TRUE TO MY PROMISE, THE NEXT MORNING I PICKED UP AN ITALIAN phrase book at a newsstand. For the next two days at Global Union headquarters, I made an honest attempt to conquer the first chapter, “Useful Everyday Phrases.” And while I struggled to inject Piacere di conoscerla? (How do you do?) and Sono davvero spiacente (I’m really sorry) into my conversations, I discovered Asher Genzano was right —people really did warm up to me when they realized I was trying to fit into their world.
By the end of the week, I had also approved Asher Genzano’s application. I didn’t want to. I fretted over my uneasiness for hours, then went down to Signora Casale’s office, hoping to use her as a sounding board.
“Something about him is not right,” I said, sliding my legs into the narrow space between her guest chair and her desk. “His residence, for instance. Don’t you find it odd that he lives in a hotel?”
Maura Casale arched her fine brows into triangles. “Why shouldn’t a man live in the building he owns?”
He owned the hotel? I sat back, stunned by the realization that the man who had appeared desperate for a job was apparently as rich as Midas. Roman real estate, I knew, was not inexpensive.
“So why does he want this job?” I whispered the question more to myself than to the personnel director, but Signora Casale took it upon herself to answer.
“Why shouldn’t he want to serve the cause of world peace? He is an honorable man; I myself have interviewed him on three different occasions during the concorso. He is well qualified, he respects Il Presidente, and he yearns to do something good for the world. Are those not good reasons for wanting to work for Unione Globale?”
I could feel my cheeks flushing hotly. “If Il Presidente wants to hire Signor Genzano as a figurehead, why doesn’t he just do it? There is no need to make him go through the concorso. There was no reason for him to sit through that interview with me—”
I stopped as my embarrassment turned to raw fury. Had Asher Genzano been toying with me in that first interview? Perhaps he knew his position in Global Union was secure; most wealthy men got whatever they wanted, particularly when they signed up with charitable organizations. Want to be a vice president? Sure, just sign over a check. Want a building named in your honor? Our pleasure. Just write a check, and we’ll do whatever you want . . .
“Signor Genzano,” Maura Casale was flushing now, scarlet stains appearing on her cheeks as she stared at me with glittering eyes, “has never even met Il Presidente. He has asked for nothing and received no special treatment. From what I can tell, he wants only to work with Unione Globale as a humble interpreter, as any man committed to the cause of peace.”
My mouth dropped open, surprised again at this unexpected turn of events. A wealthy man who wanted to be treated like everyone else? Asher Genzano was more extraordinary than I had imagined.
Helpless to halt my embarrassment, I pressed my hands to my burning cheeks. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, feeling like a complete and total failure. I had misread every clue. His elusive answers to my questions were not an effort to hide some unsavory aspect of his past; he must have meant only to disguise his wealth and position. He needn’t have worried. I knew less than nothing about wealthy Roman families.
He wanted to work for peace, Signora Casale said. I should have accepted the man’s desire at face value, but we Americans are cynical by nature. Ninety-eight percent of the people I knew in Manhattan were quick to sign on for do-gooder causes and just as quick to bail if no photographers or celebrities clambered around to add sparkle to an event. No one did anything without regard for personal gain . . . but for the life of me, I couldn’t see what Asher Genzano would gain from following Santos Justus around the world like an obedient puppy. Some people, I supposed, did enjoy being part of a powerful person’s entourage, but Asher Genzano had not impressed me as a hanger-on.
Signora Casale must have taken my silence for hesitation, for she slid reports from the office of the local carabinieri across her desk. “You’ll see that Signor Genzano has no arrest record and no complaints lodged against him,” she said. In a final effort to convince me, she followed the police reports with a yellow sheet of paper.
I picked it up. “What is this?”
“Intelligence test results.” Her expression was locked in neutral, though I suspected she found my continued reticence rather annoying. “Signor Genzano scored a 148.”
I made a face at the test results. So, the Wealthy Man I Would Not Hire tested well into the genius category. Add to that his savant’s gift for language, and the sum equaled one convincing truth: Maura Casale thought I was a fool.
Knowing when I was beaten, I had dropped the report onto her desk and reached for his file. “I’ll approve him. But I’ll keep an eye on him too.”
And as I signed my name to his employment record, I told myself no harm would come from it. Something about Asher Genzano rang false in my ears, but I could see nothing in his character or manner to suggest he would be anything but a faithful and extraordinarily competent employee for Global Union.
Global Union, I discovered in the following weeks, could boast of a plethora of competent and faithful employees. Due to the rigors of the concorso, the organization hired only the crème de la crème, and peace-seeking idealists had flocked to Rome from several European nations. Each day I saw new faces in the cafeteria and met new applicants in my office. Il Peacemaker, the organization’s official newsletter, reported that chapters of Global Union had been established in each of the fifteen European Union countries, and additional national chapters would be established within six months. By the end of the year, the editor enthusiastically prophesied, every nation on earth would have at least one chapter of Global Union operating within its borders.
One morning in the cafeteria, Reverend Synn sat at my table and sipped a cappuccino, pointing out new employees as we talked. “They are the lifeblood of the world’s future,” he said, nodding to a pretty young English girl who had been hired as a receptionist earlier in the week. “They will straighten the paths our forefathers have made crooked.”
Accustomed by this time to his political grandiloquence, I smiled and let him talk. Like all vast organizations, I had discovered that in some ways Global Union was a world unto itself. The organization even had a few laws—albeit unwritten laws. First among them was a commandment never to speak ill of Santos Justus or Darien Synn. Anyone who dared question an order from the seventh floor or a suggestion from the sixth earned an icy stare, if not an outright rebuke, from the nearest bright-eyed idealist.
Nor, I noticed, did anyone speak of nations after Justus gave a speech about how the world was one unity and nations only artificial boundaries designed to keep people apart. After that, I heard no more whispers referring to me as l’Americana. My landlady and her neighbors seemed fascinated with the United States and things American, but everyone within the walls of Global Union apparently wanted to be one big, chummy family.
Justus wanted to bring people together not only on an international scale, but also within his own organization. Every Wednesday morning, at 10:00 sharp, every office emptied for the weekly convocation. From the lowest receptionist to Justus himself, the employees of Global Union gathered in the third-floor cafeteria. While employees filed in to sit around the luncheon tables or stand along the walls, Signora Casale took the microphone and led the gathering in an energetic Italian chorus. Her chesty alto echoed along the walls, and only after I had become partially conversant in Italian did I realize we were singing, “Peace, Peace, follow me to peace! We’ll win the world; we’ll save the children; we’ll do all things through peace!”
An energetic pep talk, usually given by Il Direttore, followed the singing, then Rico Triccoli, the director of Global Union’s international chapters, stood and announced how many new chapters had been chartered in the past week. Fervent applause followed his report, and then, if we were lucky enough to catch Il Presidente in town, Santos Justus himself would stand and speak for five or ten minutes.
I used to think of myself as somewhat jaded—when you live in Manhattan you tend to see and hear the best and worst of everything, including orators. I’ve had the privilege of hearing speeches by everyone from Reagan, the Great Communicator, to Clinton, the weepy “I feel your pain” president, so I really didn’t expect Justus to move me in any particular way. But I must admit, the man had a gift. Like Reagan, he could stir hearts with star-spangled fervency; like Clinton, he could tell a story about a child in war-torn Somalia and leave his audience in tears. He spoke of hope, of peace, and of mutual respect and love. He spoke of the power of dreams and of the destructiveness of despair. But he never, I noticed, spoke of God. Was he trying to avoid a divisive topic? I couldn’t tell.
In a city famous for being the home of the Holy See, I thought it odd that no one at Global Union ever referred to the Vatican. The pope and his vast legion of employees and guards affected the city in myriad ways—tourists flocked to St. Peter’s, religious pilgrims knelt before statues and prayed in the ancient churches, and nearly every night a television newscaster reported the Holy Father’s whereabouts and remarked upon his health. I myself had seen the great white helicopter that routinely transported the pope from his heliport in the Vatican Gardens to his vacation home at Castel Gandolfo in the Italian hillside. Despite the average Roman’s indifference to papal trappings, the sight of that white helicopter was enough to stop pedestrians on the street and inspire a few to cross themselves in reverence.
Outside the Global Union headquarters, I saw many signs of religious devotion. Inside the headquarters, I looked for signs of fervent belief and found none. The lack of religious affiliation didn’t bother me; it just struck me as odd. How could you live next to the head of the largest church in the world and not be affected by it?
I broached the topic with Maura Casale one day at lunch. We were eating outside in the courtyard, and the whirling white helicopter passed over our heads in a slow loop, then disappeared behind a stand of trees. I pointed in the direction of the Vatican and made a casual remark about how much she must enjoy being near the heart of the world’s church.
A blasé expression crossed Maura’s face. “The pope is valued for economic reasons only,” she said. “Many people yearn for the coveted prize of a Vatican job. The pay is low, but the perks are very good—if you are willing to sacrifice.”
“Sacrifice went out a long time ago, signora.”
The older woman rolled her eyes. “Not here. To work for the Vatican, you have to adhere to an antiquated moral code and list of prohibitions. No cohabitation or pregnancy without marriage. No abortion. No skirts above the knee. No bare arms in the basilica. Vatican employment is slavery disguised as religious honor.”
I stared at the gleaming dome of St. Peter’s. “I thought all Romans loved the pope. I used to watch him on television, waving to huge crowds in the square—”
“Tourists,” Signora Casale spit out the word, then opened her mouth and shoveled in a generous forkful of gnocchi.
I fell silent and quietly adjusted my preconceptions. I had imagined Italy a devout and religious country, but I was beginning to understand that many Romans did not even pretend to practice their religion. I later learned that the United States actually has a higher percentage of professing believers within its population than Italy.
Italians were not as simple or as obvious as I had first imagined they were. Yet, after three weeks among them, I had to admit that I enjoyed them.
I’ve always enjoyed a challenge.
Six weeks after my arrival in Rome, I met with Reverend Synn for an evaluation of the concorso process. It was October 31, the day before the national holiday of Tutti i Santi, or All Saints’ Day. Synn had requested the meeting before the holiday to “review our employment records and see where we stand.” I interpreted that as “if we should be rid of you or keep you around for a while.”
We sat at a concrete table in the piazza outside the Global Union building. The sky was a faultless wide curve of blue over our heads, and the sun felt good on my face. It was eleven o’clock, the hour of the espresso break, and several Global Union employees milled around us at a respectful distance.
“I must compliment you, signorina; you have done a marvelous job,” Synn said, sniffing with satisfaction as he crossed his thick arms on the table. “All departments report complete satisfaction with their employees. We can truly change the world with such people.”
The breeze freshened, and I wrapped my jacket closer around me. “How is Asher Genzano working out?”
“Ah, Signor Genzano is hard at work translating several of Il Presidente’s speeches. I tried to get him to use our computer translation program, but he insists upon doing them manually. He has a quick mind, though, and I must admit his work is far superior to the computer’s.”
“I knew he would be a hard worker, but . . .” Weary of supposings about the inexplicable Asher Genzano, I let my voice trail off.
A gleam of interest flickered in Synn’s eyes. “You have doubts about his character?”
“Not really. He is an honorable man, certainly, and definitely capable of being deeply committed to a cause. But there was something about his eyes . . .”
Blinded by the bright morning sun, I shaded my eyes with my hand and studied the memory of that night in the coffee shop. He had been considerate of me, helpful to the Somali woman, kind to the woman from the Philippines—who, I now realized, had recognized him as her employer. And yet there had been no haughtiness in his expression, no rebuke for the harried mother, and no judgment of me, the American who would not hire him. In his eyes I had seen infinite patience, remarkable for a man in any culture, but especially unusual in Italy . . .
The silence lengthened, then Il Direttore prodded me back to attention. “What about his eyes?”
“I don’t know.” I lowered my hand. “His eyes don’t seem to match his face, I suppose. He is a young man, but his eyes seem old, as if he has seen all the world’s sufferings. But he did say he has traveled in many foreign countries.”
Synn nodded slowly. “Perhaps his travels led him to understand the heartbreak of war . . . and ultimately brought him to us.” He gentled his voice. “There are many things, signorina, that have the power to age a man—sorrow, loss, and fear. And poverty, of course.”
I bit my tongue, silencing a tart comment about Asher Genzano’s noteworthy lack of poverty, while Synn’s eyes went soft and gray. His mouth softened, and I knew he was on the verge of making one of his improve-the-world speeches. Glancing at my pocket watch, I mumbled something about needing to meet with Signora Casale to see if any new applications had been entered into the system.
“There are no new applicants,” Synn said, his eyes still focused on some thought I couldn’t discern. “We have filled all our present positions.”
I digested this piece of information in silence. If there were no other positions to be filled, why was I still in Rome? Why had they asked me to set aside six months if they only needed me six weeks?
I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could utter a sound, Synn’s age-spotted hand fell over mine. “Il Presidente has asked me to invite you to dine with him today. We will eat lunch in his office, if that suits your schedule.”
Too surprised to do anything else, I nodded in agreement.
As the hour approached noon, I peered into the tiny mirror of my compact to be sure I didn’t have lipstick or coffee stains on my teeth. My mind had been roiling with questions ever since Synn’s invitation, and I had come to the conclusion that this luncheon meeting was probably a token gesture of appreciation. Justus would thank me for my hard work and send me on my way with a considerably smaller fee than we had originally negotiated. I couldn’t ask for more, however, if they no longer needed me.
At five minutes until twelve I stood, smoothed my skirt, and raked my fingers through the short layers of my hair, hoping I could evoke some semblance of the fashionably tousled look I saw on so many women in Rome. I paused at the doorway as another possibility reared its head. What if Justus didn’t want to send me home? The quick question needed a thoughtful answer. What if he wanted to keep me on staff permanently? He had once mentioned the possibility of my working with him in Brussels, but since he never mentioned it again, I had dismissed the idea.
I rehearsed a dozen polite replies to that question as I rode the elevator up to the seventh floor. Thank you for the honor, Il Presidente, but I have a business at home. Or, I have tremendously enjoyed my time with your organization, Signor Justus, but I have too many ties in the United States—no, that reply broke one of the Global Union commandments: Don’t mention a country. Better to claim family ties. Though I had never heard anyone mention Justus’s family, the man had to have one.
As the elevator opened on the seventh floor, I stepped out into a space so bright it literally hurt my eyes. The floor here was white marble, the wall ahead of me clear glass, and the two walls at my sides were covered in full-length mirrors. The bright sunlight from the full-length window poured into the space with dazzling intensity, and for a moment I was too overcome to speak.
The sound of polite laughter cut through my bewilderment. I turned in time to see Reverend Synn coming through a glass door to the right of the elevator. Beyond the door I could see a secretary’s desk.
“It is a bit bright when one first arrives,” he said, extending his hand. “Come, the dining room is this way.”
I followed him into a chamber unlike any corporate dining room I had ever seen. The walls were painted with a detailed garden scene; the cloth-covered ceiling elaborately gathered like a sultan’s tent. A waiter in a white jacket and black bow tie stood to one side and bowed respectfully as Reverend Synn pulled out my chair.
A sense of unease crept into my mood like a wisp of smoke. “Signor Justus is joining us, right?”
“Of course.” Synn took the chair next to me and gestured toward the only other remaining seat. “He will be with us shortly.” We sat there for a long moment, pretending to listen to the odd chant playing on the sound system, then Il Presidente came through another door, this one disguised by the multicolored mural.
“A thousand apologies for my tardiness,” he said, the warmth of his smile echoing in his voice. Synn stood when Justus entered the room, and the two embraced and exchanged kisses on the cheek. Justus took my hand when I stood too, then carelessly pressed a kiss into my palm. “Ah, Signorina Fischer. You have made the past few weeks so pleasurable. I have not heard one complaint from any of the department heads. The new personnel are all we could have asked, and more.”
I thanked him, we sat, and the waiter began to serve the first course, a pasta-laden bean soup that smelled wonderful.
Shaking out his napkin, Justus looked at me and smiled like a child with a secret. “You’re probably wondering why I asked to see you today.”
I nodded and placed my napkin in my lap, a little surprised that Il Presidente would break the Italian prohibition of discussing business at mealtime. But if he wanted to live dangerously . . .
“I am curious.” I kept my tone light and casual, in case he decided to steer the conversation away from our work. “It is not every day I am invited to dine with Il Presidente.”
The sound of his laughter warmed the room. “Indeed, sometimes I wish I could duplicate myself many times over and spend time with each employee, but”—he shrugged—“such things are not possible, at least not yet. Perhaps when technology has improved a bit, my image can appear in many places at once. Until then, however, I shall simply have to work with my excellent deputies.”
He lifted his wine glass and extended it toward Synn. “To you, dear Darien, for all you have meant to me. The future looks brighter than ever. With you at my side, the world cannot help but be a better place.”
I lifted my glass as well but couldn’t quite agree with the exuberant toast. Such a toast at home, coupled with the enthusiastic and physical greeting I’d witnessed, would have caused me to wonder about the kind of relationship existing between these two. But in Italy, men routinely greeted each other with loud exclamations, embraces, and kisses.
I shrugged away my concern and sipped from my glass. Justus picked up his spoon and began to eat from the bowl of aromatic pasta e fagioli, so the director and I followed suit.
“Signorina,” Justus said, a thin smile on his lips, “Signor Synn informs me that all our current positions are filled, in part due to your hard work and earnest effort. We are grateful for your assistance.”
I swallowed and smiled my thanks, bracing for the dismissal to come.
Justus scooped up a spoonful of soup and held it, regarding me for a moment. “We would now like to ask you, signorina, to move into another area.”
I reached for my glass and struggled to overcome my surprise. “What did you have in mind?”
“Actually”—a dark flush mantled Justus’s cheeks as he lowered his gaze to his soup bowl—“we had you in mind for this project from the beginning but wanted to be certain of your motivation. We can only trust those who are loyal, signorina. But in the last six weeks you have proved your dedication.”
A chorus of I told you sos began to chant in my brain. I had wondered why Santos Justus would bring me in for something so basic as personnel management. He had wanted me for something else from the first, so he must be in legal trouble or facing some sort of lawsuit.
I sipped from my glass, then smoothed my features and lowered my glass to the table. “Why don’t you tell me what the problem is?” I caught Synn’s eye and smiled. “I must admit, gentlemen, that I thought our arrangement a bit odd. Why don’t you tell me what you really want from me.”
“It is a most delicate situation,” Justus began.
“Most legal cases are.”
Justus gave me an upper smile, polite and reserved. “It is not a legal case. The situation revolves around my work in the international arena.”
I caught my breath as a thrill shot through me. The Roman connection had been exciting enough, but to work on a truly international level . . . I had only dared to dream of such possibilities.
Justus lowered his spoon to the table, then tented his fingers and looked directly at me. “As you have probably heard, signorina, I represent Italia in the Western European Union. Within the WEU there now exists an underground effort to demilitarize our organization, but those who would have us ground our planes and retire our armed forces have not considered the assets of a strong defense.”
“History has shown that strong nations do not have to be aggressive nations,” Synn interjected. “We do not want the WEU to lay down its arms. We are not warmongers; we are committed to peace. But total disarmament would be foolish.”
“Three of the ten nations allied with us,” Justus continued, “have elected new leadership to the WEU, and these three have formed an ad hoc committee whose purpose is to initiate wholesale and complete disarmament. Officially they deny this, of course, for a formal partnership with such a purpose would violate the bylaws of the WEU.”
“But we have our suspicions,” Synn said, his blue eyes sinking into nets of wrinkles as he smiled.
“We have our informers,” Justus added. His eyes were flat and unreadable in the dim light. “We know they are making plans to influence the other nations to vote against us. Even as president, I could do nothing to overcome a majority vote. I am hoping they will not wield enough influence to do any real harm, but I do not know these newcomers well. Thus far they have refused all my invitations to meet and talk through our differences.”
Both men had stopped eating. An unnatural silence prevailed as they stared at me, waiting for—what?
“I’m not sure I understand how I can help you.” I spoke calmly, but with that eerie sense of detachment that comes with an awareness of impending risk. “I know very little about international politics and would not feel comfortable—”
“You know people,” Justus interrupted. “And in the last few weeks you have learned a great deal about Europeans in particular. You would be able, wouldn’t you, to watch the interaction of these men from a distance and read their body language? Would you, for instance, be able to tell if they are speaking truthfully or purposefully being secretive?”
I faltered in the silence engulfing me. “Perhaps. But it would be very difficult, and impossible if I could not understand their language. An individual reveals a great deal in his choice of words. Body language alone, no matter how expressive, cannot paint an entire picture. I would not want to make a mistake in something as important as this.”
“We would, of course, send Signor Genzano with you as interpreter.” A glint of wonder filled Justus’s eyes. “I must compliment you, signorina, on your approval of that gentleman. He is a wonder! Last week I spoke to a tourist contingent from Zimbabwe, and he translated every word. I have yet to discover a language he cannot speak.”
I smiled, anxious to abandon the subject of Asher Genzano. “May I ask how, where, and when I am to read these men from the WEU? I must warn you: They are likely to avoid sensitive topics if they are speaking in a public arena.”
“You are not to worry, signorina.” Synn showed his teeth in an expression that was not a smile. “Everything will be taken care of, and you will not be noticed in the gathering. But say nothing of this to anyone. This is—how would you say it?—top-secret work. No one will think your presence remarkable, nor will they know Global Union is involved.”
Justus touched Synn’s arm, effectively taking control of the conversation. “The next public meeting is in two days, in Brussels. These men are not only members of the WEU, but also of the European Union, and they will be present for a public councilors’ meeting on Thursday. That is where you will observe them.”
The thought of a clandestine operation brought a frisson of excitement. I had worked trials for clients suspected of industrial spying, but never had anything seemed as stimulating as what Justus and Synn were now proposing. And it would be safe, for Synn had said I would be watching in a public gathering.
“This isn’t”—I hesitated, anxious to select the right word—“illegal, is it?”
My question seemed to amuse both men. “Of course not,” Justus assured me. “You will be attending an assembly where every word is intended for the record. And you may consider your work an effort to reach our goal of international security and peace. If we are to live in safety, we must know what our opposition is thinking. I assure you, signorina, you will not find yourself in a compromising situation.”
I blinked at that comment, not certain how reading people would help bring about world peace, but Justus picked up a little silver bell on the table and shook it. Within a moment, the waiter appeared to remove our largely untouched bowls of soup.
Justus leaned forward and pressed his palms together, smiling at me over his fingertips. “You will love the next course—baccalà. I believe the English word is codfish.”
I dipped my head and gave him what I hoped was an appreciative smile, though my thoughts had nothing whatsoever to do with food.
I woke with the sun on Wednesday morning, then remembered that it was November 1 and a legal holiday. All Saints’ Day, Signora Casale had told me, had been observed since the seventh century, when the Pantheon was consecrated as the Church of the Blessed Virgin and All Martyrs.
I cared nothing for churches or saints, but I was grateful for the day off. I pulled myself out from under the covers and fumbled for the phone on the bedstand. I couldn’t wait to tell Kurt about Justus’s latest proposition, and my excitement seemed to justify the exorbitant cost of an overseas call.
I glanced at the clock as the phone clicked in my ear. Seven in the morning in Rome was one in the morning in New York—late, but not so late that Kurt would be dead to the world. I knew he kept late hours on the weekends, so if he had already gone to bed, odds were good that he hadn’t been asleep long.
I shivered in anticipation when the phone finally began to ring. He’d be so surprised to hear from me! Though I had e-mailed him nearly every day, filling my messages with details of life in Rome and describing my colorful coworkers, I had not yet managed to telephone him at home. The time difference made it difficult to catch him, and the expense was another consideration. Though Kurt could easily afford to call me, I wanted to be financially responsible until Rory and I safely pulled Fischer Consulting out of the red.
On the third ring, I heard the muffled sounds of someone fumbling with the receiver, then a husky hello.
A woman’s voice.
I felt my breath being suddenly whipped away. Had I misdialed?
Obeying an instinct born of perverse pride, I resorted to subterfuge: “May I speak to Dr. Welton, please? This is his service calling.”
I held my breath, hoping the woman would complain or curse at my mistake, but then I heard more fumbling sounds and a woman saying, “Kurt, it’s for you.”
I nearly dropped the phone as something inside me deflated and began to drain away. Even the soft, reassuring sound of Kurt’s greeting could not stop the nauseating sinking of despair that flowed from my heart.
I probably should have hung up. I should have replaced the phone and gone back to bed, letting my subconscious wrestle with the problem in my dreams. My clients would have expected that reaction; they always said I was unflappable in a crisis. But hurt and pride took the reins of my tongue and whipped it into an abrupt fury.
“Kurt!” Steely anger edged my voice. “Who is with you?”
“Claudia?” I heard surprise, alarm, and a note of panic in his reply. I closed my eyes, wishing I could see him, wanting to read the evidence of guilt and betrayal on his face. Then again, if he was leaning over this woman in an effort to reach the bedside phone, perhaps I was better off not seeing him. I’d never be able to shake that image out of my memory.
I shivered in the coolness of my bedroom. “Kurt, the engagement is off.”
“Hold on a minute, Claude. Surely we can talk this out when you come back to New York.”
“Is she a patient, Kurt? Is this some sort of new therapy—for you?” Seething with anger and humiliation, I threw the words at him like stones, not really caring if they made sense or not.
“Claudia, be reasonable. You were planning to be away for a very long time.”
“No.” A tremor filled my voice, and I closed my eyes, hating the weak sound of it. “I was planning to be married for a very long time. But if you can’t be faithful for six weeks, I can’t give you a lifetime.”
“Aw, Claude—”
“Good-bye, Kurt.” I slammed the phone down, then wrapped my arms around my knees and rested my head against them, realizing that for the first time in the length of our relationship, Kurt’s blue eyes hadn’t been able to dazzle me into overlooking his blunder.
Those eyes—would they ever look at me again?
“Buck up,” I told myself. “This is a good thing. You learned the truth before it was too late.”
Apparently, my charming Kurt was about as steadfast as a wall of mud—and I ought to be thanking my lucky stars. A man like that, Kirsten would say, wasn’t worth the time and trouble it would take to train him as a husband. Good riddance to bad trouble. I would be better off without him.
I fell over onto the bed, burying my face in the feather pillow. With one phone call, my plans for the future had evaporated. I no longer had a fiancé in New York, a date for Lincoln Center, or someone to share Chinese with on long, leisurely weekends.
I rolled over and looked at the diamond winking on my left hand. With a shuddering sigh, I pulled it from my finger and dropped it on the nightstand by the bed.
Never had I felt so alone.