Slowly they made their way upstairs. Dazed, Gina stumbled around the bedrooms, six sleeping quarters, each with its own bathroom, some with adjacent sitting rooms. Each room was decorated in its own color. There was the rose room, the red room, the gold room, the green room, the lilac room, the blue room. She who had lived sharing one tiny half-in, half-out washroom with her mother, her cousin Angela, her aunt Pippa, her brother Salvo, and then her husband. Each room with its own bathroom. Overwhelmed, she placed her palms on her blooming belly.
Harry appeared by her side. “What’s the matter? Why are you holding yourself? You don’t feel well? Sit down.”
“I’m fine,” she said.
“Something hurt?” He looked around for a chair to place her in.
“Nothing hurts. I just touched my stomach. I feel all right.”
His hand remained at her elbow.
The master suite was a series of connecting blue rooms. The bedroom itself was decorated in intricate lace-like wood trim. It had a giant white four-poster bed in the middle, mirrors everywhere, light yellow paintings of flowers and water. It had a sitting alcove by the balcony, a spiral staircase that led to the lawn below, and a library with a fireplace. Gina asked Harry if he wanted to make the library a nursery. Harry said he preferred to keep it a library. “Reading is the only joy that has not been taken from me,” he said. “And now you want to take that away, too?”
“Who said you couldn’t read? But the baby has to sleep somewhere.”
“There are five other bedrooms. Can’t it sleep in one of those?”
“No,” she mimicked. “It can’t sleep in one of those.”
He rolled his eyes.
She rolled her eyes right back at him.
But she forgot all about him when she entered the sprawling bathroom, an open seafoam-blue room with two sinks, a large porcelain tub, and in the corner a shower, half enclosed by a marble wall. She had to lean against the marble wall to get her bearings. “Harry, can you believe this? There’s even a place for me to sit and put on my makeup.”
“Hmm,” he said with an indifferent shrug. “There are too many fireplaces. There’s even one in here. Why would you need a fireplace next to a bathtub? Why do you need fireplaces at all in Florida? It’s a waste of money.”
But when evening fell, he himself built a fire for them downstairs. Fernando found cords of wood in the horse stables.
“Seems a shame that Fernando will be staying in the barn with the horses and the wood,” Harry said, sitting alone at his malachite table as Esther walked by with the crystal goblets. “Doesn’t Marie Antoinette have her own private quarters near the lake? Maybe Fernando can stay there instead.”
“All right, Robespierre, enough,” Esther said, motioning to him. “Come eat.”
Two
OUTSIDE ON THE STONE PATIO, they sat down to cold shrimp and crab, to fresh-baked bread, a cucumber salad, and strawberry shortcake. It was slightly chilly in the evening January air, but the roaring fire made it easy and comfortable to remain outside. In Boston, Rosa usually didn’t eat at the same table as Esther, but here, the three women all sat together. They spent the evening planning tomorrow and the week ahead, how they would make the house smell better, get some cleaning supplies, wash the tables and chairs. Gina said she wished she had a bench to sit on, not just chairs, and maybe a hammock. They would need bathing suits to swim in, though Gina wasn’t sure anyone made bathing suits for pregnant women, so perhaps she could make one, if only she had a sewing machine. They would get some fresh flowers, vases, new sheets . . .
“Wonderful, now you’ve all become maids,” Harry cut in. “Especially you, Esther. Doesn’t anyone have some elevated concerns?”
“The house is the concern,” said Gina. “The house is everything.”
“On this we disagree,” he said.
“Just on this?”
He took a sip of wine. “I will admit the house is in better repair than I expected. Not that I expected much. But still, being vacant for over a quarter century, I’m surprised.”
“You have Father to thank for that,” Esther said. “To protect your trust, he hired a building manager, who looked after the house. Every five years Father paid to have it repainted. He also paid a grounds crew and a cleaning crew twice a year.”
“He kept that up for all these years?” said Harry. “Why?”
“Because if he didn’t,” Esther replied, “it would be worth nothing but the price of the land. Which is not insubstantial. But your wife is right, the house has value separate from the land.”
Harry stared up into the bedroom balcony, the fireplace on the patio, the lights in the kitchen. “It doesn’t look like a house built in 1890,” he said, not looking at Esther, who wasn’t looking at him either. “I can’t imagine they had indoor plumbing back then. Electricity?”
“They did, they had some things.” Esther paused. “Bathtubs. But you’re right. Three or four years ago, around the time the war started and you served your first major stint in prison, Father decided to make major renovations to the house. You know Father can build houses, too. He wasn’t to be outdone. He was going to improve on it. He put in all new plumbing, resurfaced the swimming pool, switched from coal to oil for heat, which made it easy to keep the white house from turning black. He ran new electric through it, and modernized the kitchen appliances. You can see how up to date it is.”
“Father did this at the beginning of the war? Why?”
“I don’t know.” Esther pulled the silk shawl tighter around her shoulders. “He thought you might come to him, ask for help. He wanted it to be ready for you.”
“Even after 1905?” When he and his father parted ways, Harry thought it was forever.
Esther nodded. “It’s your house, placed in his trust. He took care of it for you.”
“Also, you are still his son,” said Gina. “Nothing you do can change that.”
“Gina is right, Harry,” Esther said, tightening her mouth as if disapproving of Gina’s being right. “You are Father’s only son. Men tend to place an importance on such things. As opposed to, say, daughters.”
“No, Esther,” Gina said. “Fathers adore their only girls. Believe me.”
“I don’t think you and I have the same father, do we?” Esther said.
“You’re right, we don’t,” replied Gina. “Because your father is still alive.”
They sat quietly in the cool evening, drinking tea, watching the fire burn out. Rosa had excused herself and gone to bed. “How are we going to live here?” Harry asked Esther. “We are Versailles-rich, but penny-paupers. How are we to buy milk? Rattles for the baby?”
Esther and Gina smiled at each other across the teak table.
“What? What are you two grinning about?”
“I’m proud of you, Harry,” said Gina. “This is the first time in our marriage you’ve asked how we are going to pay for anything.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You’ve never asked before. You must’ve assumed it would be taken care of somehow.”
“Leave it to you to turn that faint praise into a backward compliment.”
“I didn’t realize,” Gina said, “it was ever either.”
Harry spun to his sister. “Will you answer my question? How do we pay Fernando?”
“Fernando is taken care of,” Esther said. “Father is paying for your security. After all, his word, his good name, and half a million of his dollars are on the line. He can’t have you behaving how you normally do.”
“Moving forward,” Harry said, “is how I behave. What about for everything else? Is he going to give us a stipend?”
Esther shook her head. “Bellagrand is your stipend. Billingsworth has set up a line of equity for you at the local bank, against the value of the house. What that means, is you cannot withdraw from the bank more than the house is worth.”
“I know how it works, Esther. I graduated from Harvard.”
“Book-
smart, but life-stupid,” said Esther. “The way it works is, you use the house account for your living expenses, for everything from your food to your clothes, to your wife’s sewing machine, to a car you might want to buy. Eventually, when Father passes, many years from now, and ownership of the house transfers to you, you will be responsible for that open account. And what that means is . . .”
“Esther! I know what it means.”
“I don’t think you do. If you decide to sell Bellagrand . . .”
“But why would we?” Gina interrupted.
“Let my sister finish, Gina.”
Esther continued. “If you decide to sell it, the bank will first pay off your outstanding house account, and then issue you a check for the balance, provided there’s anything left.”
“Why wouldn’t there be?”
“I say nothing. But the more you spend, the more frivolously you use your line of equity, the bigger your cars and your household budget, the less you will have on the other side if you ever do decide to sell.”
“When you say nothing,” Harry said, “you sure say quite a lot.”
“Why would we sell?” Gina repeated.
“Wait, Gia. Esther, what happens to the open account if we don’t sell?”
“Run it up and up, if you wish,” Esther replied. “Every piece of food you put in your mouth is charged against the value of this home. The bank extends to you a secured line of credit and charges you interest on the money you borrow. The more you borrow, the more interest you pay. The house is how the bank knows it’s going to get its money. Eventually you will have to pay the bank, either by selling the house or getting a job.” Esther smiled with bitter bemusement. “So by all means, live your life, spend away. But remember, there’s an end to everything.”
Harry glanced inside the dimmed palatial house, built for diplomats and kings. “Not to this.”
Three
THEY WERE BOTH EXHAUSTED when they finally closed the door to their blue room to get ready for the night. She unfolded the new sheets and made the bed by herself while he sat out on the balcony. She wanted the French doors open for the fresh air. He wanted them closed. She disappeared into the bathroom. When he came back inside he left the doors open for her. He sat in a chair by the fireplace leafing through a book on Spanish architecture. He glanced at the cold fireplace.
By the time she reappeared, in a thin robe, her hair loosely tied back, the fire was alight and crackling. “Why did you put on a fire in Florida?” she asked, walking past him to get her hairbrush.
“I thought you might like it. You’re not too chilly with the doors open?” He glanced at the silk robe around her shoulders.
“No, I’m not cold.”
He ignored her for a moment, pretending to be fascinated by the Doric columns and marble porticos, by the pillars, poles, supports, and stakes. But then—
There was a glimpse of fragile roundness, a fullness, a ripeness he wasn’t used to. There was a woman alone with him in the bedroom, sitting on a vast white bed, flushed, warm, his. He wasn’t used to that either. Something tugged at his heart, other places. Opened. Blood rushed in. He closed the book, carefully laying it on the low table.
“Hey,” he said. “Come here.”
She was in the far corner, brushing out her hair.
“What?”
“Come here.”
She walked up to him, stood in front of him, tired, unsmiling, her brown eyes exhausted pools of disappointed affection.
His hand reached up and touched her hip, pulled on the sashes of her robe. “Open,” he whispered. “I want to see.”
“See what? You’ve seen everything.”
“I want to see the baby,” he said.
She didn’t protest, but neither did she put down the hairbrush. Harry thought at any moment she might hit him over the head with it. He unraveled the silk tassels and pulled her robe partly open. She stood in front of him naked like he’d never seen her before, enlarged, softened, with a swollen belly protruding in a half moon circle. His palms fanned over it. The belly felt taut, not soft, half a watermelon under velvet skin. Leaning forward, he kissed it, kissed above her belly button, kissed below the belly button, and lingered there, his hands on her hips tightening in an insistent vise. He raised his eyes. Her breasts had tripled in size, her nipples dark and large.
He groaned under his breath, as if he didn’t quite want her to hear his need for her, his hands encircling her hips, moving her closer.
“How many months are you?” he asked hoarsely, gliding up and cupping her breasts. They used to fit molded into his hands. But no more. His breath was short.
“Almost five.”
“Have we gotten this far before?” Pulling up in the chair, he fondled her abundantly. He kissed the underside of her breasts.
“Not this far.”
His open impatient mouth closed around her hardened nipples.
She moaned, and dropped the brush. Ah. Finally.
Standing up he kissed her deeply, slipping the robe off her, pressing her bare body to his clothed body, his crazy hands wrapping around her back.
“You’re completely dressed, marito,” she whispered.
“And you’re completely naked.” He laid her down on their sprawling bed, stood over her, touching her ankles, looking at her. Slowly her arms lifted above her head. “You have become a different woman,” he whispered, leaning over her, kissing her nipples, wishing he could undress himself without letting go of her.
“No, just a pregnant woman,” she said, reaching for him, her head arching back, her eyes closing, her mouth parting, her thighs also.
He gazed at her for another mad moment, and went to close the balcony doors.
“What are you doing,” she moaned. “I wanted them open.”
“No, you don’t,” he said, kneeling on the bed between her legs. His spread-out hands palmed her thighs.
“Oh, yes, you’re right.” She shuddered before he laid the smallest kiss on her. She grabbed hold of his head. “Close the balcony doors, yes, yes.”
“They’re closed, my wife,” he whispered, lowering his head and his ravenous mouth upon her, oh, the bliss, the swell, the adulation. Tu mi hai rapito il cuore.
Tu sei tutta bella, Harry whispered to her the words she once taught him. Mia perfetta.
Ho fame, she kept repeating over and over. Ho fame.
Me too, he whispered. O God, me too. Starving. Famished.
She cried and cried. On top of her, he had his lips on her throat so he could feel her sobbing, her nipples so red and raw, she would fly from the bed at the barest intimation of his mouth leaning down to suck them. Gina, Gina . . .
Piango, piango.
Tell me what you want.
Prega non si smettere.
Am I ever stopping?
Into his neck, his head, his face, his heart, against his stomach, her maddening mouth was outrage in the night, and yet pianse, even when he was in her mouth and losing his sanity, no, it was long lost, hurled twenty years ago into the mysteries of ancient volcanoes. He perspired like never before, he had to open the balcony doors or they would both suffocate.
He opened the balcony doors.
They still suffocated.
Did you miss me? he whispered to her in the dark, cradled inside her. They were both wet like they lived in the womb.
I can’t live without you, she whispered back, moaning. Did you miss me?
He pressed his face and his mouth between her shoulder blades in reply.
Non smettere, non smettere mai . . .
Am I stopping?
They lay together, panting, trying to catch a parched breath.
Gina held his face between her hands. Harry, she whispered. There is love in every room in this house.
There is love in this room.
It was a labor of love that built it, whispered Gina.
I don’t want to talk about it. Please.
Look at the colors of Bellagrand. White, like
a bride, like innocence, white like the sand, the distant shores, the horizon at dawn. White, for innocence, for romance, for thrall sublime.
I don’t see it, and don’t want to see it, he said, bending over her throat, kissing her clavicles, her nipples, her heart.
You’re blind.
Not quite blind, he whispered, gazing into her face.
Her lips found his lips. He closed his eyes.
Do you know what I regret?
She lay on their bed, tremulous, listening, receiving, waiting for more.
That I have only one pair of eyes to look at you with.
She moaned and opened her enveloping arms to him.
That I have only one pair of ears to hear you with.
She curved into his grasping hands.
That I have only one pair of hands to touch you with.
She was rocking from side to side, pulling him to her, onto her, please please . . .
That I have only one mouth to kiss you with.
So kiss me, kiss me, put your mouth on me, adore me . . .
That I have only one tongue to taste you with.
He had to close the doors to the balcony again, her ecstasy echoing down the dark rippled waters.
That I have only one—
Oh Harry . . .
Here and there and everywhere, relentless, endless.
And still she cried.
Don’t cry, amica mia, innamorata, he whispered, his breath heavy, his own heart opening and closing like a prayer book. Non piangere.
And yet … lei piange.
I’m sorry, he lamented to her in the moments of respite between the chaos of the hurricane. I’m sorry I’m not the man you thought I was.
You are the man I thought you were. I’m sorry I was weak and wrong. Mi dispiace. Perdonami.
It’s done, it’s gone. Will you forgive me for my foolishness?
I can’t remember any.
I’m going to try harder. Though sometimes, like when the awful thing happened between us, I become dreadfully afraid that I am simply not equal to the task, that I will never be quite worthy of your love. This is what I fear most. And it is when I fear this that I behave the worst. Sometimes I don’t know how to help us become what we both once dreamed we would be.
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