“My husband was very ill for a very long time. The medication did things to his body but also to his brain. His temperament was erratic. His tolerance for the changes was small. He could be happy, delighted, one second, a raging animal the next. There was no predicting him. And the challenge to keep my own head was, at first, a nightmare. I had to take classes, listen to his therapy session with his doctors. It was not pretty or happy and sometimes, I felt as though I was wasting my time.”
“But you did it.”
“I did it. All of it. I loved him. What he had been. And I knew, just as he did, that he would not live. That his challenges would end and so would my own with his behavior and his terminal illness.”
“But Terry’s going to live,” Catrina said, angry and forlorn. “And he’s like this…this…creature who is wild and rude and demanding.”
Viv nodded and squeezed her hand. “So you have to make a decision if you can accept him as he is and work with his recovery. Or—”
“Not.”
The three women fell silent.
“I love him.” Catrina sat quite still. “But I don’t love him behaving like this.”
“That’s understandable,” Abby said.
Catrina winced. “Maybe for someone else. Some other woman who—”
Abby said, “Meaning?”
Catrina blew her nose, her shoulder sagging. “My father was abusive. I survived that because my mother left him and took me and my brother and left my father. Divorced him. I won’t live with a man who is anything like my father. I can’t. You understand?” She looked from Abby to Viv and back again.
“Yes.” Abby squeezed her hand.
“I do,” said Viv.
“That’s why I have to leave Terry. Until he learns how to live with his new reality. Until he learns that the man I loved was that other person he was. Not this one. I could love this man despite his injuries. I don’t care about the physical ones. He’ll have plastic surgery. He’ll look better. The doctors say that, and I believe them. But if he can’t control his temper, I don’t want to be near him.”
“I understand. You have to do what is right for you,” Abby said.
“So you’ll forgive me when I tell you I’m leaving. Now. I had the desk call a cab for me.” She rose from the bed and walked to the door. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to finish packing.”
“Of course,” Abby said and hugged her.
“Take care of yourself first,” Viv said and embraced her. “It’s the only way to be happy.”
****
The reception ended earlier than Abby and Nick planned. Catrina refused to have anyone accompany her to the lobby and taxi. Terry refused to come out of his room. Word spread among the guests of their break-up, and they drifted off, bidding Abby and Nick best wishes and their understanding.
Britt stood to one side of Nick and Abby during the guests’ departure. Viv was on the other. When the newlyweds had bid goodbye to the last one, they accompanied Abby’s grandfather upstairs.
“Can we talk?” Britt said to her when they were alone in the reception room.
Viv met his gaze. “I’m not going to make much sense. After all this, I’m kind of drained.”
“I get it. Me, too.”
“I’m going home myself, Britt.”
His bright china blue eyes darkened. “Can I offer you a ride?”
“Thanks, but no.”
“Okay. So then I have one thing to say.”
Viv girded herself for whatever that was. She had her own suggestion to cope with this departure, if he’d accept it. “I have your cell phone number in my own phone. Can I call you when I get back from Venice?”
That took some of the strain from his expression. “Sure. But one thing.”
“What?”
“Promise me you won’t brush me off with just a call.”
She wanted to promise. Hated to lie. “I’ll try.”
Those words took all the air out of his sails. He stared at her for a long moment and without a word, turned.
She caught his arm. With no explanation, what could she say?
He glanced at her hand and then up at her eyes. “Not good enough, Viv. I don’t live by half measures. Whole enchilada or nada. Take your pick.”
Chapter Eleven
The last time Viv had ridden a vaporetto along the Grand Canal, she’d been with her husband. The sun had been high in the sky, a glorious June day that spilled radiance along the dancing waves and turned the ancient buildings rosy gold. Today, very much like her mood, the rain fell in a steady downpour as she stepped from the water taxi and walked along a street to her destination.
The house she sought was indeed a palazzo. An old but lovely one, built during the Renaissance and renovated with the loving care and vast fortune of the American woman Viv was about to call upon.
Lucille di Fabrizio, the Contessa Montalbini, began life as the granddaughter of a man who packaged the most famous breakfast cereals in the USA. Dubbed the Cereal Princess of Minnesota when she inherited his fortune at age eighteen, Lucille had lived the good life. Now seventy-nine years old, she was a legend among European society for her salty manner. Her fine Swiss boarding-school education and no-nonsense snobbery had brought her the companionship of no less than Princess Grace of Monaco, Princess Diana of Wales, a Bonaparte, and an infamous Spanish painter who, of course, did a portrait of her stark nude. She had superb taste in French designer clothes, Cartier jewels, and incomparable men.
Lucille’s first husband had been a blustery but handsome German politician. Her second husband had been a French Bourbon prince. Her third husband, who had gone to meet his maker last year as had, quite coincidentally, her previous two, had bequeathed her this palazzo and half the stock in a famous Italian newspaper and television empire. She was beyond the pale in terms of wealth, extravagant parties, and now, in her desire to give away almost everything in di Fabrizio’s home, including a painting of Martha Washington.
“Buon giorno,” Viv greeted the maid who opened the door.
“Please, Madame, come this way,” the young woman bid her and led her through the open courtyard bursting with late chrysanthemum blooms and wild rose blossoms. The riot of color was just as heady as the perfume filling her brain. But the opulence of the old Italian structure was as much a rush as each notable vase, Roman or Greek. Each sculpture—a small Rodin, a larger Porcini. The rich vermilions and deep verbenas created a feast for Viv’s eye, and at once, she halted, struck by her wish that she could share this with Britt.
The maid glanced at her with a question in her gaze.
“I’m sorry. I am overwhelmed by the beauty of the house.” And how lonely I am admiring it alone.
“I understand, Madame. Please, this way.”
Viv obediently followed her into a grand reception hall, so gilded with lavish gold leaf and deep purple and blue tapestry that she caught her breath at the doorway.
“Good afternoon, Miss LaClare.” Lucille hailed her and waved her in with an impatient hand. She poured white wine from a crystal decanter and strolled across the thick Turkish carpet with two glasses. “Don’t worry. You will become inured to the surroundings, my dear. At first, it’s a bit like stepping into a movie set, wouldn’t you say?”
“How do you do, Contessa. I would say—” Viv stood mesmerized by the glories of the room. Glancing at the tapestry-hung walls and the frescos above her in the ceilings, she shook her head. “I’d like to stay here for a month to examine every inch of this.”
“Then do.” The lady handed her a glass of wine. She was tall, elegantly thin, her creamy skin flawless, her lips plump despite her age. She wore a scarlet caftan studded with gold embroidery. The hues set off her spectacular complexion and gave Viv the notion that reports were true that the lady had never dieted a day in her life, neither had she ever indulged in plastic surgery to improve her perfect features. “I am alone here except for the staff. I’d welcome good company. And if you like my Martha, you could stay and see i
f there is more you’d appreciate.”
“You’re very kind.”
“I’m very frank, too.” She extended her hand toward a divan that Viv would have bet one month’s salary had been made in the seventeenth century. “Tell me about you.”
Viv began a listing of her professional credentials.
“Oh, dear girl. Do stop. I know all that.”
Viv caught herself from laughing. Lucille for all her wealth and possessions would not let just anyone in her front door. “I would assume you would, yes. I apologize.”
“Do not. Drink up. Tell me instead how you have gotten over the loss of your husband.”
“Oh. Well.” That surprised her. And she was stumped as to how to proceed casually but in good taste.
“Yes, don’t be shy, my dear. You know that I lost my husband recently. A few months before your Paul was taken from you.”
Viv nodded. “Yes, I do.”
“Did you love him? Your dossier says you did.”
Okay. So Contessa Montalbini really did not beat around the bush. “I did love him. He was funny. A master at turning a phrase. Great company at home or in a party.”
Viv had forgotten that. Visions of him assaulted her. Paul intent as he concocted the best bouillabaisse she’d ever tasted. Paul catching a very tiny fish and holding it up for picture-taking while everyone else had landed five or ten pounders. Paul chuckling at a dinner they’d gone to when the senator he worked for managed to ball up his speech and got the endorsement from the cotton growers of Louisiana, even though the senator addressed them as rice growers.
“He worked for Bill Gervaise. What an old fart he was. How did your Paul manage the man?”
“You knew Senator Gervaise?”
“I did. Slept with him twice. Once out of curiosity and hormones. Second time to confirm how truly horrible he was. No creativity. Slam-bam and missionary, you see.”
Viv chocked on her wine.
“Said too much, did I?”
“No, no!” Viv laughed. “Gervaise had delusions he was a progressive.”
“Ba! As inventive as my left foot. Your Paul needed his humor to deal with him.”
“He did.” This conversation was definitely not what Viv had anticipated.
“So then, on to better subjects. What of your friend, Abigail Stuart and her new husband?”
“My goodness,” Viv started and then paused. What this woman knew about her life was utterly out of the park. “I, um, wonder what I might tell you that you don’t already know?”
It was Lucille’s turned to bark in laughter. “Touche, my dear. Tell me what it’s like to meet all those scrumptious SEALs in one room. That must be exquisite to tingle at the sight of all that male testosterone breathing together in one confined space.”
Viv grinned. She hadn’t had such a good time on the job in years. And never with a person she’d met minutes ago. She enjoyed this woman totally. Just as she had enjoyed Britt instantly.
Was the universe giving her signals that her life was changing? Or should?
“You have drifted away from me, Vivianna LaClare. Do return. There you are. Now. The men? The SEALs?”
“Beautiful.” Viv relived the moment she’d first glimpsed Britt on her doorstep. “Incomparable.”
“And you didn’t even see them in action!”
Viv opened her mouth.
Lucille looked at her askance. “Or did you?”
Viv laughed. She suspected, too, she blushed.
Lucille hooted. “How charming. And did you allow yourself to fall from lust in love with him?”
Viv froze. The truth washed through her. “I did.”
“And is there a future for you both?”
“I’m not sure.” Instantly, Viv regretted the words but fabricating anything other than the truth for this woman would be rude and wrong. And Lucille, Viv suspected, somehow would know the truth anyway. The woman could read her.
Lucille knit her brows. “Not sure, because you don’t want him? Or you still grieve for your husband?”
“I do want him. And I don’t grieve for Paul any longer.”
Lucille emptied her glass and peered at Viv. “So then. Your problem is precisely what?”
As she gazed into Lucille’s gray eyes, Viv knew. She drained her wine. The fear of losing Britt on a mission was a huge one. Viv had done loss and grief. What she selfishly didn’t know was whether she could handle again what Catrina was going through with Terry. “I wasn’t certain I was strong enough to help another person survive illness…or disability. If it happened.”
Lucille stood and put out her hand for Viv’s empty glass. Then she returned to her side bar and poured them both liberal refills. As she handed Viv’s glass back, she frowned. “You would deprive yourself and this man whatever time you have given you by the gods to serve a fear you are not strong?”
Viv bit her lip. “Yes. I’m afraid so.”
Lucille sniffed. “Terrible to know yourself well, isn’t it?”
“I think it’s a relief to admit it.”
Lucille beamed at her. “Drink up, Viv. I may call you that, may I not?”
Viv nodded. Why not? The lady had just probed into the inner sanctum of her soul. Why not call her anything she liked?
“I think it is a proper time for us to go take a look at your Martha Washington.”
My Martha? Lucille had decided to give the portrait to the gallery without any negotiation?
“I need to verify her.”
“You have your tools for the preliminary?”
“I do. In my purse.”
“Good. Then let’s go take a look at a woman who feared for many years, decades in fact, that her husband would march off to wars and political meetings and never come home. Perhaps he would fall in battle at the hands of a nameless enemy. Or to an assassin, patriot or foe, who thought her husband a charlatan. Each time she welcomed him home and welcomed him with open arms.”
Viv followed Lucille into the next room.
On the far wall, in a rococo six-foot-tall frame stood the very First Lady of the United States of America.
“Can you not find it in your heart to emulate her?” Lucille asked.
Tears clogged Viv’s throat for far too long for her to utter a worthy response.
Chapter Twelve
Britt emptied the coffee pot into his thermos, secured the top, and headed for the front door. It was after ten, but he’d been awake, up since dawn, troubled, obsessing about his failed chances with Viv, and he was angry with himself for failing to control his mind.
One thing he’d learned in BUDs training was to focus on what he could accomplish. All the possible answers to his romance with Viv were in her hands, not his. He’d already done all he could. Now he could do himself some good and chop some wood.
The nights were getting cooler up here in the Catoctin Mountains. The trees that were gold and auburn dropped more leaves each day. That was a good thing, since every time he looked at the fall foliage he saw only the vibrant green of Viv’s eyes or the dramatic red of her hair. Even the gold of the gown she’d worn as Abby’s attendant at the wedding clung to his memory.
Hell and gone.
He grabbed an old portable radio from the kitchen shelf and tucked it under his arm. Then he strode to the door and let it slam shut behind him.
The owner of the cabin was a former SEAL, and one thing he invited his renters to do was fell some trees on the property to fuel the three fireplaces. Yesterday and the day before, Britt had done justice to a full cord of wood and had half a mind to duplicate the job today as fast as his aching muscles would allow.
“Snake’s gonna be shocked when he sees half his acreage bare,” Britt muttered to himself.
****
Viv hit Britt’s cell phone number again. Three times it had rolled to voice mail. This time, she wasn’t leaving any message. She’d asked him to call her, and he wasn’t cooperating. Well, too bad if he didn’t want to talk to her on the pho
ne. She wasn’t up for that herself. But she’d make him listen to her in person.
Her phone chirped at her, giving her driving instructions up into the western Maryland mountains where Britt rented his cabin. This morning, after a good night’s sleep at home in Georgetown, she’d made a few calls. One to her real estate agent. One to her director at the gallery. One to Abby who had left a voice mail on Viv’s house line Monday afternoon.
“Nick and I are about to check out of the country club, Viv. We’re taking Terry to the airport, and my grandfather is flying back to San Antonio with him. Terry’s in for a stiff dressing down from him, so he’s bucking, but too bad for him.
“But,” Abby said on an even more urgent note, “I wanted to give you the address of the cabin that Britt’s renting. I’m emailing it to you. Just in case you want to take a drive up there when you get back from Venice. Hope you do. Britt was a miserable man last night, and Nick called his room this morning only to learn that Britt had already checked out. Hope you have a profitable trip. Good flights, too. Call me if you want when you get in. Just because we’re on our honeymoon doesn’t mean we’ve stopped living our lives. Love you. Bye.”
Viv had not called her. Sheepish over her behavior with Britt, she wanted to wipe the slate clean and do it first with Britt. She owed him more than talk. She owed him an explanation and he’d get it, face-to-face, whether he wanted it or not.
But this cabin he’d rented was the very devil to find. Winding roads and poorly marked lanes were obscured by whirling, falling leaves. When she was certain she’d found the place, she was in awe of its size. No mere wooden structure, this was a huge house that might look from the exterior like Abe Lincoln had built it, but she’d bet her boots it sported every modern convenience short of a 3D movie screening room.
Making her way up the flagstone sidewalk, she wondered what Britt was doing here every day, all alone in what appeared to be four thousand square feet of luxury accommodation. She snorted. Reading might be the activity she’d have in mind, but she didn’t see Britt sitting still for long in this crisp autumn weather.
Climbing up the broad steps, she envied him the covered porch and the view over the hilltops. At the front door, she took a moment to get her head on straight.
No Getting Over You (7 Brides for 7 SEALs Book 2) Page 10