by Неизвестный
"I really don’t have any choice, Anthony."
"You always have a choice." He looked at her thoughtfully and cleared his throat before going on. "At the risk of being indelicate, may I say that if money is an issue, I’d be more than happy-‘’
Good grief, if Dante ever knew that the subject had even arisen! "No, Anthony! Thank you very much, but no! Regardless of how I feel about Dante—and for the record, I do love him, very much——I couldn’t possibly accept that kind of help from you."
"Why not?" he said. "It’s only money and what use is it if it can’t help out in a pinch?"
"You’re very sweet and dear, Anthony."
"I’m also your friend," he said, "and the fact that you’re marrying Dante isn’t going to change that."
‘‘I know." She managed a smile. "And that said, let’s talk about your plans. Tell me how you found your nurse."
"I traced her through some contacts I have in the diplomatic corps. We exchanged a couple of letters, then, last week, we actually spoke by phone." Leila thought she’d managed to steer the conversation away from her and Dante. While Anthony talked about his lady, she opened his gift, exclaiming with genuine delight at the exquisite Baccarat stemware he’d chosen. Not until he rose to leave did he mention the wedding again, and then only obliquely. "If you should find," he said, "that you need to get away and be by yourself for a while to sort things out, we have a place on Hernando Island, up near the entrance to Desolation Sound My folks often go up there on long weekends, but there’s a guest house down near the water that stands empty and is quite separate from the main lodge. All you’d have to do is pick up the key from the caretaker’s cottage." Reaching up, she kissed his cheek. "Please don’t worry about me, Anthony. I wouldn’t be marrying Dante if I didn’t truly love him and believe I can make him happy. But thank you, all the same."
"Maybe you should consider how happy he can make you, Leila. Because praiseworthy though it might be, selfless devotion on one person’s part can do only so much. It takes two to make a marriage work, as you quite rightly pointed out to me not so very long ago." Leila gazed blankly at the darkened ceiling above her bed. In the room next to hers, Cleo snored lustily but Maeve’s room, across the hall, was silent. Downstairs, the mantel clock struck eleven. In one hour’s time it would be her wedding day. Twelve hours from now she would become Mrs. Dante Rossi.
Her glance swung to the back of the door where her wedding dress, cut along Empire lines and made of silk crepe a shade lighter than Dante’s eyes, hung from a hook; to the hat and gloves on the dressing table, and the pale kid shoes nestled in their tissue-lined box near the stool.
"You’ll look enchanting," Ellen had said, the day they chose the dress. "Aquamarine is your color, Leila. Dante won’t be able to take his eyes off you." Not so, Leila thought, throwing back the covers and going to stand at the open window. She could show up wearing sackcloth and he wouldn’t notice.
A soft breeze whispered over her, ruffling from her breasts to her abdomen, a ghostly reminder of the times when Dante had found her body fascinating enough to explore it at erotic, delicious leisure.
What would it take for him to tum to her again, to pledge himself to her, body and soul? A wedding ring?
A signed marriage certificate?
He touched her clear through to her soul but, if she couldn’t reach him, could she settle for being the adored corporate wife in public, and the shunned in private?
The questions attacked without mercy, offering no an-swers and oppressing her beyond endurance. A woman’s wedding should be a time of excitement and joyful anticipation, not an occasion filled with fear and uncertainty. No bride should be walking the floor hours before she said "I do," questioning whether or not she had the stamina to survive living with her hus-band. And no marriage should be expected to thrive in an atmosphere of doubt and mistrust.
"I cannot go through with this," she whispered to the quiet night, the tears flooding her eyes and rolling down her face. "I cannot marry Dante."
CHAPTER TEN
NINE hours, two bus rides and two ferry trips after she said goodbye to her mother and Cleo, Leila sat aboard the water taxi taking her on the last leg of her journey to Hernando. .
As dusk deepened into night, the island rose ahead, a shadowy hump dotted with occasional lights etched against the darker bulk of the mainland mountains. Apart from the muted growl of the water taxi’s engine, the air was still, the sea calm as glass except for the delta of ripples caused by the boat’s passage.
‘‘Almost there, miss.’’ The skipper cut the throttle and pointed to the left. "You can see the light at the end of the Fletcher dock about a hundred yards to port." The morning seemed a lifetime ago. She’d left the house early, arriving at Dante’s apartment shortly after eight-thirty. From there, she’d gone to the bank and then to an estate jeweler. When she’d eventually returned home, her mother and Cleo were hovered together at the front door, fluttering with agitation.
"Leila, darling!" her mother had exclaimed, hurrying down the path to meet her. "Where in the world have you been? When we brought you breakfast in bed and found you weren’t there, we didn’t know what to think, did we, Cleo? And we’ve been frantic ever since."
"The child had her reasons," Cleo declared. "I told you, Maeve, that I foresaw trouble. Look at her face now, then dare to tell me again that you think I’m a fool to believe in the cards."
"What happened, Leila?" Features drawn with worry, her mother knotted her hands at her throat. ‘‘Where have you been?"
"I went to see Dante."
“My heavens, don’t you know it’s bad luck for the groom to see his bride before the wedding?"
"There isn’t going to be a wedding," Leila had said, regretting that she couldn’t break the news more gently. But this was one truth that couldn’t be dressed up to make it appear less than it was. "I’ve broken things off with Dante."
"Ah," Cleo proclaimed sagely, trailing in her wake as she walked into the house. "As I predicted, the storm has broken."
Maeve hadn’t been so easily dissuaded. "Of course there’s going to be a wedding," she’d said, darting ahead of them. "It’s twenty past ten already and you’re due at the church in an hour, so forget this silly attack of last-minute stage fright and start getting ready. You’ll be fine once you step into your dress."
"Didn’t you hear me, Mother? I’m not getting mar-ried today."
"But, darling, you have to! Guests are arriving at the church even as we speak."
"I’m afraid they’re in for a disappointment?
That she meant what she said finally had sunk home.
"Have you lost your mind?" Maeve gasped, throwing up her hands in horror.
"No. l’ve come to my senses." Strangely calm, Leila sat down at the table, buttered a piece of cold toast and began eating. For the first time in weeks, she’d found each mouthful delicious.
"Unless I’ve sadly underestimated him, I can’t imag-ine Dante letting you get away with this."—
"Short of hog—tying me and dragging me to the altar, there’s not a whole lot he can do to prevent it, Mother." Dazed, her mother had sunk into a chair. "What brought on this sudden change of heart? I thought he was the love of your life, just as your father was mine."
"He was and probably always will be. But I’ve come to realize that love by itself isn’t necessarily enough to keep a marriage afloat."
"It was for your father and me. It carried us past all the rough spots."
"Not when it really counted, it didn’t. Or did it never occur to you to question why he didn’t stick around and face up to his troubles, instead of taking the easy way out and leaving you to deal with them?"
"He was too ashamed. He thought he’d let me down. He died a broken man.”
"He was a coward, Mother."
"Shame on you, Leila! How could you say such a thing?"
"And Dante is a bully," Leila had continued, unper-turbed. "If I’m going to promise bef
ore God to love, honor and cherish a man for the rest of my life, I’d prefer him to be somewhere between the two extremes?
"You have lost your mind!" her mother practically whimpered.
"She’s making perfect sense to me," Cleo said.
"How would you know? You’ve never been in love, Cleo. You can’t begin to understand?
Surprisingly, Cleo had said, "I was in love once, but the gentleman in question turned out to be most unde-serving of my affections. If Leila has reached the same conclusion about her intended, it’s not up to you to try to change her mind."
Maeve had dismissed the observation much as one would swat at a fly. "Rubbish! Leila, darling, I’m beg-ging you to reconsider. It’s not too late--a phone call is all it would take."
"No, Mother."
"Dante’s a proud man, Leila. Humiliate him like this in front of his family and friends, and he won’t easily forgive you."
"If I don’t take a stand now, I’ll never forgive my-self."
"But what about the babies? My goodness, if you won’t think of yourself, think of them. Do you want them to grow up not knowing their father?"
Leila had polished off a second piece of toast before saying, "No more than I want them growing up in an atmosphere of resentment and strife, which is what I’d be subjecting them to if I went ahead with the marriage at this time. Dante isn’t ready to be a husband."
"But he loves you, Leila."
"Yes," Leila had conceded sadly. "In his own way, I think he does. The trouble is, he really doesn’t like me very much, Mother. And I don’t hold out much hope for love to survive in that kind of climate."
She’d made the right choice, she assured herself, climbing from the water taxi onto the dock. In fact, she’d made the only choice. But that was cold comfort to a breaking heart. Right up until she’d exited his building and stepped into the waiting cab, she’d prayed Dante would come after her.
It would have taken so little to make things right. All he’d have had to do was take her in his arms and tell her his real reason for wanting to marry her was that he loved her and needed her. She’d have believed him. She’d have believed he could walk on water if only he’d shown her a fraction of the tenderness he’d once show-ered on her. But he had not. His initial disbelief and anger had sunk into frozen sullenness. His eyes, which once had reminded her of a sunlit tropical lagoon, had resembled a northern lake in the grip of winter: bleak, icy, dead. As dead as she wished she could be.
She would have to write to his mother, she thought, following a gravel path from the water and up past a large log house to where lights shone from the windows of a cottage near the road. At the very least, she owed Mrs. Rossi an apology, even if she couldn’t offer an explanation. Because how did one tell a mother that, when it came to the crunch, her son simply hadn’t mea-sured up?
And his sisters...she’d grown so fond of them. Their support and affection had meant more to her than they could begin to guess. Would they ever forgive her for the hurt she’d dealt to their family?
As she approached the cottage, a man of about fifty whom she correctly assumed to be Dale, the caretaker, appeared from the back. "You should have phoned and let me know you were coming up," he scolded, when she explained why she was there. "I’d have opened the place up and aired it out a bit. It hasn’t been used since last summer. Here, let me carry that bag and see you settled in for the night. The cupboards and freezer are always kept well stocked, so you won’t starve, but I’ll need to turn on the water."
At any other time, she’d have found the guest house charming, with its deep decks overlooking the Sound on three sides and a great stone fireplace filling one entire wall of the living area. Paneled in pine, with wide plank floors and chintz—covered sofas grouped around the hearth, it exuded warmth and welcome.
"If it’s peace and quiet you’re looking for," Dale said, hauling in a fresh load of logs and setting a match to the kindling already stacked in the grate, "you’ve come to the right place. ’Less I hear from you, I won’t come bothering you and neither will the missus. But if there’s something you need, don’t hesitate to holler. That’s what I get paid for. Oh, and before I forget, you’ll notice a hot tub on the deck outside the bedroom. I just turned the heater on but it’ll likely take an hour or so before it’s up to speed. Otherwise, the place is ready to go."
After he’d gone, she was completely alone for the first time since she’d told Dante she was calling off the wed-ding. Alone with the memory of that meeting and unable to escape the terrible, gaping wound she’d inflicted on herself by taking such action.
She had walked away from the father of her children; from the man who, even locked in a disbelieving rage aimed solely at her, still held the power to storm her heart with a glance, a touch.
"Don’t try playing this eleventh hour game with me, Leila," he’d said flatly, when she’d told him her inten-tions, "because I won’t let you get away with it. You’ll be there at the church as planned,"
He’d been out running along the beach in the park earlier and was wearing shorts and a T—shirt. Still un-shaven and with his hair curling damply at the ends, he looked less like a high-powered CEO than a life-guard--if one discounted the voice, sharp with authority, and the fire in his eyes.
"I’m afraid not," she’d said, knowing that either she stood her ground now or spent the rest of her life letting him get away with one ultimatum after another.
He’d faced her, his long, smoothly tanned legs planted firmly apart as if, by the sheer force of his will, he could stop the earth from turning if he chose, and laughed at her. "Of course you will, honey," he said scomfully.
"You don’t have any choice, remember‘?" For the first time, she’d known real anger toward him.
"I will not prostitute myself for anyone, not even you, Dante," she’d told him, dropping her engagement ring onto a brass tray on the coffee table. When she walked out of his door, he’d turned away and stared out of the window rather than watch her go.
Where was he now? Alone like her, pacing the floor of his living room, and wondering how they’d come to such a pass? Drowning his sorrows in Scotch and revil·
ing her for the public embarrassment she’d caused him?
Had he gone to the church himself and sent everyone home or designated the job to an underling?
Restlessly, she stepped out onto the deck. The moon had risen in the southeast, so full it cast shadows and flooded the bay with light. A sloop rocked gently at the end of a pier farther down the beach. Somewhere behind the guest house, a chorus of frogs serenaded the night. If she had upheld her part of the marriage contract, she and Dante would be on their honeymoon now.
Would wearing his wedding ring and taking his name have convinced him to treat her as his wife in every sense? Would she at this moment be lying in his arms, aglow in the aftermath of making love? Or would they merely have had sex, a cold and clinical exercise in pas-sion without tenderness?
Almost sick with misery, she stared out at the night-time brilliance of the bay and wished she could live the last three months over again and get it right this time. Impatiently, she dashed at the tears blurring her vision and turning the moon to shattered silver. Dante was right. Sex had never been the problem between them, any more than it would have been the solution. The rift ran deeper than that.
Yet her connection to him remained strong. The fact of her pregnancy made it impossible to sever all their ties. When the pain became bearable, they would see each other again, exchange dialogue, even share time together because of their children. But she would never again turn to him for help.
"I’d like to think we’ll work things out someday," she’d told him. "But I refuse to be a victim, Dante. I won’t be browbeaten anymore, I won’t tolerate your ul-timatums, and I won’t be blackmailed. So you’ll have to come to me, with no strings attached."
"Don’t hold your breath," he’d sneered. "It’ll be a cold day in hell before I come crawling after any woman."
She’d looked him in the eye and, without flinching, replied, "But I’m not any woman. I’m the mother of your children, I love you, and I deserve better than to be treated as if I were some money—grubbing tramp you’d picked up in a bar. And if you were half the man you like to think you are, you’d have recognized the fact before now and there’d have been no need for this con-frontation ever to have taken place."
"Let’s see how long your righteous indignation lasts when the creditors come banging on your door again," he’d said.
But she’d covered that eventuality, too. The sapphires and other gems which her father had given her over the years were gone, along with the heirloom pieces she’d inherited from his mother. The seven carat pigeon’s blood ruby pendant, the starburst diamond and emerald brooch, the heavy gold bangles and exquisite jade ring had fetched a good price, enough to pay off the last of the debts and still leave a little for expenses in the months to come.
"How could you bear to part with such treasures?" her mother had wept, when she’d told her. "'They were all you had left of your father."
But in the end, selling her jewelery had been less pain-ful than selling her self-respect. He hadn’t believed she’d do it. He couldn’t believe it. Even when she threw the damned ring on the table as if it were contaminated, he’d been sure hers was nothing more than a grand gesture of defiance and that she’d back down.
He’d heard the ping as the elevator arrived at the pent-house level and he’d waited for her to knock again at his door because it was beyond the bounds of credibility that she’d actually walk out on him. A good five minutes had elapsed before he’d begun to suspect otherwise. Now, thirteen hours later, it still hadn’t fully sunk in. Oh, there was no doubt that this morning’s fiasco had happened. He wasn’t likely to forget in a hurry the hu-miliation of standing before the guests at the church and telling them to go home because the wedding had been canceled. °