“Yes . . .” Vanessa hesitated and then, noticing Bill’s beaming face, she went on more confidently, “We spent Thanksgiving together.”
“The only three Americans in Venice on that particular day,” Bill interjected. “So we had no alternative but to celebrate together. And a good time was had by all.”
“I’d like to go to Venice,” Helena announced, looking from her father to her grandmother. “Can I?”
“One day, sweetheart,” Bill said. “We’ll take you when you’re a bit older.”
“Do you work with my daddy?” Helena asked, zeroing in on Vanessa.
“No, I don’t,” Vanessa answered. “I’m not in television, Helena. I’m a glass designer.”
The child’s smooth brow furrowed. “What’s that?”
“I design objects, lovely things for the home, which are made in glass. In Venice.”
“Oh.”
Vanessa had been carrying a small shopping bag when she arrived, and this she had placed with her handbag on the floor. Now she reached for it, took out a gift tied with a large pink bow, and announced, “This is for you, Helena.”
The child took it, held it in her hands, staring at the prettily wrapped present. “What is it?”
“Something I made for you.”
“Can I open it now, Daddy?”
“Yes, but what do you say first?”
“Thank you, Vanessa.” Helena untied the ribbon, took off the paper, and then lifted the lid off the box.
“It’s quite fragile,” Vanessa warned. “Lift it out of the tissue paper gently.”
Helena did as she was bidden, held the glass object in her hands carefully, her eyes wide. It was a twisted, tubular prism that narrowed to a point. Its facets caught and held the light, reflecting the colors of the rainbow. “Oh, it’s beautiful,” the child gasped in delight.
“It’s an icicle. An icicle of many colors, and I made it specially for you, Helena.”
“Thank you,” Helena repeated, continuing to hold the icicle, moving it so that the glass caught the light.
“It is very beautiful,” Dru murmured, turning to Vanessa. “You’re a very talented artist.”
“Thank you.”
Bill said, “May I look at it, Helena?”
“Yes, Dad. Be careful. Vanessa says it’s fragile.”
“I will,” he murmured, his eyes smiling at Vanessa as he took the icicle. “This is quite wonderful,” he said, and then nodded when the waiter brought the champagne in a bucket of ice. “You can open it now, please,” he said.
After the glass icicle was returned to its box and put on the floor next to Helena’s chair, and the wine had been poured, Bill lifted his flute. “Happy Christmas, everyone.”
“Happy Christmas,” they all responded.
Helena took a sip of her Shirley Temple and put it down on the table. Turning, she stared hard at Vanessa, and, with undisguised inquisitiveness, she asked, “Are you Daddy’s girlfriend?”
Taken aback by the child’s candor, Vanessa was speechless for a moment.
Bill answered for her. “Yes, she is, Helena.” He smiled at his little daughter, then looked over her head at his mother, raising a brow eloquently.
Drucilla Fitzgerald nodded her approval. And she did approve of this pretty young woman whom she had known for only twenty minutes. There was something about Vanessa that was special; she could tell that, being the good judge of character that she was. Vanessa was to be encouraged, Dru decided. Anyone who could bring this look of happiness to her son’s face had her vote of confidence. He had been so lonely after Sylvie’s death. And morose for years. She had not seen him so buoyant, spirited, and full of good cheer for the longest time. Suddenly, she felt as if a weight had been lifted off her shoulders.
“Let’s order lunch,” Bill said. “Do you know what you want, Pumpkin?”
“Yes, Daddy. I’d like to have eggs with the muffin, like we did last time.”
“Eggs Benedict,” Dru clarified. “I’d love it, too, but I don’t think I’d better. Not with my cholesterol. I suppose I’ll have to settle for crab cakes.”
Bill looked at Vanessa. “Do you know what you want?”
“I’ll have the same as your mother, Bill, thank you.”
“And I’ll keep Helena company, go for the Eggs Benedict,” he said.
Helena touched Vanessa’s arm. “Are you going to marry Daddy?”
Vanessa was further startled by the child’s outspoken question, and by her precocity. She glanced swiftly at Bill.
Dru sat back in her chair, observing the three of them.
Bill grinned at Helena and said, “You ask too many questions, Pumpkin, just like Uncle Frank does sometimes. And we don’t know yet whether we’re going to get married or not . . . we need to spend more time together, get to know each other better.”
Helena nodded.
Bill went on, “But you and Gran will be the first to know if we do. I promise you.”
Later, as Bill helped Vanessa into a cab, he whispered, “Not a bad idea my kid had, eh?”
“Not a bad idea at all,” Vanessa replied.
“Take this, darling,” he said, pressing something into her hand.
“What is it?” she asked, looking down at it, realizing that it was a key. “What’s this for?”
“The suite I booked at the Plaza. For us. Suite 902. Can we meet for a drink later tonight? Say around nine?”
“But of course,” she said and slipped the key into her bag.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
Venice, January 1996
It had been raining all afternoon, hard, driving rain that was still coming down in an endless stream. The sky was the color of anthracite, pitted here and there with threatening black clouds, and below her the Grand Canal was swollen, looked as if it might over-flow at any moment.
Vanessa turned away from the window and moved into the room, shivering slightly. Although Bill had turned up the heat earlier, when she had first arrived from the airport there had been a chill in the air. It was a dampness that seemed to permeate her bones. She tightened the belt on the bathrobe she was wearing and shrugged further into it as she huddled in a chair near the radiator.
Vanessa was glad to be back in Venice with Bill. It was the first time they had seen each other since Christmas. He had left New York at the end of December, to travel through the Middle East and Europe. Tel Aviv, Jerusalem, Amman, Beirut, Ankara, and Athens were some of the cities on his list. He was busy preparing his special on international terrorism for CNS; time was of the essence since it had been scheduled to air early in March.
Bill had arrived at the Gritti Palace a day earlier than Vanessa, flying in from Athens the night before just as she was leaving New York. They would have five days together in their favorite city. She had work to do out at the glass foundry on Murano. Bill was going to polish his script for the show, and they would be together in the afternoons and evenings.
A smile touched her mouth as she thought of Bill and her love for him. He meant more to her than she had ever imagined possible. He was the man of her life. For the rest of her life. They were meant to be together, and there was nothing that could keep them apart. She knew that now.
A small sigh escaped as she thought of the past few weeks. Apart from seeing Bill, meeting his mother and Helena, December had been a ghastly month for her. Peter had stayed in London longer than he had intended, and after his return to Manhattan he had left almost immediately for Los Angeles. He had been away so much she had barely had a chance to discuss their private life, and Christmas had been miserable for the most part.
Finally, early in January, she had cornered him one evening when he returned from the office earlier than usual. Endeavoring to be as gentle as possible, while displaying no weakness whatsoever, Vanessa had told him she wanted a divorce.
Peter had reacted badly, overreacted really, and had been adamant that they remain married. Even though he had agreed, in the end, tha
t their relationship was no longer what it had once been, he nonetheless refused even to consider divorcing. Very simply, he balked at the idea and wouldn’t listen to her. At least not that particular evening.
Vanessa had come to realize that there was only one thing to do, and that was to get on with her life, lead it as she saw fit, and be independent. Ten days before leaving on this trip to Venice, she had taken her courage in both hands and left Peter, moving all of her clothes and possessions into the loft in Soho.
The loft had once been an apartment before she had turned it into a studio-office, and it had a good-sized working kitchen, a full bathroom, plus a guest toilet. Once she had purchased a sofa bed and installed it in the back storage room, turning this into a bedroom, the loft had become a comfortable place to live. Most important, it had made Peter realize just how determined she was to end their marriage. Her departure had a tremendous impact on him; he at last understood how serious she was about a divorce.
As her mother had said to her, “Actions make more of a statement than words ever could, Vanny, and it’s best to end this now, while you’re both still young enough to start all over again, find new partners.” Both of her parents had been very supportive of her decision to leave Peter. However, she had not told them about Bill, deeming it wiser to keep her own counsel at this moment.
Vanessa heard Bill’s key in the lock and glanced at the door as he came in. Getting up, she went to him, her face full of smiles.
He had gone downstairs a few minutes earlier to pick up a fax which had arrived from New York. Now he waved it and said, “Neil Gooden and Jack Clayton love the footage so far. Neil says he can’t wait to see the rest of it.” Bill handed her the fax. “Here, read it yourself, darling.”
She scanned the two pages, digested everything, and handed it back to him. “Congratulations, Bill. From what Neil says, you’ve worked miracles and in less than three weeks. Aren’t you thrilled he thinks it’s going to be a smash?”
“From his mouth to God’s ears,” Bill said with a huge grin, and putting his arm around her shoulders he walked her over to the sofa.
“I do think it’s coming together, though. I just need to cover two more cities and then it’s a wrap, as far as the field reporting is concerned. When you go back to New York, I’ll head for Paris, work there a couple of days with my crew and the producer. Then we’ll all go on to Northern Ireland, make Belfast our last stop. Incidentally, I’ve finally come up with a good title.”
“What is it?”
“I’m thinking of calling the special Terrorism: The Face of Evil. What’s your feeling about it?”
“I think it sounds good. And it says exactly what you mean.”
He nodded. “Yes, I guess it does. What I’ve managed to do is cover terrorism around the world. I’ve been filming interviews with experts, and some terrorists who are in jail in Israel. I’m backing up the new stuff with footage of past acts of terrorism, from the 1972 killing of the Olympic athletes and Lord Mountbatten’s murder by the IRA to the Lockerbie crash, the World Trade Center bombing, and the Oklahoma City explosion. I’ve endeavored to make it very personal, very intimate. I want it to hit home, touch the average American. I’ll be using some interviews I did with survivors of terrorism, and relatives of victims of terrorists. I’m quite gratified by the way it’s come together.” Bill got up, walked across to the mini bar, and took a bottle of mineral water from it. “Do you want anything, Vanessa?”
She shook her head.
Bill strode back to the sofa, sat down next to her. After taking a sip of water, he placed the bottle on the coffee table and placed his arm around her. “Moving into the loft was a very good idea, Vanessa. It’s shown Peter how serious you are about a divorce.”
“Yes, it has. He phoned me yesterday, just as I was leaving for Kennedy. And while he didn’t actually agree to a divorce, he did sound more amenable, if a little crushed. I have the feeling he’s beginning to accept the idea.”
“That’s a relief.” Bill looked at her intently. “Did you tell him about me? About us?”
“No, I didn’t, Bill. I didn’t think it was necessary. And anyway, it would be like a red flag to a bull. Very inflammatory.”
“I don’t care if he knows, you know. I’m a big boy. I can look after myself.”
“Yes, but why rub salt in the wound? Anyway, Peter really has come to accept how bad our relationship has been for the last few years . . . I prefer to leave it at that.”
“Whatever you say, sweetheart, you’re the boss.”
She gave him the benefit of a loving smile.
He leaned closer, kissed her on the mouth. “The concierge just told me Venice will be flooded by seven o’clock. No Harry’s Bar tonight, I’m afraid. We’ll have to eat here.”
“That’s fine, Bill. The restaurant downstairs is good.”
“Oh, but I thought we would have room service, eat here in the suite.”
“Yes, if you want, I think it’s more comfortable anyway, and I don’t have to get dressed.”
He nodded and reached for her. “My thought precisely.”
“You once suggested that we make Venice our point of rendezvous,” Bill said to her much later that evening, after they had made love, eaten dinner, and made love again. “And I think that’s a great idea. It’s going to be very convenient for me.”
They were in bed and Vanessa lay within the circle of his arms. She swiveled her eyes to meet his. “What do you mean?”
“When I’ve finished the special on terrorism, I’m being assigned to the Middle East. I’ll be based either in Israel or Lebanon, that’s up to me. But whichever it is, I can fly straight up to Venice. It’s an easy trip. I’ll try to be here whenever you’re working at the foundry in Murano, if only for a couple of days, or a long weekend.”
Her face lit up. “Oh, Bill, that’ll be wonderful, being able to see you every month. Well, more or less. Why the Middle East, though?”
“I didn’t want to go back to Bosnia, as you know, even though there’s trouble there again. There always will be, too, if you ask me. And the peace accords are very fragile, not likely to last, especially if the UN troops leave. Still, I wanted out, and Jack Clayton was aware of that ages ago. So he asked me if I’d like to go back to the Middle East to cover the whole area. I know it well, and Frankie’s in Lebanon. So it’ll be like old home week.” He grinned at her. “As I’m telling you this, I’m beginning to realize that I will base myself in Beirut, set up camp with Frankie at the Commodore Hotel.”
“When will that be, darling?”
“In March sometime. I’ll be cutting and editing at CNS in New York in the middle of February, preparing the special. And then I’ll go.”
“I thought everything was quiet in the Middle East right now.”
“As quiet as that area will ever be. There are always rumblings of some kind, somewhere, be it Iran, Libya, Saudi Arabia, Syria, Israel, or Iraq. You name it. Flare-ups happen all the time,” Bill explained.
“If your assignment starts in March, when do you think we can meet here again?”
Bill held her closer, smiling at her, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “In March, of course. The end of March.”
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Venice, March 1996
Are you sure there are no messages for me?” Vanessa said, her eyes focused intently on the concierge standing behind the desk at the Gritti Palace.
“No, Signora Stewart, no messages.” His faint smile seemed almost apologetic as he added, “No, nothing at all. No faxes, nothing, signora.”
“Thank you.” Vanessa turned away from the desk and walked rapidly toward the elevator.
Once she was back in her room, she sat down at the writing table in front of the window and gazed absently out at the Grand Canal.
It was a cool, breezy Saturday in late March, but the sun had come out and given a certain radiance to the afternoon. Yet she was hardly aware of the weather; her though
ts were focused on Bill. She opened her appointment book and stared at the date. It was March the thirtieth, and she had been in Venice for four days, working at the foundry on Murano. Bill was supposed to have arrived on Thursday afternoon, the twenty-eighth, to join her for a long weekend.
But he was forty-eight hours late, and she did not understand why. After all, it was not as if he were in a war zone and in any danger. Beirut was quiet at the moment; he had told her that himself. She dismissed the idea that something might have happened to him.
It struck her then that he could have gone somewhere else in the Middle East to cover a story. He had talked about Egypt and the Sudan to her when he had been in New York in February. They had been able to meet only once at that time because he had been busy editing his special on terrorism, and then he had had to leave for Beirut.
Yes, that was most likely the reason he was late. Right now he was probably on a plane, flying to Venice from some distant spot. This thought cheered her, but an instant later she was worrying again. If he had been delayed because he was caught up on a story, why hadn’t he phoned her?
Frowning to herself, Vanessa reached for her address book and quickly found the number of the Commodore Hotel in Beirut. Glancing at the hotel’s chart for direct dialing to foreign cities, she picked up the phone and punched in the numbers for Beirut and the hotel.
It was only a second or two before she heard the hotel operator saying, “Hotel Commodore.”
“Mr. Bill Fitzgerald, please.”
“Just a moment, please.”
She heard the ringing tone. It seemed to her to be interminable. He did not pick up. He was not in his room.
“There’s no answer,” the operator said. “Do you wish to leave a message?”
“Yes. Please say Vanessa Stewart called. He can reach me at the Gritti Palace in Venice.” She then gave the operator the number and hung up, sat staring at the phone.
After a few moments, she rose and walked over to the coffee table. Picking up the remote control, she turned up the volume on the television set. The CNS weatherman was giving the weekend forecast for the States. She sat down on the bed and watched CNS for the next couple of hours.