Everything to Gain and a Secret Affair (56 page)

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.

B
ill 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. Fitzgerald, 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.”

“Yes . . .” Vanessa hesitated and then, noticing Bill's beaming face, she went on more confidently, “We spent Thanksgiving together.”

“The only three Americans in Venice on that particular day,” Bill interjected. “So we had no alternative but to celebrate together. And a good time was had by all.”

“I'd like to go to Venice,” Helena announced, looking from her father to her grandmother. “Can I?”

“One day, sweetheart,” Bill said. “We'll take you when you're a bit older.”

“Do you work with my daddy?” Helena asked, zeroing in on Vanessa.

“No, I don't,” Vanessa answered. “I'm not in television, Helena. I'm a glass designer.”

The child's smooth brow furrowed. “What's that?”

“I design objects, lovely things for the home, which are made in glass. In Venice.”

“Oh.”

Vanessa had been carrying a small shopping bag when she arrived, and this she had placed with her handbag on the floor. Now she reached for it, took out a gift tied with a large pink bow, and announced, “This is for you, Helena.”

The child took it, held it in her hands, staring at the prettily wrapped present. “What is it?”

“Something I made for you.”

“Can I open it now, Daddy?”

“Yes, but what do you say first?”

“Thank you, Vanessa.” Helena untied the ribbon, took off the paper, and then lifted the lid off the box.

“It's quite fragile,” Vanessa warned. “Lift it out of the tissue paper gently.”

Helena did as she was bidden, held the glass object in her hands carefully, her eyes wide. It was a twisted, tubular prism that narrowed to a point. Its facets caught and held the light, reflecting the colors of the rainbow. “Oh, it's beautiful,” the child gasped in delight.