Everything to Gain and a Secret Affair

  “Have you never thought of leaving him?”

  She shook her head. “He’s a good man, as I just said. I wouldn’t want to hurt him.”

  “What about you, Vanessa? Aren’t you entitled to have a happy relationship with a man?”

  “I don’t think it’s possible to build one’s happiness on someone else’s unhappiness.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “In any case, Peter would fall apart if I left him. I just couldn’t have his pain on my conscience.”

  “Do you have children?”

  “No, sadly we don’t.”

  “How long have you been married?”

  “Four years.”

  “Do you still love him?”

  “I care about him—” She came to a halt, looked thoughtful, finally confided, “Peter’s been in my life for such a long time. We’re good friends, and we have a lot in common. He’s always encouraged me in my work, my career, never stood in my way. He’s a nice person. I like him. I respect him, and I love him. But—”

  “You’re not in love with him, is that what you’re trying to say?”

  “Yes.” Vanessa bit her lip and shook her head. “I mean, how could I be here with you like this if I were?”

  Bill laid his head back against the pillows and closed his eyes. A small sigh escaped, and without opening his eyes, he said softly, “I just wish you’d told me you were married, that’s all.”

  “I wanted to,” Vanessa said. “I intended to, and then we started to have such a good time together. I liked you so much. I wanted to be with you, and I just thought you’d lose interest if you knew I had a husband.”

  He said slowly, “You should have been straightforward with me.”

  “Have you been with me?”

  He sat up swiftly and stared at her. “Yes, I have. There isn’t a woman in my life. You know I’m widowed. My God, the whole world knows I’m widowed. And I haven’t had a really good relationship since Sylvie died. Oh, yes, there’ve been a few women, but I’ve never fallen in love, or had a meaningful relationship since my wife died six years ago. To tell you the truth, I thought that you and I might have something going for us, that this was the beginning of something special. I want a good relationship, Vanessa, I want to have another chance at happiness.” He shrugged. “I guess I was wrong to think it might be with you.”

  Vanessa said nothing, looked down at her hands twisting nervously in her lap.

  The awkward silence grew.

  At last she said, “How do you really feel about me, Bill? Be scrupulously honest.”

  He gave her a hard penetrating stare. “We’ve just made passionate love, and you ask me that?” He gave a short laugh, pursed his lips. “Obviously I’m overwhelmingly attracted to you, turned on by you. I enjoyed making love with you. Let’s face it, we’ve just had wonderful sex. I like being with you. I admire your talent. As I told you in the lobby a short while ago, I’m very taken with you, Vanessa.”

  “And I am with you, Bill. So much so I haven’t really been able to think straight for the last couple of days. All I know is that I just want to be with you. Whenever we can. You’re a foreign correspondent, you’re obviously going to go back to Bosnia or somewhere else, and I have my own career . . .” She shook her head, and tears brimmed in her eyes. “I thought we would see each other whenever we could, be together as often as possible and . . . see what happens.”

  “Let things work themselves out in their own time, is that what you mean?”

  “Yes. Whenever my mother was facing difficulties, she would always say to me, ‘Vanny, life takes care of itself and a lot of other things as well. And usually it’s for the best.’ That’s still her philosophy, I think.”

  Bill looked at her thoughtfully. “So, what you’re saying is that you want to have an affair with me? A secret affair. Because you don’t want your husband to be hurt. Am I correct?”

  “It sounds terrible when you put it that way.”

  “But it is the truth. And as a newsman, I am a seeker of truth.”

  Vanessa shook her head, biting her lip again. Slowly, tears trickled down her cheeks.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, don’t start crying!” he said, and reached for her, pulled her into his arms. He flicked her tears away with his fingertips, then tilted her face to his. Softly, he kissed her on the mouth.

  When he stopped, she said, “Please tell me you’re not angry with me, Bill.”

  “I’m not angry. Only selfish. I always want things my way, like most men. And listen, you haven’t committed a crime. Anyway, why should you stick your neck out for me?” He laughed. “I’m always in harm’s way . . . a bad risk.”

  “Don’t say that!” she cried, her eyes flaring.

  Tightening his grip on her, he brought his face closer to hers and whispered, “I want to be your lover. Now why don’t you take off that robe so that I can start practicing.”

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  It was an extraordinary day, clear, light-filled. A shimmering day. The sky dazzled. It was a perfect blue, unmarred by cloud, and the sun was brilliant above the rippling waters of the lagoon. The air was cool, but not as cold as it had been over the past few days, and the mist had dissipated.

  On this bright Sunday afternoon, Bill and Vanessa walked through the streets and squares for several hours, holding hands, hardly speaking but comfortable in their mutual silence. Both were swept up in the beauty of Venice. They walked on past the Accademia, down the Calle Gambara into the Calle Contarini Corfù, until they came at last to the Fondamenta Priuli-Nani.

  “Of course I remember this area now,” Vanessa said, turning to Bill, smiling up at him as they headed down the street. “That’s the old boatyard of San Trovaso, where gondolas are repaired,” she continued, gesturing to the decrepit-looking buildings ahead of them. “I came here once with my father. He wanted to see the Church of San Trovaso. It’s very old, if I remember correctly.”

  “Yes, it is,” Bill replied. “It was built in the tenth century, and that’s where I’m taking you now, actually. To the church. I want to show you one of my very favorite paintings. It’s by Tintoretto. And incidentally, gondolas are also made at the San Trovaso boatyard, it’s one of the last of the building yards left in Venice.”

  “They’ve all more or less disappeared. So many of the old crafts have become defunct,” she murmured, sounding regretful. “But, thank goodness, glassblowing hasn’t!” she finished with a light laugh, grinning at him.

  They continued on past the boatyard, and walked up over the Ponte delle Meravegie, the bridge of marvels. Within seconds they were approaching the Church of San Trovaso, its cream-colored stone walls and slender bell tower rising up above the trees, a sentinel silhouetted against the cerulean sky.

  After they had entered the church, Vanessa and Bill stood quietly for a moment, adjusting their eyes to the dim light and the overwhelming silence. They both genuflected, and Bill threw Vanessa a swift glance but made no comment, realizing that she also must be a Catholic. They slowly moved forward, walking down the nave toward the altar.

  Immediately, Bill brought Vanessa’s attention to the two paintings hanging on either side of the choir. “Both are by Tintoretto,” he explained. “The last two pictures he ever painted. In 1594. Come on, let me show you the one I love the most.” A moment later they were in front of The Adoration of the Magi, Tintoretto’s great masterpiece.

  “I’ve always liked this particular Tintoretto myself,” Vanessa volunteered. “It’s absolute perfection. The colors, the images, the incredible brushwork.”

  “Wasn’t he marvelous,” Bill said, “A towering genius.” He fell silent, simply stood staring at the picture, rooted to the spot, unable to tear his eyes away.

  At this moment it struck Vanessa that Bill was mesmerized by the painting. Several times she threw him a surreptitious look, but she made no comment, not wanting to break the spell for him; she understood how moved he was by this great wor
k of art.

  Finally dragging his eyes away from the painting, he said, “When I look at this Tintoretto, and the other treasures in Venice, and consider man’s incredible talent, his ability to create incomparable beauty, I can’t help wondering how man can also be the perpetrator of an evil so stupendous it boggles the mind. It’s hard to reconcile the two.”

  “But the two have always coexisted,” Vanessa answered, putting her hand on his arm. “Venice is the total personification of visual beauty. It’s there for us to see, to take pleasure from, wherever we look. The art, the architecture, the many different treasures that have been accumulated here over the centuries, the very design and layout of Venice itself—” She paused for a split second before she added softly, “You have just come out of Bosnia, where you witnessed inhumanity and savagery, cruelty beyond belief. And those images must still be in your mind, Bill. How can you not make comparisons?”

  “You’re right, yes, I know that,” he said, and turning away from the painting at last, he took hold of her arm and led her down the nave, back to the front door of the ancient church. “I suppose the beauty of paintings and music help to make the hard realities of life . . . bearable.”

  “I think so.”

  Once they were outside in the sunlight, Bill blinked and shook off the images of the Balkans war that had momentarily overtaken him. He exclaimed, “It’s such a long time since I’ve taken a gondola up the Grand Canal. Shall we do it, Vanessa? It’s still the most spectacular trip, isn’t it?”

  “Absolutely. And I’d love it. It’s ages since I’ve done it myself, and I guess the Grand Canal personifies Venice, doesn’t it? Besides, I find gondolas a very relaxing way to travel.”

  Bill felt a sudden rush of happiness surging up in him. He knew it was because of Vanessa, her presence by his side. He put his arm around her, hugged her to him. “I’m glad we met, I’m glad we’re here today in Venice. I’m glad we made love last night. I’m glad we have a few more days together.” He stopped, tilted her face to his, and looked at her, a faint smile briefly touching his mouth. “Whatever your circumstances are, Vanessa, you’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “Clandestine though it must be, I want our affair to continue.” His eyes searched hers questioningly.

  She nodded. “So do I. Whenever we can, wherever we can,” she answered, and reached up, threw her arms around his neck, pulled his face to hers, and put her mouth on his. “There,” she added, “sealed with a kiss.”

  He laughed, and so did she, and with their arms wrapped around each other they walked back the way they had come. Retracing their steps past the old boatyard, they went down the narrow streets until they came again to the Campo dell’ Accademia, where Bill hired a gondola to take them back to the Gritti.

  Immediately they were seated, Bill put his arm around Vanessa again and pulled her closer to him, realizing as he did that in only a few days this woman had come to mean so much to him. It didn’t seem possible that he could care so deeply for someone other than Helena or his mother, but he did now. And it was all very sudden at that.

  For her part, Vanessa was thinking similar things, and wondering how her life would ever be the same again. It wouldn’t, she was positive. Not ever again. Because of Bill.

  The two of them sat with their backs to the gondolier, who was in the prow. They were facing St. Mark’s Basin, the vast expanse of water that rolled up to the quay.

  Directly in front of them were the island of San Giorgio, the Church of the Salute, and the Dogana, the beautiful domed customs building. These buildings, known as the three pearls to the entrance of Venice, were turning golden in the late afternoon sunlight.

  “The light of Turner,” Bill said, leaning forward intently, looking at the sky. “Vanessa, do you see the changing light? It’s gone a peculiar yellow, the yellow Turner captured so perfectly on canvas. I’ve always loved the paintings he did of Venice.”

  “So have I. And this view is the very best,” she replied. “The entire city floating on water, the water changing with the light. The whole scene is . . . dreamlike . . .” Vanessa paused, thinking how truly lovely it was. Magical, almost otherworldly. It moved her; she felt the unexpected prick of tears in her throat, touched as she was by the beauty of this city.

  Sky and shifting water merged, golden, then iridescent in the lowering light of the afternoon. All the colors of Venice were reflected now in the Grand Canal as they floated along it, heading for the hotel.

  Fading sunlight caught the cupolas of the Basilica, streaking them to silver, touching the pale colors of the palazzos, giving the pink, terra-cotta, ocher, and powdery yellow a dusky, golden cast. All these colors of La Serenissima blended in a delicate mix, with just the hint of green here and there. And everywhere the sense of blue . . . blues bleeding into watery grays.

  The gondola slid slowly up the Grand Canal, past the ancient palazzos jammed close together, almost higgedly-piggedly, tall and narrow. The houses were built on stilts, just as Venice itself was built on pilings pounded into the sand, silt, and rock centuries ago.

  Sinking, she thought, they say it’s sinking. And it was, very slowly, even though some of the rot had been stopped.

  Vanessa stared at the palazzos, all of them full of priceless treasures, works of art by the great masters, paintings, sculptures, silver and gold objects, tapestries, furniture. How terrible if it all sinks, she thought with a shudder. What a tragedy that would be.

  Bill increased the pressure of his arms around her, and she leaned back against him. She was falling in love with him. She shouldn’t, but she was, and she didn’t know how to stop herself.

  They sat in the bar of the Gritti Palace and had hot chocolate, tiny tea sandwiches, and small, delicious cakes. It was growing dark outside, the bright sunlight of earlier had dulled to leaden gray, and a wind had blown up, but it was warm inside, comfortable in the bar. They were enjoying being together, getting to know each other better.

  At one moment Vanessa murmured, “You haven’t really said where you’re going from here, Bill. Is it Bosnia again?”

  He was silent for a moment and then he nodded, his face suddenly grim. “But only to do a wrap-up. I won’t be there longer than three or four days, thank God.”

  “The war must have been awfully hard to cover . . . I saw such horrors whenever I turned on the television. I can’t imagine what it was like to actually be there.”

  “It was hell.”

  “It affected you . . . I know from the way you spoke with Frank.”

  “Yes, the war did affect me, change me. I’ve been a witness to genocide . . . the first war and genocide since the last war and genocide in Europe. That was in the thirties when the Nazis started persecuting the Jews, exterminating them, along with the gypsies and anyone else they thought needed killing off. I never imagined it could happen again, or if it did, that the world would permit it.” He shook his head and shrugged. “But the world has permitted it, and the civilized world, at that. Excuse me, Vanessa, I shouldn’t use that term. Nobody’s civilized as far as I’m concerned. All any of us have is a thin veneer; scratch that in the right place and a monster will appear.” He gave her a hard look, and went on, “As a newsman I have to be dispassionate, objective and balanced. Like a bystander, watching, in a sense.”

  Vanessa nodded. “Yes, I understand, but that must be very hard for you.”

  “It is now. At one time I could move around at will, from battlefield to battlefield, without being upset or disturbed. Bosnia has altered all that. The savagery, the butchering of innocent, unarmed civilians. My God, it was horrific at times . . . what we all witnessed. There are no words strong enough or bad enough to describe it.”

  Vanessa was silent.

  After a moment she reached out and took hold of his hand, held it tightly in hers, knowing better than to say a word.

  Bill was quiet for some time. He finally said, “I’m going to be doing a special on terr
orism. I have two months to put it together. We’ll start filming in January through February, so that we can air it in March.”

  “That’s why you’re not going to be based in Sarajevo?”

  “Correct. I’ll be traveling through the Middle East.”

  “Will . . .” She tightened her grip on his hand and leaned into him. “Will we be able to meet?”

  “I hope so, darling. I’m counting on it.”

  “Shall we make Venice our place of rendezvous?”

  He squeezed her hand. “I think that’s a brilliant idea.”

  “When are you coming to New York in December?”

  “About the fifteenth. I have two weeks’ vacation due.” He searched her face. “That won’t present a problem, will it, meeting in New York?”

  “No, of course not. And I’ve a favor to ask,” she said, smiling.

  “Then ask it.”

  “Can I meet your daughter?”

  “Do you want to really?”

  “Yes, Bill, I do.”

  “Then you’ve got a date. I’ll take you all to lunch. Helena, my mother, and you. It’ll be great, having my three best girls out on the town with me.”

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  New York, December 1995

  Vanessa Stewart had always prided herself on her honesty. It was not only an honesty with those people who occupied her life, but with herself. For as long as she could remember, she had despised prevaricators and even those who merely half-fudged the truth.

  But now on this icy December day she had to admit to herself that she had not been honest for a long time. At least, not as far as her private life was concerned.

  There was no longer any question in her mind that she had lied to herself about the state of her marriage. And lied to Peter, too, by not forcing him to admit that their marriage was floundering, not working on so many different levels.