It’s crazy. Fabrizzi’s crazy if he thinks he can put a woman in a man’s place.”

Victor said, “It could break up the families. We have it fixed right for all of us. For Christ’s sake. Mobs from Chicago, Detroit, you name it! They get word of this, and they’ll come up here, moving in. We’ll have a war for the Fabrizzi territory. The Irish, the kikes, the Krauts. The whole fucking lot will be grabbing a piece for themselves. We got to stop it.”

His brother nodded. He paid the bill. “We’ll need help. Fabrizzi’s too big for us. But I’ll lay you a straight two to one his people don’t know what he’s doing. Not the top men.”

“Then maybe somebody should tell them,” Victor suggested.

The meetings were very discreet. An oath of silence was taken at each one. Only five of the eight heads of the Fabrizzi family were willing to talk to Roy and Victor, but those five were important men, powerful and respected only second to Don Aldo himself. They listened to the Guglielmos and said nothing of the plan to wipe out Lucca Falconi and his people. That oath of silence was as sacred as the one they had taken when they agreed to meet with Roy and Victor. It was agreed in principle that something had to be done if the implications were true. Those who knew Bruno Salviatti were easier to convince. He might be a stud for the daughter, but he was no heir to Aldo.

It was suggested, and agreed, that a spy should be introduced into the Don’s household. Someone who could check on the stories about weekly conferences between Clara and her father. One of his most trusted friends and henchmen from the early days offered to handle it. He was anxious to prove to them, he said, that the rumors were no more than silly gossip. He would ask Don Aldo to house a young relative for a few weeks. As head of the family, the Don would not refuse a plea for help.

“How much longer is she going to stay here?” Clara demanded.

Her mother was placatory. “Only a week or so. She’s a good girl, she helps me, just like Anna did. She doesn’t get in your way.”

Luisa eyed Clara apprehensively. She was more difficult than ever these days. She had a handsome man, a wedding to look forward to, a new life; but she didn’t seem to care.

She and Aldo talked privately together, and even at the family table they were apart from the women. She watched her daughter and wondered at the change in her. She showed little respect or regard for Bruno. His swaggering didn’t deceive the older woman. She might not have Clara’s sophistication, but she knew men, and she could tell he was ill at ease. And resentful. It wouldn’t be a happy marriage unless Clara changed her attitude.

But she didn’t dare say anything. She was glad to have someone like Gina staying with them. Of course, Aldo agreed to give her a home until the family problems had died down. He was a good man, and he knew his duty to his people. The girl’s father was in prison. She had run away from her mother’s boyfriend to save her virtue. If she was living under Don Aldo’s protection, the mother and her man wouldn’t dare try to force her back home. And by the time she did leave, her father’s relatives would have sorted out the problem.

Gina was quiet and shy. Luisa was kindhearted and maternal by nature. She couldn’t mother Clara, and there were no small children to occupy her. She was happy to take care of someone in trouble. She was happy to be needed. Clara didn’t think of anyone but herself anymore.

Clara lit a cigarette. She resented having another girl living in her parents’ flat. She had accepted the hard-luck story with little sympathy. If her father had to offer protection, she couldn’t argue. But she didn’t share her mother’s opinion of the girl. Clara thought she was sly and far less the wronged innocent than she pretended. Clara positively disliked her and made it plain. Why couldn’t some other relative have taken her in, she demanded when the original two weeks stretched out to a month, with no sign of her leaving.

“Only your father is powerful enough to keep her safe,” Luisa explained. “The mother is living with a bad man, very bad. A man of violence.”

Clara didn’t care. She didn’t feel easy with Gina on the other side of the door, but she couldn’t explain that feeling to her father.

She had Bruno stay in her house when she wanted him. She took a cruel pleasure in their sexual relationship. He tried so hard to dominate her in the only way he knew and she was able to resist him so easily. The convulsions of the body never inspired a spark of tender feeling in her. Lust, but not passion. She indulged her lust, but passion was what she had felt for Steven. To Clara passion meant love, with its vulnerability and pain. She never thought of Bruno Salviatti in any context except bed. He was coarse and ill-educated, vain and stupid. She disregarded his good qualities because she wasn’t interested enough to notice them. He was loyal, generous in his way, sentimental about children. He was brave. Roy and Victor Guglielmo weren’t too worried about brains, but they could vouch for Salviatti’s courage. Clara didn’t think of him at all, and if she gave him expensive clothes, it was because his lack of style annoyed her.

Aldo was content. Bruno was full of respect for him. He seemed to treat Clara well. Luisa approved of him. She had never felt comfortable with Steven Falconi. And father and daughter were deeply involved in a business scheme, which had been Clara’s inspiration.

She had drawn on her own experience in employing private detectives to spy on Steven. Why not start their own agency and enlarge it to a chain across the state? It could provide the material and the front for a blackmailing operation that could be limitless. Politicians, public figures, movie stars—she listed the money-making potential. It was a long-term project, possibly five years, and the parent agency had to be controlled at arm’s length. The higher the fees, she insisted, remembering how she herself had been fleeced, the richer, the more vulnerable, the clients. Aldo was gratified, and intrigued. She was a smart girl, with smart ideas. He saw even further than she did in terms of the power such an organization would give the man who actually controlled it. He told Clara to find a suitable office, and then they would start by registering the agency.

Clara was engrossed in business. He had come to depend upon her as a sounding board for his own ideas. He consulted her on everything from a small discrepancy in the quarterly “take” to the abilities of someone he thought of promoting.

Within the year, she had become his closest confidante and adviser. And inevitably they grew a little careless. The door wasn’t always closed, the telephone conversations were sometimes unguarded, and once Gina came into the living room while they were both double-checking some accounts.

Six weeks after her arrival, Gina’s relative called to collect her. Aldo welcomed his old friend, and the old friend kissed him on both cheeks and presented him with a case of fine cognac and a humidor of Havana cigars. A piece of elaborate Victorian glassware was his gift to Luisa Fabrizzi. Gina could go home. Her mother had got rid of her boyfriend; the man would not trouble either of them again. They were forever in Don Aldo’s debt.

Aldo felt gratified. He liked to confer favors, to be admired as a patriarch.

Clara said acidly, “They should have given me something. She’s been getting on my nerves long enough.” Then she forgot about Gina.

She had found a small detective agency in Newark, New Jersey, that seemed suitable. It was owned by two partners, former New York City policemen, one retired after a shooting, the other seeking more income to support a growing family. Both were men of reputation, with clean licenses. And not much money. The business had been established only two years, and Clara discovered that the family man had a mortgage on his house that was causing problems.

She drove down to Newark. It was a long day, but an interesting one. Posing as a prospective client, she managed to see and judge both partners in the firm, the Ace Detective Agency. How corny can you get, she wondered as she shook hands with the ex-cop who’d stopped three bullets in his stomach during a holdup. He had a lean, wary look about him, which she didn’t like. He was still very much a cop, still missing life in the precinct. The man with the kids and the wife and the mortgage was in his late thirties. He was more what Clara had in mind. He was fit-looking, sharp-eyed. He was there with the lighter and the ashtray before she’d finished taking out a cigarette. He stared at the case a little too long. It was gold and expensive. He smelled a rich client. His partner smelled a rat.

She talked about her husband, reeling off the standard tale of suspected adultery, and noticed which one of them was bored and which was making his interest very apparent. She wasn’t disappointed. She left without making a firm commitment, but promised to telephone when she’d decided to do something about it.

The married man was named O’Halloran. The other had an Italian name, and that had alerted her from the start. When Italians became cops they pushed harder against their own than against the Irish or the Jews. He’d have to go. If it worked as she planned, he’d be bought out. And O’Halloran would find himself with a new partner. A woman, whose only requirement would be access to his files, and whose contribution would be unlimited supplies of money and a brand-new office in midtown Manhattan.

She drove home. Bruno was coming for her. Clara never cooked, and eating at home with him bored her anyway. She’d made reservations at a new Chinese restaurant on Forty-seventh Street. She showered and changed, her mind busy with the details of her day. The weather was turning bitterly cold. She chose a dress of dark-red velvet that clung to her like a second skin.

Pouring a glass of bourbon, she settled down to wait for Bruno. He was never late. He came at eight o’clock exactly, sleek and trim as a boxer in a new pinstripe she’d bought him, with a heavy camel-hair coat draped across his shoulders. He was strikingly handsome, she thought calmly, and she let him fondle her and kiss her mouth open. When he started easing her skirt up, she pushed his hand away.

“Ah, baby,” he protested. “What’s the hurry?”

“I’m hungry. And this dress cost three hundred dollars,” she snapped at him. “Stop pawing me. Come on, let’s go.”

He moved to the tray of bottles. She didn’t see the look on his face, and she wouldn’t have cared anyway. “I’d like a Scotch,” he said.

“You can have one at Chow’s. We’ll miss the table.”

She went into her room and swept back, wrapped in a long hooded wild-mink coat. He was drinking from a full glass. Clara glared at him.

“I said we’ll be late,” she said, her voice raised.

Bruno didn’t move. “When we’re married, I’ll eat at home. I’ll have my Scotch and my food on the table when I want it.”

It wasn’t much of a challenge to her. He often made gestures of independence, and she knew exactly how to cope with them. She drew the coat back, rested one hand on a jutting hip and said, “When we’re married, big man, I’ll be your little homebody wife. But right now, I’m going to dinner. You want to stay here, feel free.”

He caught up with her outside the front door.

That night, when Clara was asleep beside him, Bruno Salviatti lay wide awake. He didn’t like Chinese food. It left him feeling empty. He had been bored and sleepy through the evening because inside he was very angry and he couldn’t let it show. He’d made love because she wanted it and she knew how to rouse him till he forgot about everything else. But afterward it tasted sour in the mouth. He felt like a circus animal, performing new tricks every time. At first he had been fascinated, challenged by her, lured by the prospects of such a marriage, but now he lay naked, hip to thigh with her, and thought how much he hated her already. She had bitten deep into his self-esteem. He found that hardest to bear. She diminished him as a man. Other women had bought him clothes and presents, but he’d accepted them as his due. He liked women to look up to him, and in return he could be generous, he could be good to women. This woman used and despised him.

He’d been ready to marry even before he met her, ready to raise a family. He was doing well, he had a reputation. Roy Guglielmo had given him a district. Then he saw her at that anniversary party and set out to make her. He wanted to show off before the young ragazzi.

It had looked like such a great chance to rise in the world, to marry the daughter of a don without sons or grandsons to follow him. It didn’t seem so now. When he woke in the morning, Clara was still asleep. He didn’t wake her. The maid was in the kitchen. She made him coffee and eggs. He thought, looking at her shuffling around him, This will be my life. My life at home. He banged out of the house without finishing his breakfast or looking in on Clara to say goodbye.

Ex-Detective Sergeant Mike O’Halloran was coming up on forty. He’d put his savings into the agency with his friend Pacellino, and for the first year his wife had been happy. Happy that he was not in danger, that he was home at regular hours and able to spend time with his children. She looked ten years younger, and their marriage picked up. It picked up so well that before they realized it she was pregnant.

That made four children, on top of the mortgage on the new house. After that it started to go downhill. Small debts became bigger; the agency had some lean months in the first year, and the doctor’s bills for his wife and the baby were a worry. He was sorry she’d persuaded him to leave the force. She nagged, and he started losing his temper.

They got some good jobs, but the work wasn’t consistent. A lot of it was small stuff, short on expenses. Routine surveillance for divorce; court appearances, which took time.

Pacellino was a bachelor. He had a small rented apartment and a girlfriend who worked in real estate. O’Halloran bore the real burden. When two days went by and the rich bitch from New York didn’t phone in, he became depressed. She’d looked like real money. Then she called him personally and invited him to lunch. O’Halloran couldn’t believe his luck. He even agreed to her request to keep the meeting private. Just between themselves. She had a proposition to put to him.

He didn’t say anything to Pacellino. He just took off at lunchtime and went to the hotel she’d suggested. She was in the restaurant when he got there, a glass of bourbon on the table. He apologized if he’d kept her waiting. She had a cool look about her. She pulled her sleeve back to check her watch, and then she smiled at him and asked him to sit down. He had a gut feeling as he did so that this had nothing to do with a cheating husband.

His mind was a long way off his investigation that afternoon. He sat outside an apartment building, watching a client’s wife go in to spend time with her boyfriend, and he thought about the offer the woman had made. She wanted a detective agency all her own, but she didn’t want the connection made public. She had emphasized the necessity of complete secrecy, and there was just a hint of threat in the way she repeated it. She was a beautiful, sexy dame, O’Halloran admitted, but he’d just as soon put his hand into the tigers’ cage at the zoo as try and feel her up. When she mentioned the investment, he managed to keep his face straight. If the business prospered, she added, they would expand to other major cities.

“I can see quite a network in a few years, if things work out,” she had said, and he’d nodded eagerly.

It was all wrong, and he knew it. His instincts were flashing warnings like neon lights, but he had gone on sitting there; she had made it sound so reasonable. The agency would move to New York, where she had an appropriate office in mind. He would recruit a reliable staff. His police connections would surely help there. He’d agreed that they would. The agency must have a broad perspective, offering a comprehensive service to clients, and it must be prepared to accept business from corporations.

At one point O’Halloran had been constrained to interrupt. “Lady, I did twenty years on the beat and made detective sergeant, but what I don’t know about corporations you could put in a book!”

“You don’t have to know about them,” was the answer. “That’ll be my responsibility. You’ll just do what’s needed, when it’s needed. Okay?”

“Okay,” he’d said, and from that moment, he had shut down the switch on the warning lights. He needed money; he was being offered the chance to be rich for doing the same sort of thing he was doing now for peanuts. He could afford good schools for the kids, nice clothes for his wife, a new car. He had leaned toward her and said, “So long as it’s legal, it sounds like one hell of a good deal to me.”

As he sat slumped down in the car seat, listlessly watching yet another marital two-timer sneaking out after an afternoon in the sack, he remembered her smile. It was a strange sort of smile, almost friendly for a moment. He had given her something she wanted, and she was pleased with him. He had laid the foundation for their partnership with a lie, and she answered it with a lie of her own.

“It will always be legal,” she’d said. “I promise you that. Do we have a deal, Mr. O’Halloran?”

“We have a deal,” he’d said.

She had got up and solemnly shaken hands with him. He insisted on paying for their drinks. She thanked him. She had magnificent black eyes. He was a bought man, and he knew it by the way she looked at him. He had a twinge about his old partner, Pacellino, and the holes in his gut.

“You’re sure you wouldn’t want Tony in on this?”

“I’m sure,” she had answered. “I’ll get the new office set up, and you get out from under him. Call me when you’re ready to move. And make it soon.”

He had her card in his pocket. Mrs. Clara Falconi, and a ritzy-sounding address on the East Side.

Noting the time the errant wife emerged, he drove back to the office. His partner was out. He looked around him. The agency was small, untidy, run on a shoestring. He paused for a moment, tempted to call someone in New York and ask him to run a check on the lady. He even reached for the telephone. But he never picked it up. He didn’t want an answer. He didn’t want to know for sure what he suspected.

He typed his report for the afternoon’s work and went home. He made a big fuss over his wife and kids and told them he’d had an offer to run a new agency in New York.

Steven was right about Sicily in the month of September. It was perfect. The fierce August heat had given way to a lovely constant temperature, with a light breeze that came up in the evenings.

They started in Messina, then drove up the winding roads and over the mountains to the coast. Steven showed them Greek ruins and Roman amphitheaters, abandoned for two thousand years to the ravages of sun and weather. They wandered through hillside villages where the streets were too narrow even to admit the painted carts that trundled behind the sad donkeys. They saw the grand fortress houses of the ancient aristocracy, mostly abandoned in favor of life in the agreeable confines of Palermo or on the Italian mainland. Little by little, Steven taught his son about Sicily, and the word Mafia crept in unchallenged.

Charlie listened, infected by Steven’s passionate interest in the strange, barren country with such a violent history. It helped a lot that Steven was such a good storyteller. He made boring ruins and crumbling buildings come to life, and Charlie responded by asking questions and wanting to know more.

It was a pilgrimage full of memories for Angela. They crowded in upon her as they traveled toward Palermo. When they reached the city, she took Charlie to the site where the hospital had stood. A four-story hotel was built on it.

“I was a nurse here,” she said. “My best friend, Christine, was killed when the hospital was bombed. There’s nothing left of it now.”

Charlie linked his arm through hers. “Don’t be upset, Mum. It was a long time ago. Why don’t we go and see the place where you married my father? You told me it was up in the hills near here?”

He didn’t see the quick glance she exchanged with Steven or his nod of agreement.

She smiled at him, “Why not? It was in a little village called Altodonte. Do you think you could find it, darling?”

“I’m sure I could,” Steven said. “I’d like to see it too.”

Little had changed. True to his promise to the priest, Steven had arranged immunity for the village and its people. They paid no Mafia dues and suffered no Mafia murders. It was sleepy and sunlit. The paint on the houses was faded and peeling, the geraniums still bloomed in fierce profusion, the wash fluttered between the houses like flags of poverty above the dark little streets. The church was smaller than Angela remembered it, the inside even darker.

Her son said, “It must have been a funny wedding, Mum. It’s jolly gloomy in here.”

They walked up the aisle toward the gilded, painted altar, passing saints dressed in real clothes, faded flower offerings withering at their feet. The red eye of the sacristy lamp burned above them.

“It was a wonderful wedding,” Angela said, and reached covertly for Steven’s hand.

The door of the sacristy opened. It was a young priest, and he came hurrying toward them, buttoning his cassock.

He bowed to the tall bearded man, to the woman and the boy. He spoke no English.

Steven took some large bills out of his wallet. He handed them to the priest. “Give this to the families that need it most,” he said in Italian. “And keep some for your church and yourself, Father.”

“Dad must have given him a big present,” Charlie whispered as they came out. “Did you see his face, Mum? He couldn’t believe it.”

“It’s the custom,” she explained. “And you know how generous he is.” And then, because she knew how much it meant to Steven, she said, “Now we’ll go and see where Steven’s ancestors used to live.”

Charlie stared at her. “You mean they were here too? The same place where you and my father got married?”

“Yes, isn’t it a coincidence, darling? … Steven, I was just telling Charlie that your ancestors came from this village. Would you know where the house was? It would be nice to see it, wouldn’t it, Charlie?”

“It’s not much,” Steven said. He put his arm around Angela, pressed her close in silent thanks. “They were poor people, poor peasants. I think I know where it was.”

Charlie asked him, “Will it still be there?”

“Nothing changes in Sicily,” Steven answered. “It’ll be there.”

And it was, just as Angela remembered it from so many years ago. The door and shutters were freshly painted a bright green, and a young woman nursing a baby sat on the doorstep, her bare feet in the dust. She looked up at them suspiciously as they passed and briefly paused. The baby suckled greedily, and she gave it her attention when the strangers moved on.

Steven said to his son, “Not what you expected? I told you, they were dirt poor. That’s why they emigrated to America.”

Charlie said, “I don’t blame them. Still, they must have done jolly well over there. Look at you, Dad!”

“Yes,” Steven said. “They did well, Charlie. All they needed was the opportunity. But I’m proud of my ancestry. They were poor, but they were men of respect in this village. Now let’s see if there’s anywhere we can get something to drink and eat. You hungry, sweetheart?”

“Yes, and thirsty,” Angela said. “It was good of you to help the priest, darling.”

“It was expected,” Steven said.

They had the best suite in the Palazzo Palermo hotel. Charlie had gone to his room to read after a rich Sicilian dinner and a lot of the heavy local wine.

Angela had laughed when she saw the bed in their room. It was an antique and quite narrow by current standards, but it made up in splendor for the lack of space. It was dressed in crimson silk, with gold cherubs supporting the drapery from the ceiling. More gold cherubs disported at the foot of the bed, and a red-and-gold confection topped with a ducal crown and coat of arms towered above the pillows.

It was the bridal suite, the manager informed them. Furnished from the sale of the last duchess of Finciula’s estate. The dressing table was a crimson-and-gilt extravagance, miniature cherubs supported an elaborate mirror above the silk flounces, and the chairs were carved and gilded thrones with matching footstools.

“It’s unbelievable,” Angela exclaimed. “It’s amazing! Did people really live in rooms like this?”

“The Finciulas were poor,” Steven told her. “They had big estates but no money. This stuff was sold for pennies, I expect. I can’t wait to see you sitting up in that bed!” And they both laughed at the idea.

It was indeed a narrow bed, and their bodies were so close that it was well into the night before they finished making love and drifted off to sleep. In the morning, with the sun streaming through the drawn curtains and the shutters fastened back, Angela woke him.

“Last night was the best ever,” she whispered.

“It was the bed,” he teased her. “All the old dukes and duchesses must have been sick with envy, watching us.”

“What are you talking about? You talk such nonsense, darling.” She drew back, teasing him, holding him at bay as he strained to kiss her.

“It’s not nonsense. If you make love in someone else’s bed, they come back from the dead to watch you. All Sicilians know that. That’s why they only put foreigners in here.” He pulled her down on top of him. “And there’s another superstition. When you do it like this, you make daughters. I want a daughter.”

Charlie flew back from Italy.

“It’s been a wonderful trip,” he told Steven. “Really super. I’d love to come again.”

Steven embraced him. Angela could see the pleasure in his face.

“You will. We’ll have a proper holiday on the island. Now work hard, or I’ll get in trouble with your mother for keeping you out of school.”

Arm in arm, they watched the aircraft take off.

“He did enjoy it, didn’t he? Maybe he felt some tie with the place.”

Angela hadn’t noticed anything beyond a schoolboy’s enthusiasm, but she knew how much Steven wanted to think it was more.

“I wouldn’t be surprised. You have such strong roots; but you brought it all to life for him, darling. You made it real. He got quite upset about the way the landlords treated their tenants. He actually said to me the Mafia were the only protection those poor people had. He’d always thought they were a lot of gangsters in America.”

“And what did you say to that?” he questioned.

“I said what you said. It started out well and went wrong.”

“It sure did,” he said. “My grandfather killed tax collectors. Now we are the tax collectors. Come on, darling. I’m looking forward to going home. I must call Maxton and tell him to have a car at Nice to meet us.”

“Why don’t you spend Christmas here?” Ralph Maxton asked.

Angela shook her head. “My father’s not well enough to fly out. He’s insisting on staying at home, so we’ve got to go over and be with him.”

It was a slight deterioration of his heart condition, nothing serious, Jim Hulbert had reassured her. But long journeys and upheavals were not sensible at his age. Especially during bad weather. Steven had agreed to a second Christmas at Haywards Heath, though Angela knew he wanted to stay in France.

The villa belonged to them now. He had persuaded the owner to sell it by offering twice its market value. So Angela could change the furniture and redecorate, but she found little to alter. She liked the previous owner’s taste, and it seemed as if the task of transforming the casino had exhausted her inventive powers. She bought some pictures from a gallery in Cannes that specialized in good French contemporary art, changed the curtains in the dining room and decided to leave anything else till the spring.

A gala evening was planned for the middle of October, after which Maxton recommended that they close down till spring. When the casino was profitable, they could afford to stay open during the quiet winter months, but not yet. He and Steven had decided on a benefit performance as their curtain call for the season.

It was Maxton’s idea to contact Renata Soldi’s agent. She was the most promising young opera singer since Maria Callas.

“She’ll come because she’s poaching on Callas’s territory. And the glitterati’ll come to give Callas a poke in the eye. She’s made a lot of enemies. Renata Soldi can’t hold a candle to La Callas, but that’s not the point. She’ll pull the crowds. We’ll sell out for the charity and pick up some of the big gamblers who can’t afford not to be seen at this sort of thing. And we’ll shut up shop with a bang!”

As always, Angela wished he would tone down the ruthless cynicism. It spoiled the excitement of the evening. She was looking forward to hearing Soldi sing. She didn’t want to connect a great artist with malice and infighting toward another great artist and to see her audience as little more than spectators at a social blood sport.

Ralph Maxton saw her reaction and tried to put it right by changing the subject and talking about something agreeable. Like Christmas.

“It’ll be fun having Christmas in England,” he said. “You had snow last year, didn’t you? It was just cold and rather wet here.”

They were having their weekly dinner together, and Steven had left them at the table to finish their coffee while he made some calls. Angela knew he always telephoned New York around this time of day, so she kept Maxton on in the dining room.

“Where will you go?” she asked him.

He shrugged. “It depends. I was hoping to spend it with a friend, but she’s got elderly relative trouble at the moment, so I don’t suppose it’ll come off. Is there more coffee there, Angela? … Thanks.”

Madeleine was doubtful about sneaking off with him for Christmas. Her lover was demanding that she stay near him in Lyons so he could escape his family’s clutches and visit her. As Madeleine explained, she was squeezing him for a really big present this year, and she didn’t think she’d get it if she didn’t stay close. She told Ralph how annoyed she was and pulled pretty faces, calling the old man a string of dirty names, but Ralph understood. She couldn’t pass up a valuable piece of jewelry, or a block of shares, just to screw and laugh with him over the holiday.

He’d planned to spend Christmas in a new hotel at Val d’Isère. He was a good skier, and Madeleine was more athletic than she looked. They’d have had fun. He hated Christmas; it was so depressing, with its insistence upon family gatherings and children. He’d have to go up there alone. He was sure to find someone congenial. He had a lot of money to throw around on a pretty girl.

He heard Angela say, “What will you do, Ralph, if your plans fall through?”

He smiled in his twisted way, mocking himself. “Make new ones. I’m very adaptable. And be a dear and don’t suggest I go home, because I want to see the family about as much as they want to see me.”

“I wasn’t going to suggest it,” she said. “I was going to ask you if you’d like to come over and have Christmas with all of us.”

To her surprise, he turned slightly red. “How very kind. Were you really?”

“Why not? If you can’t or won’t go to your own home, why not come to mine? Charlie’d love it, so would my father, and Steven and I would be delighted. Just so long as you don’t have glamorous expectations. It’s a very modest village house, but we’ll have a happy Christmas, I can promise you. I love all the trimmings, the tree and the presents and going to midnight service.… Why don’t you say yes? If your friend solves her problem with the relative, then we won’t mind a bit if you cancel. How’s that?”

“That’s the nicest bit of blackmail I can think of,” he said. “Hadn’t you better mention it to Steven? He may not want the hired help eating his Christmas turkey.”

“Shut up and don’t be silly. He’s very fond of you. We both are.”

He was so adept at hiding his feelings that she noticed nothing except that hint of color. It was funny; she couldn’t imagine Maxton being embarrassed by anything.

He leaned a little toward her across the table. She looked very pretty and soft in the subdued light, and however hard he tried, he couldn’t find anything but gentleness in her eyes. He reached out and took her hand. He did it in an exaggerated way, robbing the gesture of serious intent. He raised her hand to his lips and, for the merest second, touched them.

“My fair benefactress,” he declaimed. “Thanks to you, I shan’t spend a lonely Christmas, sobbing into my pillow! Tell me, why are you such a very nice person?”

“Why do you make a joke of everything?” she countered. “I’m not particularly nice. I can be very nasty when I like, so just be careful!”

“That I doubt,” he said. “Hadn’t we better join Steven? Otherwise he’ll come storming in and fire me for kissing your hand.”

“You’re an idiot.” She laughed at him. “Come on. Let Janine clear the table.… You know, Steven says she gets on his nerves—she’s always hovering round us. He even suggested I get rid of her.”

“You’d lose the mother, and she’s a marvelous cook, as we’ve just confirmed. And the next one could be a thief as well as a spy. All French servants spy on their employers; the Italians steal from them. I could have a word with her if you like …?”

“No, don’t bother. I’ll probably lose my temper if I catch her outside the door and do it myself. As you say, Ralph, I don’t want to lose both of them. That fish soufflé was delicious, wasn’t it?”

“Exquisite,” he said. He opened the door and stood aside to let her pass. “But I bet your Christmas turkey will be better.”

“Darling, you don’t mind, do you? It seemed awful for him to spend Christmas all alone.”

“Of course I don’t mind. Christmas is no time to be alone,” Steven said. “If it makes you happy to have him come over, that’s fine by me.”

“Thank you, darling. I think it’s a kindness. He’s so bitter about life, but deep down there’s a lot of niceness in him. He’s so lonely, it’s sad.”

Steven smiled. “You find good points in everyone, sweetheart, that’s your trouble. But don’t become too sorry for him, or I’ll get jealous.”

“I can imagine,” Angela teased in turn. “He’s quite a charmer, so you better watch out.”

They ended by hugging each other and laughing.

The gala was a sellout. Angela sat entranced by the strength and purity of the young opera star’s voice. She had never heard Maria Callas sing in the flesh; she had to take Maxton’s word for it that Renata Soldi was not in the same class.

It was a glittering evening, with the women dressed and bejeweled like peacocks, and afterward, when the concert was over and the supper room cleared away, she went upstairs and watched the closed-circuit TV with Steven. He was in a buoyant mood, pointing out the big gamblers on the screen. A number of them were women, including a famous Hollywood star.

Angela was tired after the long evening, and the song recital had been a powerful experience that left her feeling drained. The next morning they would close down the casino for the winter. The staff went on half pay—except for the croupiers and dealers, who kept their full salaries—but were free to seek employment elsewhere till the spring reopening. And the move to England for the Christmas holidays was drawing near. Charlie had phoned and written. He was in good spirits and assured them that he had been working hard.

She was sitting with Steven one chilly November evening, a wood fire burning in the fireplace and a sense of utter peace and happiness in her heart, when the telephone rang. It was New York.

Steven said, “It’s my brother. I’ll take it in the study, darling.”

It was a long conversation. Angela almost fell asleep in the warm room.

“Angela.” She roused with a start. She often drifted off in the evenings these days.

“Steven? What’s the matter. Is something wrong?” She was instantly alert at the sight of him.

He dropped down beside her. “Clara’s getting married again,” he said.

“But isn’t that good news?” she questioned.

“My family thinks so,” he said. “But I’m not sure. I’m not sure at all.”

“But why not?”

“The way Piero spoke, this guy sounds like some cheap punk who’s good with the girls. He works for two brothers over on the West Side.”

“Perhaps that’s what she wants,” Angela suggested. “Someone the opposite of you.”

Steven was frowning, hardly hearing what she said. Clara—intelligent, educated, with a taste for music and the arts. He remembered her touring the galleries and museums when they were in Paris on their honeymoon. Clara marrying a good-looking, low-class muscleman from the Guglielmo mob? And Aldo letting her do it? Take such a step down?

Perhaps Angela was right. Perhaps the only way Clara could come to terms with her jealous sexuality was to go slumming. But he didn’t believe it.

He said, “Why don’t you go up to bed, darling? I won’t be long. I just want to think it through.”

“All right. I nearly dropped off while you were on the phone. Don’t worry, it must be a good thing. She’ll make a new life for herself. Wake me if you’re worried. Promise?”

“I promise,” he said, and kissed her.

Piero had been jubilant. He’d made coarse comments and laughed. “He’s probably got a dick like an elephant’s trunk,” he said. “I hear she’s never off her back. Now maybe Tino will stop worrying.”

“Worrying about what?” Steven had asked him. Piero was dismissive.

“Tino worries. The Fabrizzis threw some goddamned party for all their people down in Key West in August, and Tino thought it was some kind of cover-up for a meeting. We weren’t supposed to know.” Steven suddenly felt a chill of warning. “You never told me,” he said. “What kind of meeting?”

“Nothing.” Piero dismissed it. “Some fucking wedding anniversary. That’s when Clara shacked up with this Salviatti stud. Now they’re getting married; Aldo’s going to invite the world. He even called on Papa to discuss it. Clara wanted his blessing. You know how she loved all of us?” He chuckled at the idea.

“I know,” Steven said. “She hated Papa’s guts. And yours.”

“They’re playing it right,” Piero insisted.

Steven asked him, “When is this wedding?”

“January. At Saint Mary and the Angels. We’re all invited. Papa, Mama, me, Lucia, Tino and his family, the cousins from Florida, Uncle Giorgio.” He’d ended by saying, “The heat’s off you, Steven. And with a punk like that as a son-in-law, Aldo won’t give us any trouble.”

Something wasn’t right. The pieces didn’t fit. Piero’s scenario was lacking one element. The only reason Clara Fabrizzi would marry a small-time Mafia hood was if she’d got pregnant in August, and the wedding was too late for that. So there must be another motive. A front for a secret meeting of the Fabrizzi associates? Tino suspected as much. And Tino was shrewd. A big wedding, Piero had said. With everyone invited. Steven was pouring himself a whiskey when he repeated aloud, “Everyone invited.” Everyone from the Falconi family. Uncle Giorgio, the cousins. All gathered together in one place.

Steven slammed the glass down so hard that the bottom cracked. He didn’t notice. He was reaching for the phone, to break all the rules and call his father. Piero wouldn’t see it. Only Lucca, subtle as a snake himself, would listen to his son’s hunch and accept his warning.

His mother was crying into the telephone. “Oh, my son, my boy. It’s so good to hear your voice. How are you?”

“I’m fine, Mama. Just fine. So good to hear you too. You’ve had my messages from Piero?” He found himself swallowing hard at the sound of his mother choking back tears.

“Yes, yes. He tells me when he calls. I think of you all the time. I pray for you.”

“I know you do, Mama, and I think of you and Papa and the family. I miss you all so much.” Piero had told him she’d been unwell with a chest cold again. “How are you feeling, Mama? You taking care of yourself? You catch too many colds.”

“I’m better; don’t worry about me. Piero makes too much of everything. Lucia moved in to look after me and take care of your father.”

“I have to talk with him,” Steven said. “Get him to come to the phone; tell him it’s important. I must talk with him.”

“I’ll try, Stefano, I’ll try. Hold on.”

It seemed a long wait to Steven. He knew his father’s pride. He could imagine Lucca looking up at his wife, without pity for her tears. “No,” he might be saying. “I have no son to talk with. There’s nothing he has to say I want to hear. You want to talk with him, you talk.”

Through the telephone receiver, Steven heard a door bang. “He won’t speak to you,” his mother said. “I can’t persuade him. I’m so sorry, Stefano.”

Steven swore in helpless anger. Then he said gently, “Mama, Mama, don’t upset yourself. Don’t cry. I understand how he feels. Listen to me. Just tell him this. Make sure he listens. Tell him not to go to Clara’s wedding. Tell Piero not to go. It’s a trap they’ve set for all of you. Tell him, Mama. Make him hear you.”

She promised, and he hung up. He balled his fist and rammed it into his palm in frustration. He’d call Piero back right away, deliver the same message, hope he’d take it seriously. But Piero was an optimist. He didn’t see around corners. He’d talked so jauntily about finally getting Clara off their backs, making crude jokes. He wouldn’t want to hear that it was a ruse.

But Steven had to try. Piero was not receptive, as he’d feared. Steven had been absent from the scene too long. Piero’s awe of him was tempered with a growing self-confidence in his own abilities. Spoletto was the watchdog, and he had finally agreed that there was nothing suspicious. And Tino, Piero insisted, was always looking under the bed, for Christ’s sake.

“You’re getting jumpy down there. Back home we just get on with business and lead a quiet life. Clara’s got herself a big hunk, that’s all there is to it. Relax, brother, relax.” He ended the conversation with a cheerful laugh.

In the morning Steven told Angela. He was restless, unable to stay in bed beside her. He paced up and down while he talked.

“I know it,” he insisted. “I know it in here!” He struck his chest. “It’s phony—the whole thing’s a setup. Clara wouldn’t marry a slob, and Aldo wouldn’t let her. All that crap about wanting my father’s blessing. Did I tell you about that? She hated my papa’s guts, and at the end he hated hers. So they tell a pack of lies, they set a wedding date, and my family starts to sit back and look the other way. If only I could see Piero, talk to him face-to-face. He laughed at me last night, Angela. Can you believe that? What the hell am I to do?”

She got up and came to him. “Calm down,” she said quietly. “That’s the first thing. This wedding is weeks away. You don’t have to do anything on the spur of the moment. You’ve got time, Steven. Your family’s got time.”

He pulled away from her. “No, they haven’t,” he said harshly. “I know the Fabrizzis. They’ll fix alibis and get agreement among some of the other families for what they’re going to do. They’ll make it a matter of honor; that’s how it’s done. My father and brother and the rest of my family won’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell. And there’s always a backup plan to an operation like this. If the situation changes, you make your hit earlier. I shouldn’t have talked to Piero. I should have got on the plane and gone back when my father wouldn’t talk to me.”

Angela’s color drained. “Steven, you can’t! You can’t go back. You’d be killed!”

“I swore an oath to my father; I swore it to my brother too. If there was trouble, I’d come back. Nothing can make me break that promise. Not even you, Angela.”

She said, “What about your son? What about Charlie? What do you think it’ll mean to him if something happens to you? And it’s not just Charlie, either, now.” She went back and sat on the bed.

He wasn’t listening to her. He had become a stranger, a man caught up in a frightening, alien world.

“You go home to your father,” he said. “Get ready for Christmas. Maxton can close up here. I’ll join you there as soon as I can.”

“No, Steven!”

He turned at the tone of her voice. “Angela, don’t try to stop me. Please don’t try to stop me. I have to do this.”

She said, “You can’t go back and risk your life. You’ve got another family to think about. I’m having a baby. I was keeping it as a surprise for Christmas.”

She broke down and began to weep. He came and sat with her, taking her in his arms. She turned and clung to him.

“If you go you won’t come back. You’ll get drawn in. There’ll be violence, killing—it’ll be the end of everything for us.”

“You should have told me,” he said slowly. “You should have told me you were pregnant.”

“I had it all planned. My Christmas present to you, Steven. You’ve said you wanted another child, and I wanted one too, to make you happy. Try to make your father see sense. Try once more, before you do something that could destroy everything for us. You gave up the old life. You had no right to promise anything that meant getting involved in it again.”

He asked her, “What are you saying to me, Angela?”

She took a deep breath. “I’m saying this: I love you with all my heart, Steven. But you’ve got to find another way.”

Maxton went shopping for Christmas presents. A present for the old father; he found a nice antique backgammon set. He could teach the doctor to play. He’d cut his gambling teeth on that particular game when he was in his teens. A tennis racket for Charlie from a smart sports shop in Monte Carlo. He’d actually bought it for himself in the summer and never used it. For Angela, what? What could he give that was personal enough and yet not too personal? The bibelots from Hermès—scarves, expensive gold-plated key rings and costly knick knacks—were not Angela’s style. In the end he chose silk-embroidered flowers in an oval frame. He wrapped it carefully. It was just possible that Steven might not be there when she opened it. His absence at Christmas had been hinted at, but not confirmed.

She had been crying on the morning they drove to the airport at Nice. She had a lot of luggage, he noticed. Steven drove them. He looked grim. In the departure lounge, Maxton pretended not to watch them say goodbye. His keen ears picked up their urgent whispers.

“Please, Steven, please change your mind! Don’t go back!”

“I’ve got to go. We’ve been over and over it. It’s the only way to make them listen. Oh, darling, I beg of you, try to understand.”

“I know what will happen. I know it’ll be the end for us. You’ve broken your promise to me.… I’ve got to go now. They’ve called our flight.”

She literally pulled herself away from him and started off toward the gate. Falconi stood looking after his wife and then abruptly swung away and disappeared.

Maxton settled down in the seat beside her. He dug into his pocket. “From one coward to another,” he murmured. “Have a drop of this before we take off.” He held out a little silver flask of brandy. “It’ll make you feel better.” He had unscrewed a tiny cup from the top.

Angela took it from him. “I don’t think anything will do that,” she said, and drank it down.

The plane was taxiing onto the runway, the engines gathering power for the takeoff. She closed her eyes and then opened them, watching the ground speeding away from them outside the window.

“If you feel like clutching something …,” his voice said, and she gripped his hand as they lifted off with a thrust of the engines, the plane climbing steeply. “All over,” he said. “Hang on if you want to, in case we get a few bumps through the clouds.”

Angela said, “Thanks, Ralph. I’m all right now. It’s just the takeoff I don’t like.”

“I don’t like the bumps,” he admitted.

“I think you’re not frightened at all,” she said. “You’re just saying it to make me feel better.”

They weren’t holding hands anymore. The No Smoking and Fasten Seat Belts signs were switched off above their heads. People around them were relaxing, opening newspapers. There was a rattle as the drinks trolley started on its journey.

“You remember what you said when we took off?” Ralph Maxton reminded her. “If there’s anything wrong and you think I could help, you will ask me, won’t you, Angela?”

“Yes, Ralph, I will.”

He didn’t press her further. He ordered a drink for them. There were English newspapers on board. She tried to read. She felt sick with the baby inside her and heartsick at what lay ahead. Her father and Charlie had to be protected up to the last moment, the facade that Steven was on business kept going till the holiday was over. He hadn’t changed his mind. She wouldn’t change hers. She was sure it would end in disaster.