'Some.' He seemed to hesitate. 'How close are you to her?'
She looked at him directly. 'Very. We're like sisters. Why?'
'Because I'd like somebody to be there when I tell her.'
Venetia's voice was hushed. 'What? That she lost the baby?'
'That, too.' He nodded. 'But mainly that we've had to perform an emergency hysterectomy. That's what took us so long.'
Venetia stared at him in shock. 'Oh, Jesus.'
Shakily she lowered herself into one of the molded orange plastic chairs. She'd guessed about the miscarriage—but a hysterectomy? That came from way out in left field.
'Hasn't she been through enough?' she said quietly.
The doctor did not speak.
'First, her husband's plane is missing; presumably it went down in the Rockies. Then the miscarriage. And now this! How much more can she take?'
His voice was soft. 'If it's any consolation, it could have been a lot worse.'
She looked up at him sharply. 'What do you mean?'
'We found an ovarian mass, which we removed at once.'
Venetia frowned. 'I don't understand.' She looked confused. 'An ovarian mass?'
'We're talking cancer,' the doctor explained. 'Ovarian cancer.'
Venetia was shaken. Ovarian cancer! For a moment she just sat there, dumbfounded.
'The good news,' he said, 'is that we got it all. Of course, she'll have to get regular checkups. But all in all, I'd say she's one lucky lady. If we hadn't discovered it now . . .' He shrugged, adding softly: 'Who knows what might have happened?'
Venetia was filled with dread. 'And the . . . hysterectomy?' she asked haltingly. 'How radical was it?'
'In medical terminology, what we performed was an abdominal hysterectomy with bilateral salgimpingo oopherectomy.'
'I'm afraid you've lost me, doctor. In simple English, please.'
'Yes. Of course. I'm sorry. In layman's terms, we had to remove the entire uterus, both ovaries, and both tubes.'
Venetia momentarily shut her eyes. 'In other words . . .' She could not voice it.
'She can never have another baby,' he finished for her.
Oh, Christ! Venetia sighed deeply and rubbed her face with both hands. She could not begin to imagine how Dorothy-Anne was going to take this. She wanted the baby so badly. Now she can never have another . . . .
'I'd appreciate your not mentioning anything to her just yet,' the surgeon was saying. 'As I said, I want you to be there to give her moral support, but it's important that I'm the one who breaks the news. That way I can clear up any misunderstandings and misconceptions she might have.'
Venetia nodded. 'When will you tell her?'
'As soon as she's strong enough. Tomorrow afternoon . . . perhaps the day after.' He paused. 'I'm awfully sorry about this.'
'So am I.' Venetia sighed. Her hands fluttered helplessly in her lap, like a trapped bird with a broken wing. 'When can I see her?'
'As soon as they move her from recovery down to her room. It shouldn't be more than a few hours.' He flagged down an approaching nurse. 'In what room are they putting Ms. Cantwell?'
'I'll go check right now, Doctor,' the nurse said.
Venetia got up and grabbed her bag. She shook the surgeon's hand. 'Thank you, Doctor,' she said warmly. 'I appreciate everything you're doing.'
'Just don't tire her out,' he warned. 'She needs her rest.'
'Don't worry,' Venetia assured him. 'I'll make sure she gets it.' And she hurried off, catching up with the nurse in a few gazelle-like strides.
The room turned out to be small but private, and it had a wall- mounted television and a tiny adjoining bathroom with a shower stall. The curtains were drawn across the large picture window, and Venetia twitched them aside.
All she could see was her own reflection in the sheet of glass.
As far as hospitals went, she knew it wasn't bad. Not bad at all.
Her investigation over, she settled down in the visitor's chair and promptly fell asleep.
She snapped awake when they wheeled Dorothy-Anne in, and she quickly got up, moved the chair into the corner, and stood back out of the way. Two orderlies transferred Dorothy-Anne so gently from the gurney into the bed that she slept right through it. An efficient nurse bustled about, checking the IVs and hooking up various monitors.
When the orderlies had gone, Venetia approached the bedside and stood there, looking down. Dorothy-Anne seemed to be sleeping. Her wheat-gold hair fanned out across the white pillow, and she looked small and fragile and pale. Almost childlike in her helplessness.
Suddenly her eyes blinked open. They were unfocused and frightened, the aquamarine emphasizing her pallor. Slowly she turned her head on the pillow. Her hand crept toward Venetia. 'Worst dream,' she slurred hoarsely.
'Hi, sugar,' Venetia whispered. She took Dorothy-Anne's hand and held it. It felt hot and clammy and frail. 'How do you feel?'
Dorothy-Anne stared at her. 'I dreamed Freddie came and took my baby away! He said I'd never see either of them ever again!'
'Shhhhh,' Venetia soothed. 'It was only a bad dream.'
'A bad dream,' Dorothy-Anne repeated slowly. 'Only a bad dream?'
'That's right, sugar. That's all it was.'
Dorothy-Anne's eyes began to close. 'Only a bad dream,' she murmured, and as she went back to sleep, she found herself drifting back through the years, to another time, another place, and the extraordinary woman to whom she owed everything . . . .
5
Dorothy-Anne's great-grandmother entered the world with all strikes against her.
She was a woman.
She was born poor.
She was orphaned at age six.
And she grew up in the harsh, opportunity-less climes of southwestern Texas.
But she dared to dream.
And from a single rooming house and the crucible of the Great Depression, she forged an empire.
She was Elizabeth-Anne Hale, and everything about her was bigger than life.
Her empire, which spanned six continents. Her self-made fortune, which made her the richest woman in the world. And her power, which was incalculable. Add a dollop of longevity, a New York Social Register husband, and four children, and you had yourself a dynasty. With a clean slate, a foot in society, and the world as her chess set. Plus that seemingly effortless, magical knack for multiplying her fortune. By the time her great-granddaughter was born, Elizabeth-Anne was absolute ruler of an empire richer than many countries. Her power was legendary, and her name synonymous with luxury. She rubbed shoulders with presidents, prime ministers, dictators, movie stars, artists, ballet dancers, and royalty. Such was her influence that bankers, politicians, ambassadors, and high- ranking members of the clergy regularly curried her favors.
She lived like a queen. Her New York penthouse and various far- flung houses were filled with museum-quality furnishings and she had one of the finest art collections in existence.
Elizabeth-Anne was not beautiful, but she was a handsome woman, with a regal bearing and strong features. She had a thin, straight nose, direct aquamarine eyes, and striking wheat-gold hair. There was about her an air of no-nonsense efficiency, and yet she was decidedly feminine. People who met her for the first time were enchanted by her genteel manner, warmth, and lack of airs, and it was said she could charm the rattlers off a snake.
She was also a formidable enemy. Those who crossed her soon discovered they were dealing with a shark, and in the treacherous shoals of business, she proved the female of the species to be deadlier than the male.
As she told one reporter: 'I'm a woman in a man's world. To become successful, I've had to trade in my white gloves for boxing mitts. To stay successful, I don't dare take them off.'
But success carried a price of its own. For all the glamorous trappings—the private planes, couture wardrobes, fine jewels, and friends in high places—Elizabeth-Anne had suffered more than her share of tragedies.
There were so many:
&
nbsp; Her first husband, the father of her children, wrongly convicted of murder and hanged . . .
The deaths of three of her four children . . .
The loss of her second husband . . .
The granddaughter who disappeared into the chaos of World War II, and who, as fate would have it, resurfaced years later—married to none other than Elizabeth-Anne's own grandson, Henry. That husband and wife were too closely related was a fact known only to Elizabeth-Anne. Unwilling to spoil the couple's happiness, she had kept her silence, and taken her secret to the grave.
And finally, there was the tragedy of Dorothy-Anne's birth. When her mother died in the delivery room, Henry—grieving, heartbroken, unforgiving Henry—unjustly blamed his daughter for his wife's death.
'To see the baby, just tap on the nursery window,' the doctor told him and Elizabeth-Anne. 'A nurse will show you the child. It's a beautiful baby girl.'
Elizabeth-Anne immediately started down the hall. Then, realizing that Henry wasn't beside her, she turned around. 'Henry!' she called impatiently.
'Go ahead,' he said grimly. 'I want nothing to do with that kid.'
His words went through Elizabeth-Anne's heart like a dagger. She couldn't believe his reaction. This wasn't the way it was supposed to go. Daddies and their little girls were supposed to be special.
The doctor couldn't help overhearing the exchange. 'Don't worry,' he told Elizabeth-Anne gently. 'He's grief-stricken. You wait and see. He'll come around in no time.'
Several days later, after the graveside service, Elizabeth-Anne took her grandson aside. She said, 'Henry, it's time you fetched your daughter from the hospital.'
He stared at her. 'I don't have a daughter!' he snapped, and then stalked off to drown his sorrows in booze.
Elizabeth-Anne attributed his outburst to the shock of burying his wife. It won't be long before he gets over it, she thought.
In the meantime, she had Max, her chauffeur, drive her to the hospital, where she collected the infant herself. After holding Dorothy-Anne and marveling at her exquisite features, flawless pink skin, golden hair, and aquamarine eyes, she declared her a true Hale and took her up to Henry's magnificent estate in Tarrytown, New York, with its forty-room colonial mansion set amid fifty acres of manicured grounds. There she turned Dorothy-Anne over to the British nanny she'd personally selected and hired. 'Now take good care of her,' she cautioned.
Nanny, whose body in profile looked remarkably like a map of Africa, cradled the baby in her arms and smiled. 'Don't you worry, madam. I'm not going to let this wee lass out of my sight.'
A few days later, Elizabeth-Anne once again had Max drive her up to Tarrytown. She had timed her visit to coincide with a business trip of Henry's.
After pushing the perambulator around the vast parkland, she and Nanny had tea on the terrace overlooking the Hudson. 'You're doing a fine job,' she assured Nanny.
'Thank you, madam, but it's easy with such a lovely child. She's like a fairy creature, isn't she?'
'Yes, she is,' Elizabeth-Anne agreed. She set down her cup and held Nanny's gaze. 'I believe I made it clear from the beginning who's paying your salary?'
'Oh, yes, madam. That you did.'
'And do you also remember what we agreed upon when I hired you?'
Nanny glanced around to make sure there were no servants within earshot. 'Yes, madam. That I was to keep nothing from you as far as the little one's concerned.'
'That's right.' Elizabeth-Anne folded her hands in her lap. 'Then perhaps you can tell me how her father is treating her?'
Nanny hesitated, and when she spoke, she chose her words carefully. 'Well . . . he's not mistreating her, if that's what you're wondering.'
'Oh?' Elizabeth-Anne arched her eyebrows. 'Then what is he doing?'
Nanny sighed. 'That's just it, madam. Nothing! He hasn't come to the nursery once to see the poor thing. Not a once! It's as if he's decided she doesn't exist.'
Elizabeth-Anne nodded. She had been afraid of that.
'Also . . . '
'Yes, Nanny?'
'He gave me specific orders to keep her out of his sight.'
Her grandson's cruelty made Elizabeth-Anne want to weep. However, she wasn't one to show emotions in front of the help. Thanking Nanny for being so forthcoming, she smoothly changed the subject, pointing out the vivid scarlet plumage of a cardinal as it alighted on the branch of a nearby tree.
But she was deeply disturbed by Henry's blaming Dorothy-Anne for his wife's death.
It's just a passing phase, she told herself on the ride home. Henry's still in mourning. He'll snap out of it. He has to. For Christ's sake, he's Dorothy- Anne's father!
During the next five years, Dorothy-Anne did not want for anything. She was the princess—the heiress to the Hale empire—and she grew up with every conceivable luxury. Elizabeth-Anne dropped by regularly, and from the beginning, a special bond developed between them. Dorothy- Anne couldn't wait for her great-grandmother's visits, and she charmed everyone with that way she had of pronouncing Great-Granny—'Gweat- Gwanny.'
And then there were the servants. From Cook and the maids down to the gardeners and the chauffeur, she had them all enchanted. They vied for her attention and spoiled her shamelessly, but the one person's love she sought so desperately—her father's—continued to elude her.
Henry was a stranger, a mysterious presence who lived under the same roof, but whose path rarely crossed hers. The few times it did, he rebuffed her coldly, ordering a servant to whisk her out of his sight.
Thus, as far as her father was concerned, the rule that children were neither to be seen nor heard was drummed into her; understandably, this only strengthened the bond between her and 'Gweat-Gwanny.'
Then came Dorothy-Anne's fifth birthday. It was a cats-and-dogs kind of day, with thunderstorms raging as she and Nanny climbed into the long black limousine for the drive downriver to Manhattan, that magical wonderland that looked like a massive storybook castle with its thousands of towers.
Dorothy-Anne thought it the most exciting place she had ever seen.
At Park Avenue and Fifty-first Street, they got out of the car, went into one of the brightly lit towers, and took the elevator up, up, to her great-grandmother's office high in the clouds.
But what should have been a celebration turned into a tragedy.
Elizabeth-Anne, realizing that Henry's rejection of Dorothy-Anne could not go on indefinitely, had taken matters into her own hands. On the agenda was lunch, although Henry was under the mistaken impression that it was a business lunch, not a birthday celebration at Serendipity for his daughter. He only discovered that when Elizabeth-Anne summoned him to her office.
Before Henry could get started, Elizabeth-Anne asked Dorothy-Anne and Nanny to wait outside her office. Not that it did much good: they could hear the shouting match clearly, even through the closed doors.
Henry finally stomped off—and Elizabeth-Anne suffered a massive stroke. She lay in a coma for four months and three days. When she came out of it, she was paralyzed from the waist down, condemned to spend the remainder of her life in a wheelchair.
A lesser woman might have modified her activities, but Elizabeth- Anne was not your ordinary woman. She refused to let her paralysis put a dent in her life. Her first order of business was to recuperate, which she did with a therapist, two nurses, and Dorothy-Anne—in Europe.
And it was there, in the mimosa, jasmine, and oleander-scented hills of Provence, that the idea of starting yet another chain of hotels— converting country villas, French castles, and Tuscan farmhouses into ultra luxurious, intimate lodgings called Les Petits Palais—was born.
For Dorothy-Anne, it was the lesson of a lifetime. Great-Granny was unsinkable, unstoppable, and undefeatable: the perfect role model for a wounded spirit.
Likewise, in Dorothy-Anne, the old lady relived her own youth, rediscovering the long-vanished innocence and sense of wonder she'd thought forever lost; the excitement of seeing things with a fresh
eye, as if noticing them for the very first time, be it a particularly splendid sunset, the scent of wild herbs, the beauty of a valiant flower growing from between the cracks of a cobble-paved courtyard.
It was truly a magical time. The love they shared worked wonders, healed the scarred spirit, and forged an already strong relationship into unbreakable links.
For Dorothy-Anne, it was as if she'd died and gone to heaven. This, being showered with abundant daily doses of love such as she had never before known, made every waking hour a joy. And when Elizabeth-Anne shared her recollections of the past, Dorothy-Anne came to realize, for the first time in her life, that she was part of something bigger than the loveless confines of the Tarrytown estate: a heritage that belonged to her, and that no one, not even her father, could ever take away.
Nor could she hear enough about how her great-grandmother had built the mighty Hale hotel chain, and it was there, in those fragrant, breezy hills high above Cannes, that the impressionable child became the passionate pupil, that Dorothy-Anne took the first leap toward eventually assuming leadership of Hale Hotels. For even if she herself did not yet recognize the burning passion within her, Elizabeth-Anne did.
But honeymoons have a tendency to end, and so too did those blissful, magical months. The time came to pack up, leave Provence, and return to the States.
Dorothy-Anne wished they didn't have to go. She had tasted the fruit of love and nurturing, and like a lovingly tended plant, had just begun to blossom. Never before had she known such peace of mind and self- confidence, such feelings of being connected, of belonging. . . . Why couldn't life be like this all the time? However, she was careful not to voice these opinions aloud. She knew Elizabeth-Anne had to get back. Still wheelchair bound, she had recuperated all she could, and had an empire to run.
During the last night of their stay, Dorothy-Anne had trouble sleeping. All she could do was lie in the dark and think about how happy and carefree she'd been here. If only there were a way to avoid returning to Tarrytown. She wished she could unload her heart and beg her great- grandmother to take her in, but she knew that was impossible. Ever since the stroke, Elizabeth-Anne had required the services of a full-time nurse. The last thing she needed was to be saddled with a child as well.
Second Love Page 5