“I know this is blasphemy, Lucia, but you could consider selling a piece or two. That could carry the collection and the villa a long, long way.” I wanted to add, Instead of stealing pieces of priceless jewelry you can’t do anything with anyway but that could end up putting you in jail for the rest of your life.
“No. Selling would not be feasible.” She looked at her watch. “Dio. It’s after six. Are you coming with us tonight?”
“I don’t think so,” I answered. “Your father hasn’t mentioned it to me.”
“I’m sure he meant to.”
“I don’t even know what it is.”
“Just a casual dinner,” Lucia said. “On the Ercole.”
“The Ercole?”
“Yes, our yacht. The Ercole. Hercules in English. It’s the calm before the wildness of tomorrow. Just a few friends. Very casual.”
“I’d love to come along.”
“Bene. We’ll leave about eight.”
I stood up. “Then I’d best have a nap if I’m going to look like anything by eight o’clock. Thank you so much for the afternoon and the tea and for showing me a little of your collection.”
“Thank you, Priscilla.” Lucia kissed me on both cheeks. “You made me feel so much better. I’ve never finished a whole plate of cakes before—everyone’s always so worried about their weight.”
“Well, that’s another thing you need to know: If you want to have a life with meaning, which you do, then there’s so much more to it than your waistline.”
“I wish you could stay with us forever.”
“Well, I’ll be here for a couple of days, anyway,” I said. “Do you know what you’re wearing tomorrow night?”
“I can’t decide—do you want to see? Maybe you can help me.”
“I’d love to.”
Lucia’s bathroom was spacious with oversized period fixtures and solid, pure white marble walls and floor. In comparison, her dressing room was surprisingly compact. She opened one of the closet doors and pulled out three evening gowns—shell-pink silk, black chiffon, and copper organdy, and held them up one at a time.
“It’s between the pink and the black,” I said. “Save the copper for fall.”
“You’re right. I never thought of that.”
When she removed the organdy gown, I briefly glimpsed the hinges to the door of a wall safe on the back wall of the closet and I was relieved to have an idea of where she stashed her loot. It would save me precious time and guesswork.
F O R T Y - O N E
The maid had closed the drapes against the afternoon sun, and like the rest of the grand palazzo, my suite was cool and still. I wandered Into the dressing room and thought about my conversation with Lucia. It had moved me. She reminded me so much of myself, not the princess part, of course. My own rearing, if you could even call it that, had been haphazard, at best. But the independent part. However, she hadn’t reached the mature conclusion, yet: That we’re alone in this life and it’s up to each one of us to choose if we’re going to be happy or unhappy.
I wondered about my long-lost child: Happy? Sad? Living? Dead? For years, I’d checked the Internet adoption sites in the hopes the child would want or need to find me. Born: Florence Crittenden Home, Omaha, Nebraska, August 1965. Mother, unknown. Father, unknown. But no such query had been made and I stopped checking. What a coward I’d been not to leave my only child a clue.
Lost in thought, I put my torsade back into its case, then my blackamoor brooch, stepped out of my dress and hung it up, and pulled on a peach silk peignoir with handmade chantilly lace trim. I needed a nap and I had an hour before I had to get up and start the whole deal all over again.
I’d just climbed into bed when there was a knock on the door. Thank God. It would be Thomas. So like him to wait until he knew the house would be asleep, and we could meet privately. I pulled my robe back on, checked myself in the mirror—hair and makeup still looked fine. I sprayed on a little scent and went to the door. I hated to admit it, but in spite of my anger and all the issues between us that needed explanation and resolution, I was excited to see him. I couldn’t wait. My heart pounded. I took a deep breath and gathered myself. I threw open the door.
“Well,” I said, “it certainly took you long enough.”
F O R T Y - T W O
“Bella.”
“Giancarlo!” I gasped. My face froze. “What are you doing here?”
He stepped into my outstretched arms and put his lips on mine and closed the door with a swift, slamming, cavalier, Zorro-like kick of his foot.
No. No.
No. No. This would not do.
I put my hands on his chest and pushed him away. “Stop. What do you think you’re doing?”
“Priscilla. I know you want this as much as I do.” He pulled me to him again.
“No. No. I don’t.” I freed myself from his clutches and stepped back.
He stepped forward. I stepped back again. Around to the other side of the bed. He came after me and caught my arm.
“Priscilla.” He laughed. “Surrender.”
“No, Giancarlo. Get out of my room.”
“You are my guest.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. Or what was happening. What was this? Droit du seigneur? It was like a bad swashbuckling movie. I broke away from him again and he dashed after me. He was actually chasing me around the room. It was insane. I headed for the dressing room and Giancarlo leapt up on the bed, ran across it, and leapt to the floor to block me, placing his hands on either side of the door, like John Barrymore. He was laughing the entire time. Like this was a game. He was a complete and total idiot. At least Bijou had figured out it wasn’t a game. She locked her little jaws onto his pants’ leg and started growling and tugging.
“Get the hell away from me, Giancarlo, or I’ll scream,” I said.
“Yes, yes. Scream.” His eyes rolled with pleasure. “Scream. Scream.”
Bijou growled.
“Get away from me, little doggie.” He shook his leg trying unsuccessfully to dislodge her grip and at the same time he got a hold of my arm and pulled it out of my negligee, ripping my gown and exposing one of my breasts.
I slapped him. As hard as I could. “Get a hold of yourself,” I said.
There was a knock on the door. I literally lunged for it and threw it open.
Thomas.
He looked completely astounded.
“Thomas,” I said breathlessly.
“Terribly sorry to interrupt.”
I realized what this must look like. I was half-naked, in complete dishabille, my lipstick was smeared, my hair was ripped to shreds, and Giancarlo was standing close to me with a big smile on his face and his hand on his just-slapped pink cheek.
Bijou jumped into Thomas’s arms.
“No,” I said, clasping my robe to my throat in an attempt to pull myself back into some sort of presentable shape. “Not at all. You aren’t interrupting anything. Giancarlo was just leaving.”
Thomas smiled. “I’ll come back later.”
“No. You’ll come in now,” I ordered.
“Very well.” Thomas stepped inside, leaving the door open. Bijou squirmed in his grasp, whimpering with joy at seeing him and licking his face. He stuck her under his arm. “Friendly dog. Cute. I’m just making the rounds to make sure everyone’s jewelry is secured for the evening. Please put your valuables in the safe down the hall before you go out. That is … if you do go out.”
“Absolutely,” I said. “Is that all?”
“I believe it is.”
“Lovely.” I put my hand on Giancarlo’s back and guided him out the door and removed Bijou from Thomas. ’Then I’ll tell both of you gentlemen ’good afternoon’ and see you later.”
I didn’t care if they heard the deadbolt turn once they were out the door. I was furious. Thomas had come to my room for a reason and I’d missed it because of that idiot, Giancarlo. What in the hell was his problem, anyway?
I went into the dressin
g room and almost screamed when I saw myself in the mirror. I looked like I’d escaped from an insane asylum. My eyes were wild, my lipstick was more than smeared, it was all over the place and my hair stood out like I’d been shocked. Worst of all: The white gardenia was sitting right on top of my head like a silly little hat.
“Oh, my God.” I started laughing. “Oh, my God. What Thomas must have thought.”
I drew a deep hot bath and sunk my head, gardenia and all, beneath the bubbles.
F O R T Y - T H R E E
There was another incident with the burglar alarm while I was dressing—I could hear Giancarlo screaming that the security company had better get things in order, or else. My head was splitting from the noise.
By the time I went downstairs, the giant house was quiet. It seemed almost empty except for an electrician and his helpers who were trying to locate the short in the alarm system—I could have told them to save their energy, that the alarm was going to keep going off no matter what they did. The Jewelry Room guard was changing and I overheard one of the DeBeers men say, “We’ll be in the shift room. Call us if you need us.” The security chief thanked them, saying they should go ahead and bunk-in, he anticipated a quiet night. “Get some rest,” he told them. “Tomorrow’s going to be a long day It’ll be a zoo.”
Lucia was waiting in her red Ferrari convertible at the bottom of the front steps. The beautiful machine rumbled with the low-throated growl of an impatient lion.
“I’m sorry to be late,” I said. “I’ve been on the phone with my banker in the U.S.”
A complete lie. The truth was, I’d had a terrible time getting dressed. What did one wear for a little dinner party on a boat?
I had no clue. I’d never been on a boat of any size before, well, except for a water taxi in London, once. Once was enough for me. I’ve never really had much, or frankly any, interest in the ocean. And interestingly, there were very few society magazine pictures of what guests wore at dinners on yachts because they were so very private. The same way you seldom see pictures of what people wear on their private jets. They don’t want outsiders to see into their world because it just opens them up for more abuse by people who don’t have private jets and yachts and who are jealous and have a lot of time on their hands for criticism.
Lucia had said it was casual. Casual means different things to different people and this was such a generally flashy crowd, I imagined anything would go. All I knew about boating clothes, at least all I thought I knew, was that people wore lots of white and shoes that don’t skid. White is really not a good look for me, or any big girl, so after an inordinate amount of thrashing around, I put on what movie stars wear everywhere: black slacks, a black T-shirt and a black blazer. Lots of gold jewelry and a spray of red oleanders in my hair.
The fact was, I also needed to dress to be able to do a little business after dinner.
“You aren’t late at all,” Lucia said and revved the engine. She wore white jeans, a loose silk tunic, and rubber-soled espadrilles. A single eighteen-millimeter, gray, South Sea pearl was suspended around her neck from a black cord, possibly the same cord that had held the large emerald cabochon the night before that I now knew was the actual Empresse. “They won’t leave without us.”
The second I was in the car—my door was scarcely closed—she let out the clutch and we screamed away in a cloud of burning rubber and shot down the hill as though we’d been launched from a catapult and were being chased by demons.
“Whoa,” I said and grabbed for the handhold.
“Don’t worry I won’t hit anything,” she said with conviction. And I believed her.
One of the things that most endeared Lucia to me was her quiet confidence, her indomitable sense of entitlement, and the fact that she—no one else—controlled her world. But she’d been so protected and so spoiled, she was still amazingly unfamiliar with—actually completely innocent of—the reality that consequences exist. In her realm, consequences were fixable. But now—if she were able to follow through with whatever her plan was for this gigantic heist—she would be stepping through the veil. I loved the contained security of her world, as much as she did, and I would do everything in my power to make sure she didn’t have to leave it. She thought the life of a jewel thief was glamorous, dangerous, fun. And it is. But the consequences are not—she only saw the fantasy of stealing jewelry to underwrite her family’s legacy, not the repercussions of getting caught. The reality was something else all together. That’s why I’d stopped. I didn’t want to get caught. I didn’t want to go to jail. I’d made a beautiful life and I wanted to enjoy it.
Lucia’s innocence had touched me and I knew I was risking everything to let her keep it. But I had experience, options, workable escape plans and escape routes. She had none of those things. She had youthful invincibility, great reflexes, and a lot of style. She had no idea how lucky she was that I’d come into her life.
Most of the roads around Portofino are one lane wide, at the most, and consist of one hair-raising, hairpin comer after another. Lucia was an excellent driver and I thought, What the hell. If this is where I’m meant to die, so be it. It could be worse. She slowed slightly as we neared the town proper, and when we reached the entrance to the piazza, she stopped while an ancient fellow crept out of an unobtrusive little shed and removed the bollards, staggering under their weight. We then proceeded with impunity across the cobblestone waterfront, where cars were not allowed. Lucia was, after all, the principessa. Carbinieri saluted as we rounded the docks, past the diners at Splendido Mare, the colorful apartment buildings, and storefronts. She stopped next to her father’s Lamborghini at the bottom of a very disappointing little gangplank that led up to what looked to me to be a very disappointing little boat.
I don’t know what I was expecting, something like the Britannia, I suppose. Something with a little oomph, a helicopter, and a couple of lifeboats. I imagine, in the boating world, this brand—Ferretti, according to what it said discreetly on the side—would be considered a substantial thing. It was maybe a hundred or so feet long, and white with lots of wood (I couldn’t help noticing a number of rust spots around the railings and portholes). It was quite lovely, I suppose—a sort of miniature Britannia.
“Bienvenu to al Ercole,” Lucia said.
“What a charming boat,” I said casually and mounted the wobbly gangplank as though it were something I did every day.
F O R T Y - F O U R
“Priscilla.” Giancarlo, dapper in white flannel trousers and a navy blazer, took my hand and kissed it. No trace of my slap remained on his cheek. “You’re coming along with us. What a pleasant surprise.”
“I hope you don’t mind. Lucia invited me at the last minute.”
“I’m delighted. I meant to invite you myself but I wasn’t given the opportunity.” He smiled as though his afternoon chase around my room had been fun—an acceptable form of exercise. “Welcome on board our little Hercules. My father had her built in the 1930s by Mr. Ferretti himself, so she is a treasure. Let me show you around.”
I was now completely immune to Giancarlo. I was on to him. When I looked back on the episode this afternoon, I saw how comical it was. No matter what he might think, he wouldn’t get to me twice. The truth was: He was now simply a used-up cog in my plan. I was in, and I was set to go. As a matter of fact, once I got my “business” done later this evening, I intended to relax and enjoy the next twenty-four or so hours. I knew exactly where I stood and what I was going to do.
I followed him around the boat. There wasn’t really that much to see, except that it must have been very beautiful at one time. But now, the Ercolewas a relic, in need of restoration and refurbishment—a testament to Lucia’s earlier allusion to the cost of their lifestyle and the justification for her misguided solution of stealing irreplaceable and virtually unfenceable pieces of jewelry. I realized she obviously hadn’t gotten to the stage of trying to sell any of it yet—if she had, she would have changed targets. The living ro
om and dining room were good-sized and appointed with highly varnished yachting-style furniture but the fabrics were stained and worn and the varnish marred by years of use. The small staterooms still had rudimentary 1930s baths. I would have no interest in having anything more than dinner aboard this boat. It should be sold to someone who could afford to take care of it. If they didn’t sell a painting or two and get some cash flowing, they and their collection would all go down with the ship. Literally.
“Here we are,” Giancarlo said as we exited onto the aft deck, which was quite pretty, outfitted with a bright blue canvas awning and matching cushions, and a dinner table set for eight now being quickly reset for nine—Giancarlo, Lucia, Sissy, two other couples, and not especially surprisingly: Alesandro. “Let me get you a cocktail. Scotch?”
“Please.”
“Signora Pennington.” Alesandro kissed my hand. “How nice to see you. Do you know my friend, Sissy McNally?”
Sissy put down her half-full martini and we bussed each other’s cheeks.
“Oh, honey, I’m so glad to see you.’ You look positively gorgeous.” She sounded relieved I was there and after the run-around in my bedroom with Giancarlo, I understood why. I was sure she’d been chased around the bed a few times herself. “I was so afraid you weren’t going to make it.” She gave a quick roll of her eyes and whispered, “Look out for Giancarlo tonight. He just gets to be too much for me to handle sometimes. He’s all hands.”
“Tell me about it.” I laughed. “Don’t worry—I can handle him.”
“Well, be my guest.” She tossed off her drink and handed the glass to the maid. “I’d like another, please. Grazie.”
Poor Sissy. Her life, which looked so glamorous in the papers, was empty and unhappy. She had on enough jewelry to blind an eagle and I’m sure Alesandro had it tallied up to the last euro. Even though I knew he wasn’t the Shamrock Burglar, he was a thief nevertheless, and Sissy would be an easy roll. I hoped she didn’t get drunk and invite him back to her room at the villa. It could complicate matters for me, extremely
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