RSVP...Baby

by Pamela Browning

  “Neither do I. Besides, big brother, I have a date. And it isn’t with an eighty-something-year-old reincarnation of Isadora somebody.”

  “Isadora Duncan. A great dancer and a free spirit,” Neill said, lifting his glass.

  Kevin leaned closer. “It’s my spirit yearning to be free at the moment. The desk clerk said she’d meet me after she gets off work, which was—” Kevin consulted his watch “—ten minutes ago.”

  “That cute little intern who works at the desk is meeting you? Suzie?” Suzie, whose palm he had greased so well in order to find out Bianca’s room number.

  “Yeah, Suzie. But not if I have to make sure Nana doesn’t break a hip while playing jump rope with her scarf.”

  Neill decided to take pity on Kevin. He’d been twenty-three once himself, although tonight it seemed like a long time ago. “What I want to know is why we Bellamy men have been charged with keeping Nana the wild woman in line,” he said.

  “Dad’s idea. You have to admit he’s dealt with his share of wild women.”

  Neill didn’t feel like discussing Budge’s many marriages. “Go ahead and meet your date, Kev,” he said wearily. “I thought I’d have a chance to drink in peace and unwind, but I’ll make sure Nana doesn’t launch into her dance of the seven veils or whatever, at least not tonight.”

  “The dance of the seven veils was Salome, not Isadora, Neill. In the Bible. I do know that much.” Kevin clapped him on the back and started to leave.

  Neill grabbed Kevin’s shoulder. “And it was John the Baptist’s head she wanted on a silver platter. Let’s make sure it’s not either one of our heads that’s served up after tonight. Watch out for that desk clerk, Kevin, and don’t stir anything up. Under Suzie’s prim exterior perhaps a tiger lurks.”

  “I should be so lucky,” Kevin said before heading for the door.

  Nana didn’t seem to notice Kevin’s departure. “And in Paris, you know, the Seine is so lovely in the moonlight, so my next performance was on a coal-hauling barge. What an inspiring sight to see people lined up along the riverbank and on the bridges watching, and I was dancing all in black with one white feather in my hair. Oh, and my hair was quite long. To my knees, like that country singer. What’s her name?

  “Must be Crystal Gayle,” said one of her listeners.

  “Crystal Gayle. Yes, that’s it. It was that night that one of my children was conceived—can’t recall which one. It took me simply ages to wash the coal dust off my feet. I always danced barefoot, you know. I couldn’t bear any impediment to free expression. That’s why I also refused to wear underwear. Still don’t, if you want to know the truth.”

  “Nana,” Neill said into the spellbound silence, “I’ll be glad to walk you to your room.”

  She looked at him as if he were an insect. “Who are you?”

  “Neill,” he said. “Neill Bellamy. We went to the garden party together.”

  “You have something to do with jewels, don’t you?”

  “Emeralds. A mine in Colombia,” he said.

  “Oh, emeralds,” she said dismissively. “No amethysts? They’re my favorite.”

  “Only emeralds,” he said with, he thought, admirable restraint.

  Nana’s face fell. “Well, no matter. I think I was going to teach you the cha-cha,” she said. “We were going to practice.”

  “Not tonight,” Neill said. He held up his glass, signaling the bartender for a refill.

  During this exchange, some of the others in the bar drifted away, and two paid their checks and left.

  Nana ordered a Manhattan and turned her attention to Neill. “You look dejected,” she said, prancing over and hoisting herself on a barstool. “Don’t worry. The cha-cha is quite easy to learn.”

  “I’m sure,” Neill said.

  “Or isn’t it dancing that you’re worried about?”

  “Not exactly.” He was thinking how soft Bianca’s lips had felt on his; he was thinking how he’d felt the tip of her tongue against his teeth.

  “It’s a woman. Isn’t it?”

  Neill didn’t want to talk about this, especially with Nana. “Maybe,” he replied, but she pounced instantly.

  “It is a woman,” she said delightedly. “Now which one could it be? My lovely granddaughter Winifred? She’s popular with all the young men.”

  Neill shuddered. “No, it’s not Winnie. When you’re through with your drink, let’s call it a night.”

  “I haven’t shown you my favorite bar trick,” she said. She plucked the cherry from her Manhattan and popped it into her mouth. “Have you ever seen anyone tie a knot in a cherry stem with her tongue?”

  “I don’t think so,” he said. The bourbon was starting to get to him, starting to numb his lips. And that was good; he wanted them numb. He didn’t want to think about kissing Bianca.

  “Watch,” was all Nana said, and as he stared in fascination, she managed to contort her mouth this way and that and in triumph withdrew the cherry, its stem perfectly knotted.

  “Well, I’ll be,” he said in surprise.

  “Now will you tell me which young woman is the object of your affections?” Nana said slyly.

  “I wouldn’t say she’s exactly the object of my affections. I don’t think she even likes me much.”

  “But you’d like her to, is that it?”

  He had a momentary vision of Bianca in bed with her arm outflung, the sheet pulled up over the rise of her breasts. “I’d certainly like more than I’m getting,” he said in all honesty.

  “Wouldn’t we all?” she said, and then she laughed raucously.

  Embarrassed, Neill contemplated his options. He could excuse himself and allow Nana to play herself out in the hotel bar. He could pick her up and carry her away to her room, but that might give her more of a thrill than he intended. He could reason with her.

  The last option seemed the most sensible. If he left Nana in the bar, more than likely she’d end up dancing on the bar again. Picking her up and carrying her away was a caveman tactic and really not an option, though it would get this whole thing over with.

  “Nana,” he said, turning to her with his most persuasive smile. “Tomorrow is such a busy day. You’ll probably want to shop in Lake Geneva; some of the other women have reserved the hotel limo for the day and would be glad to take you along, I’m sure. And then the bachelor and bachelorette parties are tomorrow night, so wouldn’t it be a good idea to be well rested?”

  “Oh, I will be! I never get up before the crack of noon at the very earliest. I always travel with my velvet sleep mask. It’s lavender, specially sewn for me by my seamstress. Lavender’s the only color I wear these days. Only color that speaks to me, as it were. But back to your problem. The young lady,” she said.

  “It’s not exactly a problem,” he hedged, wishing she’d stay on one subject long enough for him to make his point

  “The real problem is happiness,” she said wisely. “Always has been, always will be. How do we find it? How do we keep it? For me, happiness is the dance.” She pronounced it dahnce. “What’s happiness to you, Kevin?”

  “I’m Neill. And right now happiness would be seeing you to your room.”

  She laughed delightedly. “You wicked, wicked fellow,” she said.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Of course you didn’t. Not when you’re in love with someone. Who did you say it was?”

  “I didn’t,” Neill said weakly. The drinks had been strong, too strong. Usually he would be able to hold his own in a conversation like this, but things seemed muddled. All he knew was that he wished he were with Bianca.

  “Well, whoever it is, if she’s the one for you, don’t let her get away. Keep at her night and day until you convince her that you love her and only her, now and forever. Come to think of it, if you’re in love with her, why aren’t you with her?”

  “Because she isn’t interested,” he said without much hope. It looked as if he’d be here for a while. And he wasn’t in love with B
ianca. Well, maybe a little bit.

  Nana set down her drink with a clatter. “In that case, dear Kevin, it’s time for us to go. Far be it from me to hinder true love.”

  “I’m Neill.

  She patted his cheek. “Of course you are,” she said. “Now are we leaving or not? Because if you aren’t, I’ll order another drink.”

  “Let’s go,” Neill said.

  “Of course you must promise me that you’ll go to your young lady and impress upon her the strength of your ardor,” Nana said as he yanked her scarf off the back of the stool where it had become entangled.

  “Anything,” Neill said, barely keeping from groaning. “I’ll promise anything.”

  “That’s what everyone says,” Nana said, and she chattered all the way to her room.

  When he left Nana, Neill felt as if he had been squeezed through a wringer. He had no intention of going to Bianca and impressing upon her the strength of his ardor, as Nana had, in her good-hearted way, insisted he do. But as he walked through the moonlit garden toward the guest cottage where he was staying, he couldn’t help wondering if happiness was really the central problem, and if it was, how did one get it and how did one keep it?

  Chapter Five

  True happiness, thought Bianca as she awoke slowly the next morning, was a good night’s sleep.

  She’d rushed straight to the Ofstetlers’ house last night after Neill left and found Tia snoozing away, racking up the Zs she’d missed while traveling.

  “She just dropped off a few minutes ago, poor little thing,” Doris Ofstetler had whispered as they looked down at Tia in the cradle. “Won’t you let her stay all night? It’d be better than waking her up and trying to get her to sleep all over again. Babies get jet-lagged too, you know.”

  Tia had looked so comfortable, the Ofstetlers had been so willing, and Bianca had been so exhausted that she’d agreed that Tia could spend the night. But she was going to pick her up as soon as possible this morning, so she’d better get moving.

  Bianca had barely scrambled out of bed when the phone rang. She snatched the receiver up, thinking that there might be some problem with Tia. But it was Vittorio, her business manager, calling from Rome.

  “Bianca,” he said, sounding expansive. He also sounded as if he hadn’t talked to her in months, but it had only been three days. She pictured him in his big office with the traffic of Rome snarled outside his window; the peace of rural Wisconsin seemed like a blessing at the moment.

  “Yes, Vittorio?”

  “I have found a supplier of rubies from Burma. Beautiful stones, lovely stones. And you know what he said? He said that the best emeralds, the biggest emeralds, are mined at the Viceroy-Bellamy mines in Colombia. He said that to me at the very moment that you and Neill Bellamy are together again. I think there is something fortuitous in your meeting.”

  “I haven’t decided about the gemstone line,” Bianca said cautiously. She didn’t need pressure from Vittorio, who had no idea that to enlarge upon her relationship with Neill would cause havoc in her personal life.

  “But you will decide soon, yes?”

  “Oh, Vittorio, I can’t think about this now,” she said as a pounding commenced on her door.

  “What a—shall I say—golden opportunity for a jewelry designer, that’s all I wanted to point out. Your father thinks—”

  “One moment, Vittorio.” She held her hand over the receiver’s mouthpiece. “Who is it?”

  She expected to hear an impersonal voice announcing, “Housekeeping.” Instead she heard Neill’s deep and anything but impersonal voice announcing, “Tennis at nine-thirty, Bianca. I won’t take no for an answer.”

  Bianca dropped the receiver onto the bed and, pulling on a robe of fine peach-colored silk, hurried to the door, opening it only a crack. “I’m on the phone long distance,” she said into Neill’s newly shaven and brightly inquiring face. “I don’t have time for this.”

  “Of course you do,” he said smoothly, inserting one very white tennis shoe between the door and frame.

  A stream of outraged Italian emitted from the phone receiver on the bed behind her. Bianca glanced back at it wildly, then at Neill. It wouldn’t do for Neill to hear his own name being bellowed across the Atlantic Ocean on too-clear phone lines. It would raise questions, and she didn’t feel like explaining anything at the moment.

  Realizing that she didn’t have much choice, she released the door and went back to the phone, eyeing Neill all the while.

  “Look, Vittorio,” she said into the receiver as Neill nonchalantly sauntered into the room. “I can’t talk now. I’ll call you when I get a chance.” Neill minutely inspected the pictures on the wall, the view from a dormer window, his own fingernails.

  “Bianca,” Vittorio said, taking off into a rapid discourse in Italian about why she should listen to him, why they needed the new gemstone line, why it was a prudent move to look for new markets, and why he wanted to retire again, this time for good.

  Bianca had heard it all before. She switched to Italian, told Vittorio firmly. that she appreciated his concern, and said again that she would call him later. He was still squawking when she summarily hung up.

  “So,” she said to Neill, regarding him across the room, which seemed much smaller with him in it. “You think I’m going to play tennis?”

  He turned and lifted an eyebrow. “You like playing tennis.”

  “Not anymore.” She hadn’t played since Tia was born.

  “You could humor me,” he suggested, a twinkle in his eyes.

  Bianca definitely wasn’t in the mood to humor anyone. She gave herself something to do by scooping the crumpled dress she’d worn last night off the floor and tossing it into a hotel laundry bag. “Go away,” she said, ignoring the sheer male charm that exuded from Neill Bellamy’s every pore.

  Before he could reply to his dismissal, she padded quickly into the bathroom and closed the door. She leaned over the sink to peer at herself in the mirror. The circles under her eyes had faded and the color was back in her cheeks. She pinched them anyway; she was too pale.

  “You always said you wanted to play tennis with me,” Neill said coaxingly. He was standing very close to the door.

  In the old days, she had kept after him to play tennis with her; she’d broached the subject many times during their parents’ brief marriage. But Neill was usually too busy.

  “I didn’t bring a racquet,” she said. “Anyway, I told you to leave me alone. I mean it.” She turned on the faucet and splashed her face with cold water.

  There was a short silence. “I don’t think so, Bianca. I’ll be back in forty-five minutes and you’ll be ready,” Neill said over the sound of the running water. He paused. “I’ll find a racquet, don’t worry.”

  Forty-five minutes? She turned off the tap. Hitching her robe more tightly around her, Bianca flung the bathroom door open, but Neill had already gone. She heard him whistling as he retreated along the crooked corridor.

  “Neill?” she said, dabbing at her face with a towel. She kept her voice low in case someone in the room farther down the hall was still asleep. If Neill heard her, he kept walking anyway. She was pretty sure he’d heard her.

  She resisted the urge to swear and slammed the door instead. A screw fell out of the strike plate in the door frame; another aggravation. She tossed the screw into a nearby ashtray. All she could think about at the moment was that in forty-five minutes, Tia would be with her. Tia, the baby that wasn’t supposed to be hers. No way could she allow Neill to find Tia in her room when he returned.

  So, Bianca would first play tennis, and then maybe Neill would leave her alone. Later she’d collect her baby and, perhaps, call Vittorio back and tell him that emeralds had no place in the gemstone line. If there was going to be a gemstone line. But no, she couldn’t call Vittorio back. There was a seven-hour time difference, it was late afternoon in Rome, and it was a Friday to boot Vittorio would already be en route to his villa in the countryside. So she
had a reprieve from him, at least.

  The one thing Bianca could do right now was to call Franny to tell her of the revised plans. “Give Tia a kiss from me,” Bianca said before hanging up. She reflected that Franny and Doris Ofstetler were a godsend. And in Bianca’s life, at least lately, godsends had been in short supply.

  Bianca rushed through her shower and blow-dried her hair in record time. Why’d Neill decide he wanted to play tennis? And with her? And what kind of tennis was he into? Elegant tennis, like her mother had played at the spiffy tennis club in Lake Forest? Savage tennis, the way she and Eric had played as kids? Or bat-theball-back-and-forth pretend tennis where no one worked up a sweat, like Bianca used to play with Caroline?

  But okay, so she’d play whatever kind of tennis was required with Neill if that was what it took to get through this wedding. This was Day Two. Once today was over, there would be only two more days to go. She’d make it. She’d have to.

  And then she’d deal with Vittorio. And decide about D’Alessandro’s gemstone line. And check on the fall previews for the fashion magazines and the show that was scheduled for New York in October to introduce a popular-priced line of jewelry and maybe, just maybe, she’d design a few new pieces. These thoughts reminded her that yes, she had her own life separate and apart from all these people at the wedding. And she’d be returning to it soon, thank God.

  When Neill knocked on her door again, she threw it open with a sweet smile despite the fact that underneath she felt steely and resolute. She was more determined than ever that he wouldn’t learn about the many conflicting emotions at play under the surface of her smooth facade.

  Neill whipped a tennis racquet from behind his back. “It’s Winnie’s,” he said. “You wouldn’t believe what I had to go through to get it.”

  “Oh, wouldn’t I?” Bianca said, again bowled over by the way he looked. She might as well get used to the idea that she couldn’t make herself immune to his charm, not unless someone somehow produced a vaccination to protect women from men like Neill Bellamy. He wore his charm, good looks, and wealth like a talisman to overcome whatever resistance sprang up in his path. His rugged tan was set off by classic tennis whites, and a white cable-knit sweater was knotted around his shoulders. He looked like the old Neill, the one she’d known in the days before he’d run away to South America to make his fortune. Bianca’s heart warmed to him, but then that was nothing new. Something was always heating up when he was around.