Sofia closed her eyes as the pallbearers took her mother’s casket out of the church. She let Jonas take her arm and lead her out and she watched her mother being lowered into the ground. Another insult – Tamara had flown into a rage when Fergus had told her Devaki would be buried in the Rutland mausoleum. His daughter’s fury had made him back down and now Devaki was being buried just outside of it. Fuck you, Tamara. Fuck you for being this petty. Sofia opened her eyes to see Tamara staring back at her. Her mouth hitched up in a grin on one side…and Sofia lost it. She lunged at Tamara, screaming, kicking, punching, until Tamara toppled backwards…into an open grave. She screamed as Jonas and Fergus pulled Sofia away, and other shocked mourners helped Tamara out.
Fergus wrestled a still raging Sofia to his car. “Get in,” he said, his voice like ice, and Jonas locked his arms around Sofia and gently steered her into the backseat. “Jonas, go back to the others. Tell them I’ll meet them at home. I’m going to take Sofia back and I’ll meet you there. Son, give me a head start of fifteen minutes.”
Jonas hesitated, looking at a now sobbing Sofia but Fergus shook his head. “Go. Now.”
Jonas reluctantly left them alone and Fergus started the car, driving in silence back to the Rutland mansion. Once there, he took Sofia’s arm and steered her into his study. He poured them both a large shot of whiskey but didn’t ask her to sit down. Sofia wiped her eyes.
“Dad, I’m…”
“No.” He interrupted her with a sharp motion of his hand. “I’m speaking now.” He still had not looked her in the eye. He walked to his desk and picked up an envelope. “In here is your mother’s estate, everything she brought into the marriage. It’s yours. Your stuff has been packed and is waiting for you in one of the limousine’s. Davide will drive you into New York City. From there, it is entirely up to you where you go, but let me be absolutely clear. You are not welcome here. You are no longer a part of this family, Sofia. I do not wish to see or talk to you ever again; do you understand me?”
Sofia did not understand him. “What?”
Fergus finally looked at her in the eye. “Your mother is dead. I no longer have to tolerate your presence.”
“Tolerate? What the fuck are you talking about? Dad…”
“Mr. Rutland to you. Now, leave this house and never come back.”
Sofia stared at him in abject horror. Where was the man who used to swing her around? Where was the man who called her pumpkin and helped her hang her art up his study walls? What the hell was going on?
There was a knock at the door and Davide, one of Fergus’s chauffeurs came in. He looked uncomfortable. “Mr. Rutland, everything is ready.”
“Fine. Miss Amory is ready to go.”
Sofia gaped at Fergus, the envelope limp in her hand. For a moment, she wanted to throw herself on Fergus, hug him, but instead, she turned and walked out with Davide. The limousine was stuffed with her things. Davide had tears in his eyes but he remained silent as he helped her into the front seat.
The journey into New York was a silent one, but when they reached Grand Central Station, Sofia turned to him. “Davide…what the hell happened? Why is Dad being like this?”
Davide shook his head. “I don’t know, Miss Sofia. We didn’t know anything was happening until just before you all left for the funeral.”
Sofia wanted to ask him so many questions but she knew she might get him into trouble. She tried to smile at him. “Thank you for everything you did for me and Mom,” she said in a voice which broke, and then without another word, she got out of the car. Davide helped her drag her cases from the trunk. She could feel by the weight of them all her books, her art materials, her clothes, everything was squeezed into them. Her whole life. In a large backpack, she found all her papers, including her birth-certificate and her passport. Davide helped her pull her bags down to the seating area, then Davide gave her a piece of paper. “A friend. She has a spare room. She lives in Philadelphia, but there’s a train later. She’s expecting you.”
Sofia hugged him. “Thank you, Davide.” And then he was gone.
Sofia sunk onto one of the benches in the huge hall and let out a shaky breath. What now? She pulled out the envelope Fergus had given her and opening it. Inside, a thousand dollars in cash, her mother’s favourite necklace – a gift from Sofia when she was small. Sofia turned it over and over in her hand. She knew it wasn’t worth anything – was only silver plated, but her mother had worn it every day until she died. The little charm was of the Eiffel Tower – her mother had loved Paris – and Fergus had taken them all when Sofia was ten. She’d spent all of her chore money on the necklace.
She fastened it around her neck now. They can’t take you away from me, Mom, not ever. Sofia looked at the address in Philadelphia. At least she could be sure of a warm, safe bed, and a hot meal tonight if she took the train.
She twisted the little metal Eiffel tower in between her fingers, deep in thought, then suddenly, not caring who was watching, opened both suitcases, dumping the contents of her backpack into one of them. She gathered all her clean underwear, two pairs of jeans and a selection of no-iron shirts and stuff them into her backpack. Her art supplies – her beloved Sennelier watercolors – were next, followed by a couple of her favorite paperbacks and all her personal papers.
She dumped the suitcases – open so the security wouldn’t think they were suspicious – and went to the ATM, drawing out as much cash from her account as she could. It gave her another few hundred bucks. She went to the restrooms and put on as many clothes as she could comfortable walk in, her best sneakers on her feet. The rest of her clothes, she put on a bench for anyone to take, along with the rest of her treasured books. She hated to let them go but at this moment, she couldn’t care about that. She went to one of the little drugstores and bought toothbrushes, toothpaste, deodorant, shower gel and shampoo, shoving them deep into the backpack’s outer pocket. Finally, tucking her passport into her jeans pocket, she made her way out of the station and towards the bus depot.
There she bought a one-way ticket to JFK. She wasn’t going to Philadelphia. If the Rutland family wanted rid of her, so be it.
She was going to Paris.
Chapter Two
Los Angeles, California
Six Months Later
Winter in California is no different from summer, Ivo Zacca thought, as he drove up to the gate of his father’s house in the Hollywood Hills. Too damn hot. He let himself in as he always did, but there was no answer to his welcoming call. He heard laughter from the terrace and walked out.
“Darling!” His mother, seventy years old and still stunning in a two-piece and wrap, got up from her lounger, drink still in hand and came to greet him.
“Buongiorno, Mama,” he said and she beamed. Adria La Loggia adored her only child as only an Italian mother could – completely, and, sometimes, overwhelmingly. Ivo was the love of her life, the reason she had given up her successful career as a movie star to raise him, just as she was beginning to make her mark in Hollywood. She still made her mark of course; her dark hair and bright green eyes, as well as her ample curves, made her a legend of the screen.
Ivo smiled at her now. “I thought I heard laughing, Mama, where’s Pa?”
“Right here,” said a voice behind him and his father grabbed him in a bear hug. Walter Zacca had been – as was still to many – a golden god of Hollywood. A charmer, a blonde matinee idol of the old school, Walter still worked, mainly cameos in big blockbusters for obscene amounts of money. He was fun to be around, a total man-whore who reveled in his good looks. He and Adria had divorced when Ivo was a child, but had remained each other’s best friends and, Ivo suspected with a grimace, each other’s booty calls when one or the other wasn’t seeing someone else – the someone else invariably being much younger than either of them.
Walter clapped his son on the back. Ivo rolled his eyes at his dad’s usual uniform of shorts and bare chest. Walter looked after himself and liked to show off his phys
ique.
Ivo sat down next to his mother’s lounger. “I didn’t know you were over from Rome, Mama.”
Adria waved a hand. “Ah, I just got in last night. I thought I’d settle in and then call you.” She dropped her sunglasses down her nose and peered at him. “You look well. Have you gotten back with Clemence yet?”
Ivo sighed. This had been his mother’s mantra since the split. “No, Ma, Clemence and I are still over.”
“Shame that,” his father said mildly. “Lovely girl.”
Well, why don’t you date her? Ivo swallowed his annoyance and changed the subject. “Actually, I just came over to tell Dad, well, both of you now, that I’m going to be in Paris for a while. Do you remember Desiree?”
Adria shook her head, frowning, but Walter’s eyes lit up. “Tall. Blonde. Skin the color of milky coffee. Gallery owner. That the one?”
Ivo smothered a grin. He wondered how Walter would react if he ever suspected that Desiree, beautiful, gorgeous, a hell of a woman, was transgender. He wondered if his dad was that enlightened yet. “Yes, that’s her. Well, she called me. Seems she’s having a drought of artists worthy of her development skills, so she’s asked me to go over and headhunt for her. Seems like a good idea. I could do with getting away from the States for a while.”
Walter chuckled. “Nothing to do with the fact that Clemence is seeing that Senator from Washington State, is it? Seems funny, her picking up with him just as soon as you’d settled in Seattle.”
Ivo felt his skin itch. “Dad, I told you before, Seattle was supposed to be temporary. I have work to do with the Quilla Chen Mallory Foundation, but only for three months.”
His mother was still studying him. “Piccolo,” she said softly, giving him the nickname he’d had as a kid, and now quite incongruous for her six-foot-five son, “You look tired.”
Ivo nodded. The break-up might have been his doing, but it hadn’t been easy to get over. “I admit, Mama, a good deal of this trip to Paris will be vacation time. I’ve worked for four years straight. I need some down time and I can combine headhunting with pleasure too.”
Adria nodded, seemingly satisfied, but Walter squinted at his son. “You tired of your work?”
Ivo smiled at his father. “Not even a little bit. I know you wanted me to go into acting, but really, I’m never going to be the right sort of personality for it. Art is my life.”
Walter harrumphed. “Sometimes I do think we brought the wrong baby home from hospital.”
“You mean…the nannies brought the wrong kid home?” Ivo teased his father, who shrugged good-naturedly.
“Just the way it was, kiddo.”
“I know. And yeah, maybe I was swapped but I wouldn’t have it any other way. Love you both.”
“Ugh, mushy,” his dad shifted in his chair and Ivo and Adria laughed. Ivo leaned over and kissed his mother on the cheek.
“Anyway, my flight is in a couple of hours, so I’d better get going. I’ll call you from Paris.”
Paris, France
Desiree gathered him in a huge, perfumed hug as Ivo made his way into her gallery the next day. “Are you jetlagged, honey?”
Ivo shook his head. “Not even one little bit.”
Desiree gave him the tour of her gallery on the Left Bank of the Seine. “Obviously, we’re still in the process of renovating, Ivo, the façade looks glorious but inside, we’re still in chaos. A bit like me.” Grinning, she led him into what he assumed would be the exhibition hall. For now, it was just a huge space, wood, sawdust and wires, and a band of sweaty workmen who didn’t even glance up at them as they passed by. Desiree chuckled as Ivo took in the amount of work still to be done. “Now, you know me. I’m not the most patient of people and when I bought the place, I thought any other pace that looked like this I would have bothered with, but this place has this.” She pointed upwards and Ivo looked up to a huge glass dome above, colored glass depicting a tornado of colors and shapes.
“Wow.”
“Wow is right. Talk about a USP.” Desiree tucked her hand under his arm. “If only I had artists worthy of showing in this room.” She sighed dramatically and Ivo laughed. “Come see what I have got, Ivo, mon chère, I need your opinion.”
Desiree studied Ivo as he looked through the portfolios of work. He looked older than when she’d last seen him, perhaps even older than his thirty-seven years. His almost-black curls had streaks of silver in and there were violet shadows under his eyes. Even so, he was still gloriously handsome, almost beautiful, his large green eyes standing out against his swarthy, tanned skin. His body was solid, honed by a strict regime of swimming. Desiree knew Ivo hated to work out in a gym, and she had often joined him on his one of his swims. He was at his most relaxed then and Desiree loved to try and match him stroke for stroke but could never manage it.
“Which pool are we meeting at tomorrow?” She asked with a grin and he laughed.
“Would you believe me if I told you I’m branching out? I’m going to try La Piscine Josephine Baker this evening.” Ivo grinned at her. “I know, I know. What can I say? Swimming relaxes me.”
Desiree shook her head. “How are you related to Walter and Adria? The King and Queen of the Lotus Eaters?”
“Exactly what they said to me before I came out.” He put the portfolios back on the desk. “Look, Desi, I have to be honest. What I’m seeing is fine work but nothing that makes me salivate. Where are the junior Rothkos or Hoppers or O’Keefes? Something with atmosphere, with a sense of story? Of the artist? These are technically flawless – and as soulless as a painting could be.”
Desiree nodded. “I know. And Ivo, a sweeter bunch of kids you couldn’t find, too, but maybe that’s the problem. Most of these kids have come from middle class families, have never known hardship. They try, but…we need someone who is…”
“Damaged?”
Desiree grimaced. “When you put it like that, it sounds bad. What I mean is someone with fire in their belly, with rage, and hurt, and pain inside of them.” She sighed. “I don’t think we’re going to find that looking in the colleges, which is depressing, because otherwise, why do we have colleges?”
Ivo nodded. “Point taken. Well, look, while I’m here, I’ll scour the city. Montmartre is the good, if obvious, place to start, but I have a feeling I’ll be more likely to find someone the more off the beaten track I go. I’m prepared to do a lot of walking.”
“And swimming.”
“And swimming.” They both laughed. “Maybe I’ll find a mermaid who channels Grant Wood. Listen, you have given me an idea, though.”
“What?”
Ivo smiled, shaking his head. “Let me knock it around in my head for a few days, and I’ll get back to you.”
“Tease. Well, okay, listen…come to my apartment tonight for an early dinner. I assume you’ll be doing your swimming late night as normal?”
“Always. Thank, Desi, I’ll see you later.”
Ivo walked out of the gallery and turned towards the river. He would spend the next few hours doing what he always did when he came here, to his favorite city. He would take a river trip, then head to Shakespeare and Company, his beloved bookstore to browse. Dinner with Desi and then a late swim…that was his heaven. His mind went back to the portfolios Desi had shown him. It bugged him that it was so hard to find new talent, but it had been a problem back in America too. His friend, Grady Mallory, had bemoaned the fact to him only last month.
“Nothing makes my senses soar at the moment, Ivo,” Grady had said. “It’s all so…blah.”
No. I’m going to find an incredible artist and Desi and I will work hard to shape him or her into the next big thing, I swear we will. Energized by his talk with Desi, he strode down the riverside to where the bateaux mouche awaited.
Sofia woke, cold and stiff under the market stall. There was a face staring at her, a kid, just the right height to peek in on her. A rustle and the cover was pulled up and Stefan’s face appeared. “Pardon, Sofia, time to get up
.”
Stefan was sympathetic and let her sleep under the stall during the day while the covers were on. Sofia found the constant presence of customers and noise made her feel safer than when she slept somewhere at night – besides, at night it was easier to steal food. She would scoot along the length of the outside cafes, whipping leftover food from plates. She figured she wouldn’t go to hell for stealing paid-for-yet-abandoned food. Last night, at one of her usual haunts, she had been stopped by a waiter, a regal man in his fifties, who said nothing but handed her a parcel wrapped in aluminum foil, and nodded. “Whenever I can,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said, in a small voice and he waved her away.
“Keep warm, child.”
She could have cried. It had been one of the few acts of kindness she had been shown since she came here, along with Stefan. Another was the swimming pool attendant. She had been sketching down in the Tuileries one afternoon and a young teenager came to see what she was doing. The girl looked at the sketches with wide eyes. “You are so talented,” she said in broken English. She reminded Sofia of herself – black hair, brown eyes, punky look. She offered her the sketch and the girl, Leonie, took it, smiling shyly.
“I work at the swimming barge,” she said, pointing along the river. Sofia had seen it – La Piscine Josephine Baker, an open-air lido. “I work in the evenings, just me and a security guard until 11pm. Come, use the facilities, swim, shower, clean your clothes. I wish I could give you more but I cannot.”
Since then, Sofia had gone along at night, swum when the pool was almost empty in her t-shirt and underwear, then cleaned her clothes and herself in the showers. Just the feeling of being clean made her feel as if she could conquer anything.
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