“SignÓre Duccio asked that I arrange for the bald eagle to be present tonight.” Tutti walked proudly into the room. The bird had been recovered. Tutti had been with Duccio for six-teen years and had witnessed sights Claire didn't even want to hear about.
“Just keep him tethered in the corner, though, please. I wouldn't want to frighten any of the guests. And the new ambassador is a lady, you know, Tutti, so I'd be sure to keep the bird away from her hairdo.”
“Of course, Signóra Claire.” And he backed silently out of the room.
“Mon dieu. It's like Tarzan and Jane at Greystoke in this place. Are there any other critters you'd like to warn me about?” Slim stuck a Camel into her mouth and lit it with a wooden match.
“Oh, Auntie Slim. I want this to be a fabulous dinner. But you must help me. It's so important to … Duccio. I'm just not sure about who sits next to whom.” She studied the notebook in which she documented her dinner parties, what she had served and who had sat next to whom.
“Let's see, the elder Agnelli has gout, so it's salt-free and no sauces at his place.” Providenzia and Alberto stood at heightened alert behind the mistress of Palazzo Duccio and nodded attentively, as if they were military operatives being briefed by their commanding officer. Their jobs depended on these little details. The headwaiter and his maid followed Claire as she moved down the long table, a pencil in her hand and a spare behind her ear. Slim trailed behind like a smokestack, occasionally backlit by sunlight that floated in through the sheer curtains. Claire had herself selected the crisp, floating fabric that veiled the world outdoors and created an aura of quiet mystery inside her public rooms. Later that evening, lit candles would bathe her guests in a rich golden light. Claire had learned from her European counterparts that the best lighting in the room should be reflected on the guests, making them feel handsome and interesting.
“Ambassador Luce is the reason for the gathering…”
“So put her in the centerpiece with the damn eagle and then Duccio can show her off to all his business associates. That's the point of all this, isn't it?” Slim nailed it.
“Precisely. We just don't discuss it.”
Slim was only recently learning that in this apparently loveless marriage Claire's loyalty to Duccio was solid. She lit a second Camel with the first, Providenzia holding an ashtray under her hand during the tricky maneuver.
“Ambassador Luce on Duccio's right. And let's give her the Vatican cardinal on her right. You know she converted to Catholicism after the death of her daughter.” Claire's children, thank goodness, would be present as usual at the cocktail hour, and the thought cheered her. “Mr. Luce is supposed to be a dull conversationalist so Cissy Grant can discuss world events with him over there.” She pointed. “Her husband owns half the newspapers in America.”
“Yeah, their society columnist runs you weekly in her ‘Letter from Abroad.’”
“And you, dear Auntie Slim, get Mr. Grant. You can tell him all the news he doesn't know, you darling.”
“What's cooking?”
“Caviar with all the trimmings and quail's eggs in the drawing room—”
“Yum.”
“And those not on restricted diets get pasta portobello, a soupçon of bouillabaise, vitello con limone, and fresh from the sea pesce spada—that's grilled sea bass—with pomodori and zucchini and then all of Duccio's favorite cheeses and iced pears and pear and lemon sherbets, all homemade, and then all our freshly dipped chocolates from the kitchen with espresso. Good?”
Slim stood back and marveled at this gifted, in-charge hostess.
“I'm going to walk around the front to make sure both the Italian flag and the American flag are displayed properly, and Duccio wants the photograph of FDR and me to be on the hall table next to the official Ike.” She rolled her eyes.
“Did you learn all this from us?”
“Every last bit. Well, a few years in the Roosevelt White House and hanging out with your pal the duchess of Windsor helped a little.” Claire grinned and slipped her arm through her auntie's. “Come along to Duccio's little gallery. I have to make sure practically every guest coming tonight has his picture hanging in the library.” She laughed, yet she knew this was very serious business, and the pictures of the former king of Italy, the head of Fiat, FDR's right-hand man, the publisher of Time magazine, all with their arms draped around Duccio, as well as Duccio the family man, all had to be arranged with as much protocol and care as the seating. Claire took such pains because she understood that this particular evening was not about politics and power games but about securing a half-billion-dollar account for her husband's shipping line and another for his South American rubber plant. However, it was the international conversation at the highest level, the most interesting people in the world gathered at her table, that made these dinners so appetizing for the hostess. Having discovered as a young Harrison bride that she moved comfortably in the corridors of power, able to slip in softly a change here and there, she took that element in this artificial marriage to Duccio and nurtured it. All of the people so carefully arranged around her table knew she was equal to any power broker in the smoke-filled rooms back home where presidents were selected and elections won. But her greatest asset was taking the spotlight that shone on her and reflecting it back on her guests. Nobody left Palazzo Duccio without having met somebody they needed to know, enjoying the finest cuisine in Rome, and promising to send a check to Eleanor House. Con piacere, with pleasure.
As was her custom, Claire dined with her children at six o'clock before her guests arrived. She never missed a family dinner. Tonight her heart was racing a thousand miles a minute because Harrison was going to join their little group. She couldn't decide whether to dress for her party before or after their separate supper. She wasn't sure how she wanted to look when she saw Harrison. She knew he was coming over just for business matters with Duccio and to see the children, but her entire upper respiratory system was hyperventilating, demanding to know if she and Harrison still loved each other. She took a sip of champagne at her dressing table to quiet her nerves. She couldn't appear rattled, not in front of the children, not in front of Duccio, not in front of her guests, and certainly not in front of Harrison. If only she could stop thinking about him, her hands would stop shaking enough so that she could slip into her white taffeta Balenciaga, pull her hair high off her face with her diamond-and-pearl combs, and fasten the string of pearls, the same pearls she had worn for Harrison, around her neck. She picked up the hand-blown Venetian atomizer from her table and sprayed the scent of vanilla and cocoa beans around her breasts. Her eyes twinkled as the familiar scent wafted up. Let the other ladies wear Chanel No. 5 and Miss Dior tonight. She closed her thick lashes, dangerously imagining what might have been. If, if, and if. Claire's romantic heart was still beating for Harrison, her body heat frozen. For two years now she had slipped her passions into a hidden drawer and only pulled them out when she was alone, free to remember and relive the shared moments; the way he held her hand or stroked her cheek. Italy. Harrison was her Italy—Lake Como. Their Isola Bella. Occasionally over the years she had allowed herself to dream. What an asset she could have been to Harrison. If she had been setting his table instead, assembling world leaders for him, they could have accomplished so much. Together they could have brokered world peace instead of just another Duccio deal.
Opening her eyes, she was startled to see her husband standing behind her. He was never supposed to enter without knocking first. By her startled reaction, he guessed her objection.
“I knocked, my darling, but you obviously have thoughts elsewhere.” He held up something big and sparkling. “It would please me if you would wear this tonight. I designed it for you and Verdura made it.” His smile was tentative as he tried to read in her eyes if she liked his gift. She smiled, but the demonstration of gratitude was contradicted by the expression in her eyes. He was taken back by the obvious sadness in them. “Don't you like them? They're the biggest turquoises and sapphires I c
ould find.” He touched the back of his hand gently to her cheek. “They're supposed to be my version of raindrops, not teardrops.”
“I wasn't crying, Fulco. I was just sitting here thinking how lucky I was and how kind you are to me and my children.”
“So it's still gratitude. Someday perhaps.”
She took the hand he offered her. “It's a beautiful necklace that I'll wear proudly because you designed it.”
“Mention that to the other guests. It's nice for them to know I have an artistic side.” He leaned back on his heels and held out a wrist for her to fasten his cuff link. He smelled like vetiver and sandalwood. If she was grateful for his protection, he was grateful for the little gestures that implied they were a couple. And although the rich pirate had his pick of any woman in every port, and had had affairs with some of the world's most beautiful women, he had somehow fallen in love with his elusive wife. He rested his hand on her shoulder as they studied each other in her mirror.
His voice was shaky with desire. “You could show off our necklace better if you put on the blue gown that shows your breasts.” She watched his fingers in the mirror as they found their way to her cleavage. She sat motionless as she always did when he touched her. As crude as he was, Duccio had the sensitivity of an exotic blooming plant. He knew he was being frozen out. “Allora. The blue dress, my necklace, and you. My table will be magnificent.” He turned to her in the mirror before walking out of her apartment. “Perhaps, when all the guests are gone, we can talk about the evening over champagne.”
The expression on her mourn never changed as she raised her fingers in the traditional ciao. She waited until she could no longer hear his strutting footsteps on the marble before she let the tears she had held back fall down her cheek. She reached for the photograph of her two children to remind herself why she was even there.
When she received Harrison, it was with Sara and Six on either hand and in the blue Christian Dior, wearing Duccio's gaudy gift.
She waited for him to walk toward her down the long, vaulted hall, as if he were just emerging from a tunnel. Partially hidden behind her wide skirt, the children broke loose and ran to the man they loved best in the world. Harrison broke his stern rule of never displaying affection and gathered them up in his arms. Claire was only glad Dior had created cinched waists and voluminous skirts that season; all the better to support her spine and cover her quaking legs. If she felt like leaping into his arms along with her happy children and burying her head in his chest, it was not possible, only imaginable. Her breasts, revealed to their best advantage in the low-cut bodice falling off her shoulders, could barely disguise her palpitating heart. Only a polite handshake marked their greeting as two warm hands grasped each other before reluctantly letting go.
Harrison was relieved he was seated a dozen upscale people down from Claire so he could freely steal a glance or two. Ambassador Luce monopolized the conversation, making it easy for him to enjoy his meal. She was taking credit for the creation of Life magazine.
“I said to Harry, ‘Let's have a magazine with pictures. Hire me and I'll start it up. He didn't want to hire me, so he married me and got me for free.’” Their end of the table laughed, all except Fenwick Grant, owner of the rival weekly and a dozen or so newspapers, who seemed to be scrutinizing their hostess.
Harrison forked a portobello mushroom and addressed Grant. “I hope you're not planning a story on my daughter-in-law. She really prefers privacy.”
“Oh, I'd forgotten your former relationship. She's just the kind of woman my magazines celebrate.” The two men looked down the golden table to Claire, who was narrating a witty anecdote in rapid Italian to the rough-edged banker from Naples.
Mrs. Luce observed both of them eyeing their hostess. She returned the energy to her end of the table. “Harrison, don't you remember the night I pleaded with my Harry to kill Hitler? Poison was the plan. That time he flew to Berlin to interview the nasty house painter and Chamberlain? What if my hero had done it then! Only Poland would have been invaded. But Harry resisted me on moral ground, didn't you dear?”
“It was none of my affair. I didn't know how evil the man would become.”
“You, Harrison. You shoot and hunt. Would you have killed him?”
“If I had seen the future carnage in a crystal ball, of course.” The candlelight shone across his eyes and brow line.
“And Hitler would have become nothing but a historical footnote and the world saved from war.” Her eyes and earrings, the same hue in the flattering light, both sparkled.
“I won't ask you, Signóre Ansiano. They say you're in the Mafioso. But how about you, Duccio? Would you have killed to save the world?” She coyly turned her head in his direction.
“I've killed to save my wallet.” He twisted his napkin with a snap. “And as a young boy to save my goat. A man does what he must!” Breaking the startled silence in the room, he brought his fist down hard on the table and threw his head back with a crude laugh.
“You can do anything in this world if you're prepared to take the consequences, and consequences depend on character.” Clare Boothe Luce clinked Harrison's glass to hers by way of a toast. Suddenly she was bored with murder. “I'm having tea with Claire Duccio tomorrow. I think she has enormous political possibilities. Maybe I can rope her into some embassy position.”
“I can speak firsthand that she's an attribute in the political arena. FDR always thought so.”
“Franklin,” Clare Luce huffed prettily. “He never did give me credit for coining the phrase ‘New Deal.’”
The official toasts were gracious. Duccio toasted the new “ambassadress,” as he called her, the ambassadress toasted Italy's president, the president toasted his host and hostess, and Claire, on a more personal note, wished luck to her husband's latest acquisition, the SS Andrea Doria, the six-hundred-and-ninety-seven-foot Italian luxury liner that was the latest jewel in her husband's growing empire.
“In bocca al lupo.” She raised her glass. “In the mouth of the wolf” was Italian slang for “Good luck,” she informed Luce.
“Let's dance!” Léonide, the star of Monte Carlo's Ballets Russes, was restless in his chair.
“Shall we adjourn to the ballroom?” Claire rose, signaling that the meal was over. She had long ago eliminated what she regarded as the sexist ritual of cigars in the library for men and ladies’ hem-line discussions in the salone. Dancing brought them all together. And Duccio, who had been taking his lessons diligently, danced like a twirling demon.
The old-fashioned dance rituals were observed at Palazzo Duccio even though the zestful millionaire was a very new member of Roman society. He would dance with Mrs. Luce, one of the guests of honor, while his wife danced with the other, the Honorable William Henry Harrison IV. Claire hesitated, trying to remember which excuse she had decided upon not to have to fold herself into Harrison's waiting arms. Pulled muscle, tennis elbow, eagle bite? She forgot all of them as Harrison moved toward her, put one familiar hand on the small of her back, and with the other clasped her hand in his, setting off a small burst of fireworks whose sparkles impaired her vision. The familiar scents of tweed riding jackets, Washington war briefs in damp leather, and the heady smells of love-soaked sheets in Lake Como accosted her nostrils. It was too much. She couldn't stand there and only dance.
“Excuse me, but I've got to check on the children.”
“May I come? I'd like to tell them good night.”
Claire looked down at his shoes. Hers were covered by Christian Dior's New Look billowing out from her well-angled hips.
“Is anyone noticing us?” She didn't want to look up.
“Everyone's dancing.”
Summoning her acting skills, Claire picked up her blossoming ballerina skirt and put a gracious smile on her lips. She quasi-danced around the ballroom, checking on everyone else's happiness as she always did. Nothing out of the ordinary. She stopped to speak into her husband's ear, gently touching his forearm. “I'm going
to take Harrison up to say good night to his grandchildren. Do you mind?”
“Beautiful party, my dear. Shake hands with my new partner in the Andrea Doria. Claire can help us pick the new china and train staff like no one else.”
“Thank you, dear.” She rustled away, Harrison at her heels. They climbed the seventeenth-century winding staircase.
“This staircase is older than Charlotte Hall,” Harrison said to her back.
She turned, both of her hands full of lifted silk taffeta. “Charlotte Hall. The day I arrived there I felt I had come to Manderley.”
He looked puzzled.
“You know. Stiff and foreboding, like in Rebecca.”
“I'm not the romantic-novel type.”
“You're not the grandfatherly type, either.” She loosened her self-control a notch and gave him a full smile.
“Come along. The children will be thrilled to see you, if they're still awake.”
After gently pulling a book from Sara's sleeping hands, Claire and Harrison looked in on Six. He looked like a resting angel, the light from the full moon throwing a filtered beam across his finely chiseled face. One hand lay across his heart as the other fell open across a Winnie the Pooh who had crisscrossed the ocean a dozen times.
“Claire. I want to speak to you about Six's future. Is there somewhere we could speak privately?”
“Here.” She arched her worried brows and led him into the darkened sitting room she shared with her children, pushing a football out of the way.
“Ophelia and I have been talking …”
She froze. Had he come up here just to talk about his wife? Was Claire only a fuzzy memory to him? Had their great love existed in her heart alone?
“And what have you and Ophelia been speaking about?” Her ironic tone imitated Ambassador Luce's.
“That Six is gifted. That he is too, well … special to grow up without a suitable male father figure. He should be raised in America.” The words “by us”—meaning Harrison, Ophelia, Harry, and Minnie—were unspoken.
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