Cordelia didn’t want to tell him that she had been invited to lecture on the cruise ship the Queen Victoria directly after the award ceremony. The Cunard company had called her only last week, inquiring about her schedule. Cordelia had put them off, unable to decide whether or not to take them up on their offer.
“You have plenty of vacation coming to you,” Joel persisted. “Anyway, we are taking Alvin to the high-bed area for maintenance in another two days.”
“Yes, and I need to be here for that.”
“Don’t be silly, I can supervise that. You should get out of here.” Nothing doing. She was always around for the repairs—both major and minor. The maintenance schedule on Alvin was critical. The Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution’s deep submergence vehicle had regular three-month, six-month, and annual maintenance, which was done during the regular operational cycle while the vehicle was in use. But there was a major overhaul and strip-down every five years.
Cordelia always stood by as the engineers went over every bolt, filter, valve, and circuit. The lights were especially important. There was no natural light at the depths the Alvin descended, so the quartz-iodide-and-metal halide lights were critical in lighting up the ocean bed. Alvin couldn’t function without them.
“Joel, you know I want to be here for the overhaul,” she said, finally facing him down.
Just then Susan came out on deck and handed Cordelia an oversized mug of lentil soup. Cordelia immediately wrapped her hands around it for warmth and inhaled the fragrant steam. Thank God for Susan; she was always the voice of reason in any discussion. But today Joel sensed that Susan would not favor Cordelia’s argument.
“Susan, back me up here. Delia is telling me that we can’t take care of the overhaul.”
“Of course we can. What’s the big deal?”
“No big deal, I just want to be there when they do it, that’s all,” said Cordelia, starting to feel a bit cornered. What damn business was it of Joel’s whether she went or not?
“Delia, you should go,” Joel insisted.
“Go where?” asked Susan.
“Monaco,” Joel said to Susan. “She’s been invited for an award ceremony two weeks from now.”
“An award? You have to go if they’re giving you an award. Anyway, it’s perfect timing; the overhaul and strip-down will take at least a month.”
“The award isn’t for me. It’s for my great-great-grandfather.”
Cordelia handed the message back to Joel, put her soup mug down on a gear locker, picked up her skin suit, and walked to the railing to wring it out. She squeezed it extra hard, out of frustration with Joel.
“Delia, you’ve been working seven days a week for ten months straight,” said Joel, as he jumped down and reattached his flip-flops to his feet, hopping on one foot and then the other.
“So have you, Joel.”
“I haven’t been invited to Monaco.” Joel looked determined.
“Come on, Delia. You can’t refuse to go if it’s an award for your great-great-grandfather,” Susan added. “Unless there is someone else who can accept it?”
“No . . .” said Cordelia. “I’m the only one left in the family. Except for a distant cousin in England.”
“You really should go. It’s not like Monaco is that hard to get to. You could be back in less than a week.”
“I guess I could check the dates . . .” Cordelia wavered.
“Look,” said Susan, “I know what you’re worrying about. I can take care of the manipulators.”
The clawed pincers on the sub were not extending to their full seventy-four inches. A critical component of the submarine, they were used like hands to deploy instruments and pick up marine samples.
“That one stern thruster is not right either,” Cordelia added. “We can’t turn the way we should.”
“I know. I’ll check all six thrusters. I promise,” said Joel.
“You have to swear to call me if there is anything major.”
“Hey, you can count on it,” Joel agreed, hastily.
“And, Susan, the pumps for the seawater need to be checked; the variable ballast has been sluggish.”
“Right. I’ll check it.”
“It’s decided then,” Joel said, walking away quickly, his flip-flops flapping against his heels. Cordelia glared after him. She wanted to clobber him.
He stopped and turned back. “Oh, I just remembered, you have another message. I forgot to write it down. Your lawyer in New York—Jim Gardiner. He says to call him, it’s urgent.”
Villa San Angelo, Anacapri, Capri, Italy
Charles Bonnard looked away from the majestic view of the sea and saw the light blinking on his cell phone. He retrieved it from the stone parapet and sat down in the alcove. After looking at the water, his eyes had to adjust to the shade. It took a moment to register the number of the missed call.
John Sinclair’s international cell number—that was odd. They weren’t supposed to talk until the end of the week. He pressed the voice-mail retrieve button and listened.
“Charles, I’m heading to Monaco a few days early . . .”
Sinclair was going back to Monaco already? There could only be one reason: a five-foot-eleven, 118-pound bundle of destruction named Shari. What stunt could she be pulling now? Poor guy. Sinclair sure knew how to pick them—each one worse than the last.
Charles sighed and walked back into his house. He had better go meet Sinclair. But he really didn’t want to go back to Monaco and leave this little piece of paradise.
Villa San Angelo was built high into the hills of Capri and stood apart from the mayhem of the fashionable and famous down below. While the glitterati enjoyed their international watering holes in town, above them on the hillside Charles gloried in monastic isolation. Three hundred meters above the sea, his villa claimed the spectacular views that had been enjoyed by the ancient Romans when they built upon this spot. Charles had planted the Mediterranean garden out back. With his own hands, he had unearthed bits of Roman artifacts buried in the soil. Those marble fragments now held places of honor on the walls of the villa.
He walked into his bedroom to pack. The Villa San Angelo’s beautiful whitewashed rooms had the pure décor of a monastery. It dated back to the late nineteenth century. When he first bought the house, the locals had repeated the legend of an angel who had been seen sitting on the cliff side looking out to sea. It was his favorite place in the world, and the parapet was built on that spot, with a glorious view of the Bay of Naples.
He sighed. It was always hard to leave. He finished putting a few things in a duffel and looked around the room one last time before closing the door. In the town square, Charles just managed to catch the local bus down to the harbor. He took a seat for the death-defying ride along the cliffs and considered his plans. He had better get to Monaco as soon as possible. He had a strong suspicion it wasn’t going to be pretty.
The bus had nearly reached the village below when he remembered Brindy’s luncheon tomorrow. He’d have to make a quick stop to apologize. The contessa Giorgiana Brindisi wasn’t going to like it that he was not coming to her little party. And she would be furious when she found out the reason he couldn’t come—it was because of John Sinclair.
Hotel Metropole, Monaco
John Sinclair leaned over the balustrade of the Hotel Metropole. It was a gorgeous day. The breeze was blowing, the megayachts were bowing to one another in the marina, and the sunlight was sprinkling the sea with diamonds. At 1 p.m., Sinclair was still in his robe and unshaven. His head was pounding from a massive hangover, and the sunlight was searing his corneas.
God damn it, Shari. He remembered how she had looked last night. The breathtaking beauty of her as she walked into the terrace restaurant. Her white silk dress flowing around her magnificent body. She was ethereal. Golden hair was piled on top of her head, wound around with silver ribbons like an ancient Greek deity. He had become accustomed to her beauty. But last night he had been staggered.
What a fool.
He had been kidding himself for months. Actually, he should have known it wouldn’t work out a year ago, when she turned up at the dig wearing those ridiculous shoes. Shari had teetered on four-inch heels along the ancient marble street, trailed by paparazzi. It had been a surprise visit. He had been supervising the excavation with Karl and Fabian. The three of them had been thunderstruck when she turned up. Fifteen screaming photographers kept shouting, “Look this way, Shari!!!! Look this way!!”
Sinclair was disgusted with himself. He had always been annoyed by the headlines: “Beauty and the Geek,” “Supermodel Digs Archaeologist.” He had lied to himself about it. Told himself it wasn’t all that bad. He had ignored the telltale signs the whole time.
At first she had seemed to like the way he lived. She even tried to read his archaeological articles and academic papers. After all, she wasn’t stupid. He was flattered. So he had made the effort to adjust to her world. Gradually he had become used to the idea of her celebrity. He had come to enjoy going out with her, spending time on a friend’s yacht or lounging by the pool and having lunch in one of the lavish Côte d’Azur villas. Her friends were silly and amusing. It was always perfectly pleasant, and a great diversion—even if he sometimes felt he didn’t always get the jokes, or didn’t seem to enjoy them as much as the others did.
Sinclair turned toward the beautiful coastline. The view was lost on him. He was consumed with introspection—trying to be realistic, and honest with himself.
He leaned on the railing of the balcony to ease his back. Come to think of it, being with Shari hadn’t been all that great lately. They had been irritable with each other. Not always, but plenty of times. And she did demand a lot. Of course, the sex was incredible. He could put up with a lot to keep that going. He closed his eyes, remembering her lithe body under his, her gold hair splayed all over the pillow.
But last night had been the last straw. What an awful scene. Never in his life had he fought in public like that. He had lost all control. And God knows she did too. Sinclair winced at the thought of it.
He could see where he had made his big mistake. It was thinking he was in love with her and would eventually marry her. He had believed she was going to tell him good news when she had called yesterday.
“I have something very important to tell you,” she had breathed over the phone in that tiny little voice. He had been in the middle of the dig, but he had left immediately at her call. No questions asked.
He actually thought that when he got to Monaco she would tell him she was expecting his child. He had spun quite a pretty picture as he sat on the plane from Turkey. Sinclair shook his head in disgust. He had even been hoping for a boy.
Well, that conversation had turned into a disaster. Oh, she had a new baby all right, but the Brazilian Formula One driver wasn’t quite what Sinclair had in mind.
Fifth Avenue, New York City
Cordelia Stapleton smiled to herself as she stood in the doorway of Jim Gardiner’s office. Her lawyer was seated at his desk, doing what he loved to do more than anything in the world—eating. Gardiner was looking over about a half dozen New York deli containers, his white plastic fork poised, ready to swoop. He glanced up and saw her standing there.
“Cordelia! Come in, come in,” he said, and put down the fork, and hauled himself to his feet. Gardiner walked to the door and gave her a bone-crushing squeeze. She knew it was coming and braced for it. Gardiner ushered her in, and then hastily returned to his desk.
“ ’Scuse me,” he said. “I didn’t expect you for another half hour.”
He took one last bite of French bread and chewed rhythmically, fat-cheeked like a squirrel, while he crumpled up the wrappers and closed up the containers.
“Don’t let me interrupt your lunch, Jim,” she said as she took a seat. “Sorry, I’m early. I never know how to gauge New York traffic.”
“Not at all—I’m finished, anyway,” he said, neatly stacking the plastic containers.
She let him get settled while she looked around. Fifteen years she had been coming here. The room was still pretty much the same. The cases of leather-bound law books insulated the office from sound. Heavy drapes cloaked the windows. The dark-wood paneling also dampened the outside noise. A grandfather clock in the corner ticked as if counting time from another era. Only faintly could she hear the taxi horns on Fifth Avenue.
She surveyed her lawyer. Even he was almost exactly the same. His paunch had turned into a basketball and his hair was nearly all gray now. But he was still the big bear of a man he had been when she first met him.
It was she who had changed. Cordelia had met Gardiner just days after her parents had died. Gardiner, the executor of the will, was the one who had to tell her the bad news: no one wanted her.
Her closest living relative, in England, Peter Stapleton, now had legal custody, but he had no interest in seeing her. It would be boarding school for Cordelia. There was no other choice.
That was a lifetime ago. Now Cordelia looked at the corner of the desk and pictured her young hands holding on to it. She had gripped the oak as if clutching a life raft. Jim Gardiner had reached across and held her cold twelve-year-old fingers in his big warm mitts.
She thought about touching the wood of the desk again in the same spot, but her hands stayed in her lap. It was the same wood. Her hands were different.
“Jim, it’s really good to see you,” she said.
“Cordelia, I have to say, you look great. You look great.” He was beaming at her.
“I’m glad I could get a couple of days free to stop off in New York. I wanted to see you before I head to Monaco.”
“Monaco? Very fancy. Well, you deserve it, honey, you work hard enough.”
“Oh, it’s not a vacation. It’s an award ceremony, to honor great-great-grandfather Stapleton. And after that, I have been invited to give a lecture on the Queen Victoria.”
“The Queen Victoria! That is wonderful! I’ve always wanted to take a cruise. You have to tell me all about it when you get back.”
“I’m pretty excited to go, although I am a little nervous about the award ceremony. I might have to give a speech or something.”
“You’ll do just fine,” said Gardiner. “What an honor to accept an award for Elliott Stapleton! Now that’s something.”
“It’s the Herodotus Foundation Award.”
“No kidding. I’ve heard of that. It’s a big honor. You know, come to think of it, you’re a chip off the old block, aren’t you? Being an oceanographer and all. He’d be proud of you, Delia.”
Cordelia basked in his approval. Gardiner was the closest thing to a parent she had. It was Gardiner who, all these years, had sent the checks, received the report cards, and enrolled her in schools. He had paid the tuition and living expenses from her small inheritance.
His legal work for her had always been pro bono. Awhile ago, she figured out he probably chipped in his own money to help her make ends meet. After all, her parents hadn’t left her that much.
But it was more than that. He had also supported her emotionally. He had always been there on the other end of the line when she called from the phone booth in the dorm. She had called him hundreds, thousands of times. And he was always available, offering encouragement, help, support, and love.
And then there were the presents; he had spoiled her atrociously. The boxes would come to school wrapped in brown paper, her friends crowding around. Always sent with the card signed: Love, Jim Gardiner. The fancy prom dress from Bergdorf Goodman for the senior dance. The red velvet box of Valentine chocolates every year. The tartan skirt from Scotland, and a very grown-up bottle of perfume from Paris. So many gifts.
When she was very young, she had often fantasized that someday Jim Gardiner would adopt her himself. She often wondered why he hadn’t. It was only when she became an adult that she learned about Tony, Gardiner’s domestic partner. And then she realized that adoption by a gay couple was not possible when she was a girl.
She lo
oked at Gardiner closely. Tony had died last year. This was the first time she was seeing Gardiner since the funeral. At the grave site, they had clung to each other under an umbrella in the pouring rain. He had been unspeakably sad. Even today he looked a bit forlorn.
“It’s really great to see you, Jim. It’s been too long,” she said.
Her comment sounded formal, as she often did when she tried to express her love for him. He never seemed to notice, and he didn’t notice now.
“I know, Delia, I know,” he said briskly. He shuffled some papers on his desk, and seemed as if he were in a great rush to tell her something important. “Listen, I needed to see you because we got this notification from England, and I wanted to talk to you about it in person.”
“England?”
“Yes, your distant relative.” He said “distant” with derision.
“Peter Stapleton? You haven’t really mentioned him since my mom and dad died.”
“Yes, well, he didn’t exactly step up to the plate, if I recall.”
“Well, who could blame him: a twelve-year-old kid from the States . . .” Cordelia said.
“Well, it wasn’t right. He should have done something,” Jim said, his face flushing in anger. “But all that is water under the bridge.” He fussed with the papers to hide his irritation, but the gesture only amplified it.
“So what about this letter from England?”
“Well, Peter Stapleton’s wife died five years ago.”
“I remember. I wrote him a condolence note.”
“Geez, Delia, you’re too nice.”
“Well, it seemed like the kind of thing most people do.”
“Well, that note may have paid off. Peter Stapleton just passed away himself. It turns out you are his sole heir.”
She swallowed and nodded. She knew they were both thinking of that other day, long ago, when they had sat there together after her parents had died.
“Delia?”
She nodded again, more vigorously, to let him know she was all right, and took a breath.
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