Fairytales
A Novel
Cynthia Freeman
To Dominic Rossi
whose enormous spirit never ceased to amaze me
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Preview: Illusions of Love
About the Author
1
IT WAS ONE OF those glorious mornings in Santa Barbara that sojourners from the damp, dismal fog of San Francisco dream about, in fact, look forward to every year. The men were already waiting in teams of twos and fours to get on to the green lush golf course. It was the promise of a great day for eighteen holes of golf as they stood swinging their clubs limbering up, but Catherine Rossi couldn’t have cared less as she lay alone in the middle of the luxurious oversized bed, in the luxurious oversized room reserved at the Biltmore for herself and her famous husband. The famous Dominic Rossi. Famous stud, that’s what he was as far as she was concerned. He’d given her seven famous children, hadn’t he? Well … this morning Catherine had it up to here. Every time she thought about last night she did a slow burn as her anger smoldered … How dare he not remember to make arrangements for her to be seated at the speakers’ table alongside of him and all the other dignitaries? Good question … how come? Wasn’t that where the future United States senator’s wife belonged? … he’d better believe. That’s where she and four of his famous children belonged … but where were they seated … at a round table in the shadows, in the corner like paying guests. She doubted if anybody knew she was present, but more important, did anyone give a damn? Especially Darlin’ Dominic standing up on that platform making speeches with such dramatic flair that would have made Marlon Brando look like a piker … why he could easily have won an Academy Award and knowing Dominic, he would have accepted it. Well, there was one advantage … in case of fire she was so close to the exit she sure as hell would have had no problem getting out fast … why the very idea …
How dare he treat her like she was some insignificant Sicilian wife cooking pasta. Well, the odds were eight would get you five in Las Vegas that Dominic Rossi would be the next U.S. senator from California, that he was a winner, invincible. No contest. There was no one that could come up against him and place, much less win. But that’s what they thought. There was one person who could beat him. Indeed there was. And by God, she would even if it meant her marriage. What marriage? Why she hadn’t had a husband in the last six-and-a-half years. He’d gone off this morning to pursue his quest on the campaign trail without her, and Catherine Antoinette Frances Posata Rossi was tired of taking second place and today, more than any other day, she remembered who and what he was when she married him, a starving young attorney from San Francisco. But angry as she was, Catherine wanted to be fair, if even begrudgingly, with herself (and at this moment, it was damned hard to be perfectly fair). He hadn’t been exactly poor, since his father and all of the Rossi brothers from Sicily had made it big in fish, or produce, or booze, or whatever they made it in after one generation. But nonetheless, he wasn’t her equal when he’d come down to New Orleans that summer to meet her. Bet your little Sicilian ass he wasn’t. Why her family had been American born for three generations. Southern born, and they were rich, really rich. However they got rich, by now they could afford to forget that Pasquale Posata had jumped ship at New Orleans without papers and melted into a society struggling in a civil war. So with all that going on, who noticed an immigrant from Sicily? His heritage of survival from the old country had trained him well, he found a very lucrative business in rumrunning for the North and gun-running for the South. He did anything and everything that was illegal or illicit, but the most important thing was his shrewdness to stay out of jail and above all, not to get deported. As far as he was concerned, it didn’t make one damn little bit of difference who won, as long as he came out in the end with more than he had started and Mama mia, that he did. When the dust had settled, and the fray was over, Pasquale Posata decided to remain in this most divine, magnificent country of opportunity because where else in the world, but in America, could anyone become a millionaire over night from a revolution. When he thought about it, he laughed. In all the twenty years of his life, he’d known nothing but chaos and revolution in the old country, but out of that, one either found himself dead or starving, and here, from revolution, you could become rich.
Now he decided to become respectable and a gentleman. He changed his name to Peter and married an impoverished southern belle of Italian extraction with a crumbling dilapidated mansion and a ruined plantation. But he needed her and she needed him. Not only did he restore the mansion and eventually yield the greatest harvest of tobacco in the state, but he produced four sons and two daughters and Peter Posata was a very happy man. Life had been good to him. Mama mia, had life been good to him. He would even have been happier had he been able to foretell that, from the Sicilian earth from which he had come, four generations later, out of his loins would emerge a woman of prominence and distinction.
But this morning, Catherine Rossi wasn’t concerned with her lineage nor her great-great-great-grandfather, her mind was filled with the past which didn’t go back quite so far. It went back to a lavish garden party given by her parents, who lived in a house one hundred and fifty years old in perfect repair, one of the best in the Latin Quarter, furnished with the most elaborate antiques, and there she met, for the first time, Dominic Rossi, fresh out of Harvard. The meeting was more than casual or coincidental, although it was made to appear so. However, the Rossis of San Francisco and the Posatas of New Orleans had met on many occasions through mutual friends and relatives in their travels and through the years had developed a strong bond of friendship and it was they who had decided it was important the two young people meet. When Catherine’s mother, in her most diplomatic, gracious manner, mingled with her southern accent, mentioned that Dominic Rossi was to be their houseguest for a time, Catherine exploded. “You mean, Mama, you’re bringin’ him here so as I can marry him, and that’s the truth … isn’t that the truth?”
“Now, Catherine, that’s no way to talk to your Mama.”
Catherine’s Sicilian blood, of which there was more than a little residue after all the generations, bubbled. “Maybe not, Mama, but that’s why you’re havin’ him come. Why, you’d think I was an old maid.”
And that’s what Catherine’s Mama really thought. With the few eligible Italian young men in New Orleans from the best families, for some reason Catherine, pretty, petite five-foot-three, brunette, brown-eyed little belle that she was, had more beaus than one could count, but not one proposal. She was going on twenty-five and not one on the horizon and Mama knew why. It was because Catherine lacked her southern, quiet, coquettish style. Instead, Catherine was blunt and outspoken, half scaring, if not discouraging, the young men, and Mama swore it had to come from the Posata side, not hers. Rosa Ann was like her. She knew when to say yes at the right time, how to appeal to a man’s ego which was the only way to grab a man at the right time, and that was why Rosa Ann, who was only eighteen months younger than Catherine, was married and expecting her second child. Well… God almighty, somethin’ had to be done even if it took importing a northerner, or more to the point, a westerner who was two years younger than Catherine, but Mama had read Gone With the Wind and decided she would think about that tomorrow (as Scarlett had suggested). But when Cat
herine saw Dominic Rossi for the first time, entering the garden with the orchestra playing softly, with his father at his side, her blood did bubble, not from anger this time, but from passion. He was virile, handsome, six feet tall with a shock of dark auburn hair, with a clear light complexion. His charm and smile were captivating as was his amazing wit which added to his allure, but he also had made a name for himself as best halfback of the year at Harvard. However he wasn’t all brawn, there was a brain so keen and exceptional it had taken him to Harvard at the age of sixteen, from where he graduated first in the top ten, magna cum laude. Yes, sir, the moment she saw him, she could have swooned (if that were the sort of thing Catherine did) as he approached her, standing in that celestial setting with the violins playing in the background, dressed in the most exquisite, most expensive apricot silk organza dress (that Mama or money could buy) with lots and lots of ruffles and on her pretty little feet were four-inch heeled silk shoes to match. Her hair was coiffed to perfection (because Mama always knew a woman’s crowning glory was her hair). She pursed her lips in a rather Mona Lisa style, crinkled her eyes as an inner smile tickled her. Yes, sir, by God, Dominic Rossi had met his mate in Catherine Posata and she made up her mind then and there she was going to marry him, make no mistake about that. In spite of his size, she was every inch the woman to handle him. The two fathers embraced one another around the shoulders as Catherine and Dominic looked into each other’s eyes for a moment. The spell was broken as Angelo Posata said with enormous pride, taking Catherine’s diminutive hand in his, “May I present my daughter, Catherine … this is Dominic Rossi.”
He answered smiling (beautiful teeth, she thought), “I can assure you this is a pleasure I’ve looked forward to for a very long time.”
“I wouldn’t be at all surprised,” Catherine answered in her most extravagant southern accent, narrowing her eyes and thrusting back her chin.
For a moment, he inclined his head to one side as though he hadn’t heard her, then looked her squarely in the eyes, smiled and laughed as she joined him in the laughter. The two fathers walked away, leaving them alone. “Would you like to dance?” Dominic asked.
And Catherine answered, “Would you rather dance or make love to me?”
This time he stood speechless and for Dominic Rossi, that was a rare situation. He took her by the hand and led her to the furthest part of the garden where he sat her down on a stone bench, half laughing, and said, “You know, beyond a doubt, you’re the most curious girl I have ever met. I’m not sure if you’re happy or unhappy to have met me.”
“Well, I kinda think that’s sort of an accomplishment if I can keep a big lawyer guessin’ what my motives are.”
“Oh … well, in that case, I want to make love to you.” He took her arm and gently stood her up.
“Now, you just hold on for one minute. What makes you think I want to make love to you?”
“Because you asked me.”
“That’s right … I asked you a question, but all questions require answers and my answer is I wouldn’t let you make love to me,” she responded with that Mona Lisa smile.
“Oh, I’m not so sure of that,” he said, holding her close to him, but she pushed herself back.
“Now, you listen to me. You know, as well as I do, that this is nothin’ more or less than an arrangement, an arrangement made between our parents, expectin’ me to say ‘Yes’ and ‘how sudden all this is,’ when the time came for you to pop the question and I should be coy and all nervous-like and excited. Well … for your information, Mr. Barrister, I want you to know I don’t enjoy playin’ these kinda games and I want you to know from the very beginnin’ I’m gonna say yes because I do want to marry you. I didn’t think I would, but I do. So anytime you want to ask me, don’t hesitate.”
Dominic started to laugh. Not at her and she knew it, but at her complete candor and lack of inhibition, then quite seriously, looking at her, he said, “You know, when I came down here, I had the same doubts and reservations, but of course I wasn’t aware you knew why I was coming. Suppose I tell you something?”
“Yes, please do.”
“Beyond a doubt, you’re the most staggeringly honest person I’ve ever met. In fact, you’re overwhelming and in these few minutes, I probably know more about you than most people do who go together for a long time. And can I tell you something even funnier?”
“Yes, please do.”
“I know it’s crazy, but I think I’m in love with you. Is that possible, just like that?”
“It’s possible, but I wouldn’t worry too much about it. If you don’t now, you will before you leave.”
They both laughed, then quietly and gently he took her in his arms and said, “Catherine, will you marry me?”
She said, with unmistakable languor in her voice, “I thought you’d never ask.”
The next few months found Mama Posata as close to heaven as she’d ever come in this world, with all the excitement and frenzy of the impending nuptials. There was trousseau shopping which was not only expensive, extensive and endless, but there was china, silver, crystal and linens to be purchased. After God and church, there was nothing Mama loved quite so much as spending money, clothes, luxury, finery and parties. The whole thing was just about the most exciting thing that had happened to her since Rosa Ann’s wedding. But for Catherine, her firstborn, after all, she wanted this to be one of those weddings the likes of which New Orleans had never witnessed. The largest chapel in the Cathedral was filled with an assortment of Rossis who had descended upon the city for days now. Like locusts, they had come all the way from San Francisco. And the Posatas hadn’t been Catholics for that many generations not to make their enormous presence felt, with all the uncles, aunts, cousins, nieces, nephews, distant relatives and near, and with a select number of friends, handpicked, there were five-hundred people at the Posata-Rossi wedding and reception. If Garibaldi had the amount of food and champagne that was served at that dinner, he could have united Italy a lot quicker.
Dominic was so dashing and handsome that every girl breathed a little harder when they saw him dance, holding his new bride, all shimmering and soft and satin and lace. When he smiled down at her, tightening his hold around Catherine’s thin waist, bringing her closer to him, it was certainly obvious to anyone observing, the promise of what would be theirs later tonight.
2
CATHERINE SIGHED DEEPLY AND nostalgically in that darkened, lonely room. Yes, sir, what a night it was. The promises of love, devotion, fidelity. Oh, my God, the things people tell each other in moments of passion. How the hell could she ever have predicted at that moment her life could possibly have turned out the way it did? As for love, in or out of bed, well … there’d been little of that in the last ten-and-a-half years. She sighed again, ran her tongue over her dry lips … she felt lousy this morning. How else could she feel, after last night when she had stolen quietly away, unnoticed, from that overpeopled, overheated, overfed multitude, listening to the great Dominic Rossi expounding all the virtues, panaceas, solutions and promises for saving that most grand sovereign state of California and all its inhabitants from the iniquities of the Republican Party. He stood like the messiah delivering the Sermon on the Mount. Catherine wanted to throw up.
She was in bed with a terrible headache when he returned finally, well after midnight, all charged up, exhilarated, excited and confident that California was his oyster. Switching on the bedside lamp, he sat on his side of the bed, taking off his shoes and socks, then undressed. Going into the bathroom, he showered, then brushed his teeth. By God, he felt good … his batteries were so charged up by the time he got into bed, he found it impossible to sleep. Turning off the light, he lay in the dark with his hands behind his head and reviewed the evening. Yes, sir, he’d made the right impression, said the right things, scored the points … in fact, he had them all eating out of his hand. Catherine moved closer to the edge of the bed away from the candidate for the senator from California, as far away a
s she could without falling out.
God, where the hell did he get his stamina? He had enough of that to fortify twenty men and here his family, his wonderful, marvelous, devoted family, who all adored him so, worried about his health, saying that Dominic was taxing himself to the point where they thought if Dom kept up this pace, he’d have a heart attack. Heart attack … Hell, what a laugh! He was strong as a horse. His family … there sure was no love lost there. Even from the very beginning when she’d come to live in San Francisco as a bride (already two weeks pregnant) with her young struggling husband. And the feeling was perfectly mutual, they couldn’t tolerate her any more than she could them, putting on such airs, never letting them forget she was an heiress. She made sure, from the very beginning, that the custom of the Rossi clan getting together constantly was going to stop, if she had anything to say about it and she did. Eventually the invitations dwindled. In no uncertain terms, Catherine made it perfectly clear she had married him and not his family and if he wanted to pursue his long familial attachments, it would have to be without her. Naturally, Dominic didn’t take that without a few rebuttals, which didn’t make her yield one inch, and after all the fights and arguments had run their course, Catherine achieved her point. Dominic saw less and less of the family, which they regretted, but knew why, which only intensified the animosity they already felt for her. However, Catherine’s southern Sicilian background had taught her not to dwell upon things of unimportance, so she simply shrugged her shoulders and ignored the fact that Dominic was more than terribly chagrined, embarrassed and unhappy when he attended family affairs, of which there were many … especially engagements, weddings, communions, graduations, birthdays, etc., etc., usually alone, always having to give the same excuse that Catherine was not well or had taken a little holiday back to New Orleans to visit her family. His voice startled her, suddenly interrupting her thoughts in the silent dark room. Oh, if he’d only stop talking. My God, she had a headache …
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