Once the house was hers, she had turned the old red barn into a design studio and office and converted the stone stables into a small foundry with a kiln. It was here in the studio and foundry that she spent most of her time designing and executing the handblown glass prototypes she took to Venice to be copied and produced in Murano.
Being as preoccupied as she was with work, Vanessa did not give the cottage much attention. Piles of old newspapers and magazines, which she had saved for some reason, were stacked here and there; current books, which she hoped one day to read, were piled on a chest and the floor; and, several large vases of dried flowers, which had looked so spectacular in the summer, had lost their color and were falling apart.
Glancing at her watch, she saw that it was just eight o’clock. Bill was arriving at one. Mavis Glover, who had looked after the cottage for years, usually came at nine.
Suddenly deciding not to wait for her to appear, Vanessa made a beeline for the piles of books, carried them to the library next door and found a place for them all on the bookshelves. For the next hour she worked hard in the living room, discarding newspapers, magazines, and the bedraggled dried flowers.
Finally, standing in the middle of the room and glancing around appraisingly, Vanessa decided she had made a vast improvement. Because the room was no longer cluttered, the furniture was suddenly shown off to advantage. The French country antique pieces stood out. Their dark wood tones were mellow against the white walls and the blue chintz patterned with pink and red tulips, which hung at the windows and covered the sofas and chairs.
Not bad, not bad at all, Vanessa thought, and hurried out to the large family-style kitchen. Last night, when she had arrived, she had put the flowers she had brought from the city into vases; now she carried one of these back to the sitting room. The second one she took upstairs to her bedroom.
This had once been her parents’ private sanctuary, and to Vanessa it was the nicest room in the cottage. Certainly it was the largest. It had many windows overlooking the sand dunes and the ocean beyond, and a big stone fireplace was set in one of the end walls.
Entirely decorated in yellow and blue, the room had a cheerful, sunny feeling even on the dullest of days. It was comfortable to the point of luxury.
Hurrying forward, Vanessa put the vase of yellow roses on the coffee table in front of the fire, and then went into the bathroom to take a shower. Once she was made up and dressed she would start on lunch while Mavis cleaned the rest of the cottage.
As she stood under the shower, letting the hot water sluice down over her, Vanessa luxuriated for a moment or two in thoughts of Bill. He had arrived in New York last Friday, December the fifteenth, as he had said he would. That was five days ago now. They had managed to snatch several quick drinks together on Sunday and Monday. He was busy with CNS most of the time; but when he was not, she did not want to intrude on hours he had set aside for his daughter.
“I’ll drive out to the Hamptons on Wednesday morning,” he had told her over their last drink at the Carlyle. “I can stay over until Thursday, if that’s all right with you. How does it sound?”
It had sounded wonderful to her, and her beaming face had been her answer to him.
She could hardly wait to see him, have his arms around her, his mouth on hers. At the mere thought of making love with him, her body started to tingle. She snapped her eyes open and turned off the shower.
No time for fantasizing, she chastised herself, reaching for a towel. Anyway, within the space of a few hours she would have the real thing. They would be together.
Once she was dry, Vanessa dressed quickly, choosing a heavy red sweater to go with her well-washed blue jeans. Since it was a cold day, she put on thick white wool socks and brown penny loafers. Her only jewelry was a pair of gold earrings.
Once she had applied a little makeup and sprayed on perfume, she ran downstairs to prepare lunch for Bill.
He was late.
Vanessa sat in the small library, leafing through Time and Newsweek, wondering where he was, hoping he was not trapped in traffic.
Foolish idea that is, she thought. It was a Wednesday morning in the middle of December, and the traffic had to be light from Manhattan. It was only in the summer that it became a nightmare. She was quite certain Bill would find it straight sailing today; she had given him explicit driving instructions, and, anyway, the cottage was easy to find, just off the main road.
By one forty-five, when he had still not arrived, her anxiety was growing more acute by the minute. She was just deciding whether or not to call the network when she heard a car drawing up outside and she rushed to the front door.
When she saw Bill alighting, then taking his bag out of the trunk, she felt weak with relief. A moment later he was walking into the house, his face wreathed in smiles.
He took hold of her at once, pulled her into his arms. She clung to him tightly.
“Sorry, darling,” he said against her hair. “I was delayed at the network and then it was tough getting out of New York this morning. A lot of traffic. Christmas shoppers, I guess.”
“It’s all right . . . I thought something had happened to you.”
“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” he said, tilting her face to his in that special way he had.
“Let’s go into the living room. It’s warmer,” Vanessa murmured, taking his arm. “I’ve got white wine on ice, or would you prefer Scotch?”
“White wine’s fine, thanks.”
They stood together in front of the roaring fire, sipping their wine and staring at each other over the rims of their glasses.
“I’ve missed you, Vanessa.”
“I’ve missed you, too.”
“You know something . . . I think about you all the time.”
“So do I—I think of you, I mean.”
“It’s funny,” he said softly, looking at her closely. “I feel as if you’ve been in my life always, as if I’ve known you always.”
“Yes. It’s the same for me, Bill.”
He shook his head, smiled faintly. “I didn’t dare touch you when we were in the bar of the Carlyle . . . you’re very inflammatory to me.”
She stared at him, saying nothing.
He stared back.
Putting his glass on the mantelpiece, he then did the same with hers, moved closer to her, and brought her into the circle of his arms. He kissed her hard, pressing her even closer to him, wanting her to know how much she excited him.
Vanessa tightened her embrace, responding to him with ardor, and this further inflamed him. Bill said in a low, hoarse voice, “I want you so much, want to be close to you.”
Pulling away from him, she nodded, took hold of his hand, and led him upstairs to her bedroom.
There was tremendous tension between them. They undressed with great speed, sharing an urgent need to be intimate and closely joined. As they fell on the bed, his hands were all over her body. Loving hands that touched, stroked, explored, and brought her to a fever pitch of excitement.
They could not get enough of each other. He continued to kiss her, and she returned his kisses with the same intense passion she had felt in Venice. And Bill luxuriated in the nearness of her, in the knowledge that she longed for him, needed him so desperately. He felt the same need for her. It was a deep, insatiable need.
Stretching his body alongside hers, he took her suddenly, moving into her so swiftly he heard her gasp with surprise and pleasure. As she clasped him tightly in her arms, her legs wrapped around him, they shared a mounting joy.
Vanessa lay quietly in his arms.
The wintry afternoon sunshine cast its pale light across the yellow walls, turning them to bosky gold.
The only sound was the light rise and fall of Bill’s breath as he drowsed and, far beyond the windows, the faint, distant roar of the Atlantic Ocean.
She found the stillness soothing.
Their lovemaking had been passionate, almost frantic, and even more feverish than in Venice. Their
need for each other had been so overwhelming, it had stunned them both; afterward they had stared at each other in astonishment. Now this tranquillity was like a balm.
Stretching her body slightly, trying not to disturb him, Vanessa took pleasure from her sense of satisfaction and fulfillment. How different she was with Bill; she even surprised herself. Each time they made love, they seemed to soar higher and higher, reach a greater pitch of ecstasy. It always left her reeling.
In some ways, Vanessa no longer recognized herself. She knew she had undergone a vast change since meeting Bill Fitzgerald. He brought out something erotic and sensual in her, made her feel whole, very feminine, very much a woman.
Pushing herself up onto one elbow, Vanessa looked down at him. The tense, worried expression he invariably wore had disappeared. In repose, his face was smooth, free of pain and concern. He looked so young, very vulnerable. And he touched her deeply.
Vanessa was aware that they had an intimacy of heart and mind as well as body, and it pleased her. They genuinely understood each other, and this compatibility gave them a special kind of closeness that few people shared.
She knew she was in love with him. She knew she wanted to be with him. For always. But was that possible? How could it be? She was not free. She had a husband who loved her, who was terrified of losing her. And for her part, she owed him loyalty and consideration.
Troubling thoughts of Peter insinuated themselves into her mind. She pushed them to one side. Too soon to think of the future . . . Later. She would think about it later.
In the meantime, she was absolutely certain of one thing. With Bill Fitzgerald she was her true self, without pretense or artifice. She was the real Vanessa Stewart.
She brought a tray of food and a bottle of white wine upstairs to the bedroom, where they had a picnic in front of the fire. And after they had devoured smoked salmon sandwiches, Brie cheese and apples, and downed a glass of wine each, they dressed and went out.
The thin sun still shone in the pale azure sky and the Atlantic had the gleam of silver on it. It was a blustery day with a high wind whipping the waves to turbulence.
Bundled up in overcoats and scarves, their arms wrapped around each other, they walked along the dunes, oblivious to the world, to everything except themselves and their intense feelings for each other.
At one moment Bill stopped and spun her to face him, looked down into her expressive gray eyes. “I’m so happy!” he exclaimed. “Happier than I’ve been for years.”
“What did you say?” she shouted back, also competing with the roar of the ocean.
“. . . happier than I’ve been for years,” he repeated, grinning at her, catching her around her waist, pulling her to him. “I love you,” he said, his mouth on her ear. “I love you, Vanessa Stewart.”
“And I love you, Bill Fitzgerald.”
“I didn’t hear you,” he teased.
“I LOVE YOU, BILL FITZGERALD!” she screamed at the top of her lungs.
His joyous laughter filled the air.
She joined in his laughter, hugging him to her.
And then, holding hands, they ran along the sand dunes, buffeted forward by the wind, euphoric in their love, happy to be alive, to be together.
Later that evening they sat in front of the fire in her bedroom, listening to Mozart’s violin concertos.
Vanessa, suddenly looking across at Bill, saw how preoccupied he was as he stared into the flames, noted how tensely set his shoulders were.
“Are you all right?” she asked in a soft voice. When he did not respond, she pressed, “Bill, is something wrong?”
He lifted his head, looking directly at her. But still he said nothing. Disturbed by the sadness on his face, she went on, “Darling, what is it? You look so . . . unhappy . . . even troubled.”
He took a moment, averting his eyes, focusing again on the fire. Finally he said, “This is not a game for me.”
Frowning, she gaped at him. “It isn’t a game for me either.”
Bill said, “This afternoon I told you I loved you. It’s the truth.”
There was such a questioning look on his face she couldn’t help but exclaim, “And I love you. I meant what I said, Bill. I don’t lie. Do you doubt me?”
He was silent.
“How could you possibly doubt me?” she cried, her voice rising. “It’s not possible to simulate the kind of emotions you and I have been sharing since we met.”
“I know that, and don’t misunderstand my silence,” he was quick to answer. “I know you have deep feelings for me.” Leaning forward, he took hold of her hand, gripped it in his. “I just want you to know that I’m serious about you—” He paused, pinned his eyes on her. “I’m playing for keeps.”
Vanessa nodded.
“Just so long as you know,” he said.
“Yes, I do, Bill.”
“I’ll never let you go, Vanessa.”
“You might change your mind,” she began, but halted when she saw the stern expression on his face.
“I won’t.”
Vanessa sat back on the sofa, gazed abstractedly at the painting above the fireplace.
He asked in a low voice, “What are you going to do?”
“I’ll tell Peter I want a divorce.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“So am I. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” Moving closer to her on the sofa, he put his arms around her and held her against him. And he knew he had the world in his arms. She was the only woman for him, the only woman he wanted.
CHAPTER
TEN
New York, December 1995
Bill had asked Vanessa to meet him at Tavern On The Green at twelve-thirty on Saturday, and as she walked into the famous restaurant in Central Park she realized what a good choice it had been.
Always festive at any time of year, it was spectacular during the Christmas season. Beautifully decorated Christmas trees were strategically placed, strings of tiny fairy lights were hung in festoons throughout while branches of holly berries in vases and pink and red poinsettias in wooden tubs added an extra fillip to the seasonal setting.
The magnificent Venetian glass chandeliers, which were permanent fixtures in the main dining room, seemed more appropriate than ever at this time of year.
Bill spotted her immediately. Rising, he left the table and hurried forward to meet her.
As he came toward her, she thought how handsome he looked, and he was extremely well-dressed today. He wore a navy blue blazer, blue shirt, navy tie, and gray pants. He was bandbox perfect, right down to his well-polished brown loafers.
Grabbing her hands, he leaned into her, murmured, “You look great, darling,” and gave her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. “Come and meet the other two women I love,” he added as he led her to the table, the proud smile still in place.
Vanessa saw at once how attractive and elegant his mother was, and she seemed much younger than sixty-two. Dressed in a dark red wool suit that set off her beautifully coiffed auburn hair, she looked more like Bill’s older sister than his mother.
Sitting next to his mother was undoubtedly the most exquisite child Vanessa had ever seen. She had delicate, perfectly sculpted features, wide-set cornflower blue eyes that mirrored Bill’s, and glossy dark blond hair that fell in waves and curls to her shoulders.
“I’ve never seen a child who looks like that,” Vanessa exclaimed softly, turning to Bill. “Helena’s . . . why she’s positively breath-taking.”
He squeezed her arm. “Thank you, and yes, she is lovely looking, even though I say so myself.”
They came to a standstill at the table, and Bill said, “Mom, I’d like to introduce Vanessa Stewart. And Vanessa, this is my mother, Drucilla.”
“I’m so glad to meet you, Mrs. Fitzgerald,” Vanessa said, taking his mother’s outstretched hand.
“Hello, Miss Stewart.” Drucilla smiled at her warmly.
“Oh, Mrs. Fitzger
ald, please call me Vanessa.”
“Only if you call me Dru, everyone does.”
“All right, I will. Thank you.” Vanessa looked down at the little girl dressed in a blue wool dress, who was observing her with enormous curiosity. “And you must be Helena,” she said, offering the six-year-old her hand.
“Yes, I am,” Helena said solemnly, taking her hand.
“This is Vanessa,” Bill said.
“I’m delighted to meet you, Helena,” Vanessa murmured, and seated herself in the chair Bill had pulled out for her.
“Now, what shall we have to drink?” Bill asked, looking at all of them. “How about champagne?”
“That would be nice,” Vanessa said.
“Yes, it would, Bill,” his mother agreed.
“Is this a celebration?” Helena asked, gazing up at Bill, her head on one side.
“Why do you ask that, Pumpkin?”
“Gran says champagne is only for celebrations.”
“Then it’s a celebration,” Bill responded, his love for his child spilling out of his eyes.
“And what’s this celebration?” Helena probed.
Bill thought for a moment, looked at his mother, and answered, “Being here together, the four of us. Yes, that’s what we’re celebrating, and Christmas, too, of course.”
“But I’m not allowed champagne,” Helena remarked, staring at him, then swiveling her eyes to Dru. “Am I, Gran?”
“Certainly not,” her grandmother responded firmly. “Not until you’re grown up.”
Bill said, “But you are allowed a Shirley Temple, and that’s what I’m going to order for you right now.” As he was speaking, Bill signaled to a hovering waiter, who promptly came over to the table and took the order.
Vanessa said to Dru, “It was a great idea of Bill’s to suggest coming here for lunch; it’s such a festive place.”
Dru nodded. “You’re right, it’s fabulous. Bill tells me you met in Venice. When he was there with Frank Peterson.”