And then, just as suddenly as he’d appeared in the dream, he was gone. In the time it took me to draw a breath, it was over and he had vanished. It was all blackness again, and I breathed slowly and deeply and wondered.
This time I knew he would be gone forever.
The Branches
Long Island, New York
April 2001
Charles Rutledge raised his champagne flute. “To Marcus and Rafaella O’Sullivan. May your lives be long and filled with joy.”
“Just when does this joy part begin anyway?” Rafaella asked, poking her husband in the side.
He gave her a look that her stepbrother, Benjie, saw, and Benjie laughed deeply, then whispered something to his wife.
For a moment Marcus buried his face in her hair. “I love you so much it sometimes hurts—deep down inside me. I thank God for you, Rafaella.”
“And I for you, Marcus Ryan O’Sullivan.”
Marcus thought of their wedding ceremony in the small church in Maplewood on Long Island and how the minister had swelled with pride to see the overflowing pews. He’d beamed until he’d seen Punk, sporting a beautiful deep rose silk suit and matching deep rose stripe through her hair. But Coco, exquisite chic Coco, had smoothed it over, laying her white hand on the minister’s black-sleeved arm, and he had nearly melted all over her. Charles had flown up many employees from Porto Bianco for the wedding and it was a raucous group who wished Marcus and his new bride well.
Ownership of the resort, and of the entire island, for that matter, wasn’t really in question. Dominick Giovanni was dead, as was his only heir, DeLorio. But DeLorio had had a wife, and Paula would soon be a very wealthy young woman. Wealthy and wiser, Marcus hoped, silently wishing her luck. It was probable she would also eventually inherit all of Dominick’s vast wealth as well. Marcus wondered if Paula would keep the resort and manage it herself.
Marcus still wondered where Merkel and Link had ended up. Probably as henchmen for another crook, since they didn’t know anything else. Oddly enough, he wished them well, particularly Merkel. As for Lacy, he’d be an efficient assassin for another master.
After the minister had finished the ceremony, Marcus had asked Punk what she thought of Rafaella, and Punk, thoughtful under her deep rose stripe, said judiciously, “We didn’t know you had it in you, boss.” Then, turning to Marcus’s new bride, she’d said, “But you know, Rafaella, I’ll just bet something could be done with your hair—”
Ross Hurley, his arm in a sling, had also attended the ceremony, but thus far Marcus hadn’t managed to cut a deal with him. Hurley would just look at him and say, “It doesn’t change anything that you probably saved my life, Marcus; the bastard’s dead, not in jail, which is what our deal was. Try again, O’Sullivan.” But John Savage held out hope. Hurley would bend and mellow, Marcus would see. Besides, Hurley had just gotten a lead on the woman who’d led Uncle Morty into the paths of illegality. If they caught her, they’d forget all about Uncle Morty. And Charles tried his diplomatic best, plying Hurley with the best champagne from his cellars.
Marcus thought now of all the endless details to be gotten through before he and Rafaella could take off for Montreal—her choice—for their honeymoon. She’d firmly vetoed the Caribbean, England, France, as being too far away from her mother. Always, always, there was Margaret Rutledge, lying in the hospital, breathing calmly and smoothly and not opening her eyes.
Rafaella just wanted the reception to be over. The past week had been frenetic, with little time to just be, without the constant demands. She’d suggested to Charles initially that their wedding be small and the reception even smaller because of her mother, but he’d objected. “No, we’ll celebrate in style, Rafaella. I’ve been telling your mother all about our preparations, all about your husband-to-be, all about your friends, and I’ve told her all about Punk’s repertoire of colored hair stripes.”
They’d put on the dog, as her Aunt Josie was wont to say. Rafaella turned to watch Al Holbein with Marcus’s mother, Molly. The two of them were going at each other in fine style. In Rafaella’s opinion, Al, for the first time in his adult life, didn’t stand a chance.
Rafaella turned to see John Savage, a man loyal to his toes, a fellow who played Marcus’s straight-man well and with such seriousness, except for that twinkle in his eye that Marcus never seemed to notice. A man so unlike Marcus, who charmed without trying. Yet the two of them were so closely attuned they many times didn’t need to exchange words to share what they thought, what they felt. It was a good thing, Rafaella thought, that she was so fond of John. She had a feeling he would be very much a part of her new life. She turned her attention back to her brand-new husband, listening as he spoke to Charles about the merits of living in New York versus Boston versus Chicago.
Rafaella held back from their conversation for a few minutes, then said blandly, “You know, I’ve decided I’d like to try for anther Pulitzer and since it’s a fact that an investigative reporter really doesn’t have a chance working for a big newspaper, I’ve applied to the Elk Point Daily News in South Dakota. What do you think, Marcus?”
Before Charles could stop laughing, the Rutledge butler was at his side, speaking quietly.
Pine Hill Hospital
Long Island, New York
April 2001
I watched Charles come into my room. He looked uncertain yet hopeful, so full of life and vibrant, and full of love for me. I didn’t really deserve it but he didn’t agree and I wasn’t about to argue with him now.
And there was Rafaella, looking so beautiful in a dress I’d never seen before, a pale pink knit dress—unusual for her to wear something so outrageously designer. She was wearing heels and her hair was beautifully arranged—long and curly to her shoulders, not pulled back with two clips. And there was a man beside her, a handsome man with a mobile face that was used to laughter. I could tell he was nice. And he wasn’t so bad to look at either. It was her husband, Marcus. Charles had spoken of him throughout the past week.
Suddenly they were all speaking to me and they were laughing and talking all at once and Charles was kissing me and Rafaella was hugging me and the man was standing back, silent but looking very pleased.
And it was then that I realized that this was what life had to offer, a simple, straightforward reality, and it was wonderful. This was where I belonged. I’ve been given another chance. And Dominick Giovanni was gone forever. I’d known it when the dream had ended.
He was gone because my dear friend Coco had followed through and managed to kill him.
How Coco and I had talked and she’d told me how she’d discovered that Dominick had had the doctor tie her tubes after the abortion. I saw her pain and knew it was nearly as great as mine. We planned and we’d come to trust each other. I had the money and she had the contacts. I knew she’d succeeded. Coco would always succeed in what she determined to do. And between us, we killed him, once and for all, and forever.
I thought about Bathsheba and my absurd serendipity. I’d loved that painting so, looking at it every day since Charles had obtained it for my wedding present eleven years ago. And when Coco and I had decided we would have Dominick assassinated, I wanted to use Bathsheba as our code, so I would never forget why I wanted Dominick to die. Bathsheba, that poor woman who’d been desired by a king and whose husband had been forced to his death by that king. Only the king hadn’t betrayed Bathsheba, no, he’d kept her until his death. And I’d loved the irony of it. The simplicity of it.
Perhaps Dominick was still a ghost, a phantom, but he was no longer of this earth, no longer to be part of my life. The future was mine alone, free and unfettered from the bitterness of the past.
Words from a song in Les Miserables came into my mind. Something about “loving another person is like seeing the face of God.” There was something to that, a lot of something. Even that ridiculous accident no longer seemed important. I’d been driving near Sylvia’s house—I couldn’t seem to stay away from her—aft
er all, she was a part of his life still, even though it was hatred that was their bond, hatred and marriage vows. And that night her young lover, Tommy was his name, was high on coke as he spun out of her drive, and he was laughing and whooping to the moon and driving like a wildman and he hit me and I saw him clearly when he hit me and I couldn’t believe the irony of it.
None of it is important any longer. I smile now at my husband. Such a beautiful man and he’s mine and loyal and steadfast and he will never hurt me.
And I will never hurt him, ever again. I know he’s sensed there was another man and he’s felt helpless because he also knew this man was deep in my mind.
That man is gone and Charles will come to realize that. I’ll make sure of it. And he’s proved to me that I’m the only woman in his life. He’d broken off with his mistress, Claudia, many months before.
And Margaret said, “Hello, Charles. I love you.”
Impulse Page 39