Second Love

by Gould, Judith

  The following day, Dorothy-Anne was silent during the long flight home. She spent most of it with her eyes shut, pretending to sleep while reliving those wonderful past months in her head.

  And it was then, somewhere over the North Atlantic, that she stumbled on a great truth. She was leaving Provence, but Provence would never leave her. It would always be there. The memories were part of her now, and she had only to summon them at will. Each marvelous day was there, ready to sustain her.

  Dorothy-Anne heard the pilot announce their imminent arrival at JFK International, and she shelved her mental diary. Before long, the Pan American 747 made a perfect landing and soon, too soon, she was in a limousine speeding to Tarrytown—and back to harsh reality.

  6

  'Ma—?

  Mommy!'

  Dorothy-Anne was sitting up in the hospital bed, wearing one of her own short-sleeved, Empire-waisted cotton nightgowns, the bodice femininely adorned with delicate needlework, tuck pleats, and lace edges, and wondering where all the flower arrangements, silver balloons, and teddy bears atop the air-conditioning-heating unit had come from, when the voices—clear, pure trebles—preceded three small bodies, which hurtled into the room.

  'Och!' scolded a flustered, out-of-breath Nanny Florrie from close behind, her uplands Scots accent as thick as the day she had left Galashiels. 'I'll nae have all this noise. I tauld you, 'tis a 'ospital!'

  Dorothy-Anne smiled indulgently. They were as lively as Mexican jumping beans: her Liz, Fred, and Zack. Tornadoes of energy that whirled here, there, everywhere. Fueled by urgency and excitement, charging furiously through life, as yet unaware that time would eventually overtake them, that someday they'd wonder where all the years had gone.

  The mere sight of them gave her heart a kick and flooded it with love; made her blink back tears of pride and joy.

  God, how she loved them: the Three Cantwelleers.

  At eleven, Liz was the oldest. She was aquamarine-eyed, and her blond hair was gathered in a fountain on top of her head and tied with a red ribbon. With her black turtleneck, Black Watch plaid skirt, and Mary Janes, she was determinedly—deceptively—preppie. Ralph Lauren on the outside, cyberpunk on the inside. A modem-toting Miss American Pie whose mind was sharp as a razor, and who had one foot poised in this world, and the other planted firmly way out in cyberspace.

  Then there was ten-year-old Fred. The spitting image of his father, but with longish raven hair parted in the center and falling down either side of his face. Very hip-hop and current, in super-baggy jeans, shirttails out, thin gold loops in each pierced earlobe. A wire ran from his pants pocket up into a set of headphones and into his brain. Watchful, introspective, and a child of few words, he munched from an open bag of Doritos. Bopped his head to the beat of music only he could hear.

  And finally the youngest. Zack, her nine-year-old wonder. Auburn- banged, blue-eyed, and with energy to burn. Trying to look with-it like his brother, but too darling to pull it off. Baseball cap worn fashionably backward, electronic game in hand.

  They all stared at her, the hospital bed and IV and monitors giving them pause. Then Zack broke the silence.

  'M-M-Mommy?' he gulped, close to tears. 'Y-you're not going to d-d-d-die, are you?'

  'Y'know, you are like really, really totally a dope,' sniffed Liz, with the superior air of an elder. 'Mom's like stressed to the max, is all.' She hesitated, tipped her head to one side, and eyed her mother anxiously. 'I mean, that is all it is . . . isn't it, Mom?'

  'Yes, sweetheart.' Dorothy-Anne dredged up a voice of maternal assurance. 'That's all it is.'

  'Is it true 'bout Dad?' Fred blurted, then guiltily ducked his head and eyed his sneakers, his hair falling down over his face.

  Zack dropped his computer game and pummeled Fred with his little fists. 'Daddy's not dead!' he cried, his voice plaintive with denial. 'He's not! He's not!'

  'For Gude's sake, lad!' Nanny hissed at Fred, grabbing Zack's flailing arms. 'Dinna you listen to a word I saed? I've told ye nae to upset yer mum!'

  Rebuked, Fred sighed and shrugged and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

  'Niver ye mind yer brother, laddie,' Nanny said to Zack. 'He dinna mean it.'

  'It's okay, Nanny,' Dorothy-Anne said quietly. 'They have a right to know.'

  'It was in all the papers,' Fred mumbled sullenly. Tossing his head to get the hair out of his face, he looked up and met his mother's gaze directly.

  Dorothy-Anne sighed to herself. I should have guessed. They're too old not to have found out by themselves. Still, she wished she could have been the one to tell them. I wanted to break it to them gently.

  But it was too late now, and the children were waiting. Silent. Watching her warily. Despite the armor of pierced ears and hip togs, they seemed suddenly young, abandoned, vulnerable.

  They're counting on me, Dorothy-Anne told herself. I've got to be strong. For their sake.

  It was all she could do to hold out a leaden arm and gesture. 'Come closer, sweethearts,' she said quietly. 'Family powwow.'

  Zack was the first to tumble forward. Dorothy-Anne rested her arm on his shoulder and stroked the back of his head. Then Fred and Liz stepped spontaneously to either side of him, the three of them erecting a protective barricade.

  Dorothy-Anne took a deep breath. 'I don't know what you've read or heard,' she said carefully. 'It's true your father's plane is missing, yes. But we don't know he's dead. I'm praying he's alive and they find him in time. For all we know, they could have crash-landed safely in some valley, and the radio equipment got smashed. . . .' Even to herself, it sounded implausible and thin, hopelessly unrealistic.

  In every family, each member has his or her assigned role, and Fred, though the middle child, was physically the strongest, and had thus become the protector and spokesman for all three. 'You mean there's a chance, Ma?' He held her gaze. 'A real chance?'

  Dorothy-Anne hesitated. She had always taken pains never to be condescending toward her children, or to paint glossy veneers on ugly truths. She had earned their trust and respect the hard way—through honesty, fairness, and treating them like the little adults they were. However, they'd never had to face a crisis of this magnitude before. Now she found herself in a quandary, torn between honesty and compassion.

  Which was better for them? The pablum of reassurance? Or making them face the worst scenario?

  It was a difficult decision, but she made it. 'We have to keep praying for the best,' she said, a slight tremor to her voice. 'We cannot lose hope. But remember: no matter how things turn out, so long as we're strong, we'll get through it. We're together, and that's all that counts.'

  But we aren't together. Freddie's missing. How can we ever be together without him?

  'We must be brave,' she continued. 'Your daddy wouldn't want us to fall apart, now would he?'

  All three of them shook their heads, but their faces were pinched and their eyes reflected fear.

  'I'm scared, Mommy,' Zack whimpered.

  'You know something? So am I, sweetheart.' She rubbed the back of his head. 'So am I. But you're a big, strong young man now. Aren't you?'

  He nodded solemnly. 'I-I guess so,' he said, sounding unsure.

  'Well, I know so,' she said warmly, still stroking the back of his head. 'And do you want to hear why?'

  He nodded.

  'Because we're a family. Because we've got each other. Just as you can count on me, I'll be counting on each of you. Together we can face anything . . . even the worst, though I'm praying it won't come to that.' She looked at each of them in turn, then locked eyes with Fred. She was silent for a moment. 'I can count on you, can't I?'

  'You bet, Ma,' Fred said, the catch in his voice belying his aw-shucks bravado. 'Don't worry about me. I'll be okay.'

  Said like a real man. She had to fight back her tears.

  'I'll be fine, too,' Liz spoke up softly. 'Like no matter what happens.'

  Dorothy-Anne looked at her gratefully. How brave they
are, the Three Cantwelleers!

  Just then the nurse popped her head in the door. The big-bosomed Jamaican ran a tight ship. 'Five minutes is up. Come on, mon. You gonna tire her.'

  Suddenly Dorothy-Anne felt worn out. The nurse was right. The visit had taken its toll. 'You heard the boss,' she urged in a whisper. 'Go on, now.'

  Fred hung back while Nanny shepherded the others into the hall. 'What about you, Ma?' he asked. 'You gonna be okay?'

  Dorothy-Anne dredged up a smile. 'Don't worry, sweetheart. Now run along. I'm fine.'

  But I'm not fine.

  I may never be fine again.

  It was early afternoon when Venetia returned to the hospital. She swivel-hipped into the room, stopped short, and lowered her head, the better to peer over the tops of her tinted, photochromatic shades with bubinga wood frames. 'Formal arrangements, silver balloons, and teddy bears?' She let out a throaty guffaw and rolled her eyes. 'Girl! When are these honkies going to acquire some taste?'

  Dorothy-Anne had the motorized bed in the upright position, and was sipping ice water through an angled straw from a big paper cup. She looked at Venetia hopefully.

  'Sorry to let you down, sugar,' Venetia said gently. 'Still no word.'

  Dorothy-Anne set the paper cup on the swing-arm hospital tray. 'It's going on two days now,' she said quietly.

  Venetia nodded. 'Blizzard's not over yet.'

  'Damn.' Dorothy-Anne leaned back on the pillow and sighed.

  Venetia took off her glasses and stuck them into her chocolate suede shoulder bag. Then she unslung it and let it drop to the floor. 'The good news is,' she said, 'the blizzard's finally abating. The search parties are all geared up and ready to roll. They should be able to move out first thing in the morning.'

  'Thank God.'

  Venetia slid out of her taupe suede duster and tossed it over the chair. Then she plopped herself down and scooted the chair closer to the bed.

  She was wearing brown leather pants and chocolate-colored cowboy boots with intricate taupe swirls stitched into the leather. She had on an espresso-colored sweater, a chunky Armani necklace of color-fused resin and bronze, and matching earrings.

  'So, child. Other than being sick with worry over Freddie, and feeling like shit, how're you really doing?'

  'I still feel weak,' Dorothy-Anne admitted. 'I don't know what they did to me, but it feels like they turned me inside out.'

  Venetia winced. 'How about the pain? Is it bad?'

  'Not really. I can regulate the painkillers myself. Want to see?' With her IV hand, Dorothy-Anne held up the release button, which let her self- administer intravenous doses as needed.

  'What are they giving you?'

  'Demerol.'

  'Girl! Do you have any idea how lucky you are? No, you do not. Believe me, word of this gets out, druggies'll be lining up around the block.'

  'Well, they can gladly take my place. I can't wait to get out of here.' Dorothy-Anne tightened her lips. 'The surgeon's coming by soon. The nurse told me he wants to talk to me.'

  Venetia kept her face carefully neutral. She wondered how much Dorothy-Anne already guessed. Not the true extent of damage she'd suffered, of that she was certain.

  She decided to steer the conversation to safer waters. 'I thought you'd like to read about the party and get the press's reaction to the hotel. I brought you some clippings.'

  She reached down, heaved the shoulder bag to her lap, and took out a manila envelope. She laid it on the bed.

  'Also, I brought you some fashion slicks.'

  Out came current issues of American and French Vogues and Bazaars.

  'And, in case the food in here gets to you—voila!'

  The plastic air-sealed container was filled with a variety of pastries: slices of various tortes, a Napoleon, cranberry bread, and a small kiwi tart.

  'Venetia! If I eat all these I'll gain ten pounds!'

  'Well, dig in. You've got to keep up your strength. Oh, I nearly forgot. I brought some hotel forks.'

  They were individually wrapped inside heavily starched, rolled linen napkins.

  Dorothy-Anne laughed. 'At least now I know what you tote around in those shoulder bags of yours.'

  'Yeah, survival kits.' Venetia looked suddenly stricken. 'Oh, damn! I'm sorry, sugar. Bad choice of words.'

  'Forget it. Anyway, I'll have the tart. But only if you eat something, too.'

  'Well, maybe just a teensy little bite.' Venetia's red-taloned fingers hovered indecisively, then swooped and broke off a tiny corner of cranberry bread. She nibbled maybe a crumb. 'Mmm. Not bad.'

  Dorothy-Anne forked up a bite of tart. 'Yummy,' she said. 'By the way, the kids were here.'

  'I saw them. Nanny Florrie looks like she's got her hands full.' Venetia paused and looked at Dorothy-Anne questioningly. 'What did you tell them?'

  'The truth.'

  'And how did they take it?' Venetia nibbled another crumblet.

  'They're frightened, but brave.'

  Venetia nodded. 'They're good kids.'

  Knuckles tapped lightly on the open door. Dorothy-Anne looked over at it and Venetia twisted around in her chair.

  'Anybody home?' a man's voice inquired.

  Whoever it was, he couldn't be seen for the giant arrangement of all- white flowers he carried: calla lilies, huge branches of bloom-laden orchids, tulips, big fat open roses, lilies, narcissus, tuberoses, iris, amaryllus, hyacinths, scilla, fritillaria, and peonies.

  'Ms. Harlow, she gone,' said Venetia, in blackese. And in a stage whisper to Dorothy-Anne: 'Not a balloon or teddy bear in sight. Quick! Better grab 'em while you can.'

  The man came in and set the vase down on the swing-arm table. It turned out to be Hunt Winslow.

  'Seems I'm bringing coals to Newcastle,' he said wryly, eyeing all the arrangements squeezed along the window.

  'You did not bring coals to Newcastle,' Venetia laughed. 'Not, that is, unless you've got a teddy bear on you.'

  'No bears,' he promised, raising his right hand. 'No balloons, either.'

  'Thank God.' Venetia got up and made room in the center of the wide ledge and had him hand her the monster arrangement. 'Listen,' she said. 'I'm going to run downstairs and get a cup of coffee. Either of you want anything?'

  Dorothy-Anne and Hunt both shook their heads.

  'You can keep my seat warm,' Venetia told him, grabbing her shoulder bag and sailing out.

  'I must say.' Hunt pinched his pant creases as he sat down. 'Ms. Flood is the very soul of discretion.'

  'That she is,' Dorothy-Anne agreed.

  'She looks like a model,' he said.

  The light pouring in through the window and beating down from the fluorescents was unflattering to the extreme, but it made her do a new take on him. Hunt Winslow was much better looking than Dorothy-Anne remembered; the lighting at the party had robbed him of his naturally healthy glow and fresh-faced vitality.

  It was in full force now. And how.

  He looked younger than his mid-thirties, his skin smooth and full of high color. His lapis eyes and lopsided grin hinted at humor and mischief, and his clean-cut sex appeal made you think of oranges and surfboards; the kind of guy you'd take barefoot walks on the beach with, trousers rolled up, shoes tied together and hanging from around his neck. His sun- bleached hair would smell of freshness. His lips would taste of passion.

  'Venetia was one of Eileen Ford's biggest discoveries,' Dorothy- Anne said. 'Ten years ago, she was on every other cover of Vogue.'

  She frowned, realizing he had yet to take his eyes off hers. Other than Freddie, she couldn't remember the last time anyone had met her gaze so uncompromisingly. She let a thoughtful silence pass, and said, 'How did you know where to find me?'

  'Easy. This is a small town. Between the hotel opening and your husband's missing plane, the papers are full of you. Your condition's even reported on every day in the society pages.'

  She tilted her head to one side. 'Somehow you don't strike me as the type who reads gossi
p columns.'

  He chuckled. 'I don't. But my assistant does. Just in case my name pops up and the record needs to be set straight.'

  Her voice was dry. 'And there I was, popping right off the page.'

  A faint smile touched his lips. 'And there you were,' he nodded. 'How are you?'

  She made a face. 'How do I look?'

  'Not bad, actually.'

  'Liar! I look like shit and you know it.'

  He laughed—a blaze of white teeth. 'So what? Nobody looks their best in hospitals.'

  Then he fell silent and regarded her with solemnity. Gone now was the easy familiarity and jocular smile. It was replaced by a gentle seriousness, a studious seriousness, his gaze intent as he appeared to study her, the whole of her, his expression thoughtful.

  She felt suddenly uncomfortable. Why is he staring at me like that? I wish he wouldn't. I know I look like something the cat dragged in.

  Then she realized the covers were down around her waist, and that he was eyeing her nightgown. It was one of the romantic smocked ones.

  Surely he wasn't admiring the Belgian openwork embroidery? No, he obviously wasn't interested in that. His attention was riveted on the swell of her breasts, which was accentuated by the high Empire waistline, and at the heat that rose from the modest neckline to suffuse her face with color.

  Suddenly she wished he'd stayed away. His presence was altogether too disturbing. For one thing, he was not merely endowed with good looks: he was, bar none, the best-looking man she had ever laid eyes on. For another, his testosterone level was too high for comfort.

  And then there was the clincher: his unhappy marriage.

  Everything about Hunt spelled T-R-O-U-B-L-E. She'd have to be nuts to get involved with him. Life was complicated enough as it was.

  Freddie, she reminded herself. My Freddie, who's missing . . .

  She felt a stab of guilt and instantly broke eye contact with Hunt. Quickly she scooped up another morsel of tart just to have something to do. Her hand was shaking, and she didn't notice the pastry falling off the fork until her lips tasted tines.