Rhapsody (48 page)

He hung his head. "I guess so," he said at
last, not looking up at her.

"Then why don't we talk about it, Misha," she
said gently. "It's time to get it out in the open, and get past it
or ...whatever. Deal with it in any case."

"I ... I don't know what to say, Vera," he
said.

"How about the truth?" she replied. "We've
always shared everything, Misha. This shouldn't be so
different."

He looked up at her. Vera had always been
there for him, and he knew deep down inside that she would be
now.

He nodded again and closed his eyes a moment.
When he opened them, he said, "Yes, I've been seeing someone."

Vera cringed inside and felt deathly sick for
a moment. For even though she'd known the truth for a long time,
hearing him confess it made her physically ill. She wanted to
scream louder than she'd ever screamed in her life, and at the same
time she wanted to lash out at him with both her fists. Instead,
she sat, breathing deeply, trying to control herself. Lashing out
at him would accomplish nothing except perhaps drive him away. When
she could finally trust herself to speak reasonably, she asked: "Is
it serious, Misha?"

He looked into his nearly empty glass. "Yes
...no." He sighed. "I don't know. I guess ... I guess so." He
looked up at her.

"Do you know what you want to do about it?"
she asked.

"No," Misha said. "I'm ... I'm very confused
right now. I don't know what to do."

Vera suddenly felt deflated. It must be very
serious, she thought, if he's this undecided about what to do. If
it was a mere flirtation, he would've said so immediately.

"I ... I hope," she said, "that you'll know
soon, because I don't think I can go on living this way much
longer."

"I can't either," Misha said disgustedly. He
looked over at her. "You know, you're not the only person who's
suffering in this situation, Vera," he said.

"I didn't mean to imply that I was," she
retorted. "But I am the one forced into this situation, Misha. I
haven't chosen it, like you."

He suddenly leapt off the bed and began
pacing the floor, guilt and self-loathing fueling his anger with
her.

"You can be awfully self-righteous," he
said.

"Misha, I'm simply trying to—" she began.

"You're trying to make me feel worse than I
already do!" he snapped unreasonably.

"That's not true!" Vera cried. "I'm—"

He stopped pacing and glared at her. "Oh, I
know you too well," he interjected again before she could finish,
"and you're not the perfect little angel that everybody seems to
think you are." He pointed an accusatory finger at her.

"I know that the perfect little Miss Vera
used to get a little on the side with nasty Simon Hampton, didn't
you?"

"Misha, you're being—" she began to no
avail.

"I'm being what?" he roared. "I'm being
realistic. Because you were screwing around with the creep before
we married and for all I know you could be screwing around
now!"

Vera looked at him with a mixture of
astonishment, horror, and fury. "Simon Hampton is dead," she said
from between gritted teeth. "Dead!"

Misha looked at her with surprise. "Dead?" he
said. How did she know? One of her friends in London could have
called her with the news, he guessed, or it might even have been in
the New York papers, though he doubted it.

"Yes!" Vera said miserably. "Dead!"

"When was this?" Misha asked. "When?" he
repeated when she didn't immediately answer.

"Right before our wedding," Vera finally
said.

"What happened to him?" he asked, trying to
find out what she knew.

Suddenly Vera realized they were in
treacherous waters, and she didn't know what to say.

"Well?" Misha taunted. "What?"

"He drowned off one of the piers in the
Hudson River," Vera said quietly.

Misha looked at her curiously. How on earth
would she know that? he wondered. The papers—if she saw them—said
he'd been found drowned near the Verrazano Narrows Bridge. He could
have floated there from anywhere in the New York Bay. What the
hell's going on here? he asked himself.

"How do you know that?" he finally asked
her.

Vera began twisting her wedding band
nervously, round and round her finger, trying to think what to say,
her mind reeling with possibilities and implications.

"He ... I ... I don't remember," she
sputtered at last, knowing it was a lame response at best.

"You don't remember?" Misha asked
sarcastically.

Vera looked away and didn't speak.

"You claim he drowned out on the piers. But
he was found down by the Verrazano Narrows Bridge. How do you know
where he died?" He paused, studying her troubled features. "Why
don't you tell me the truth? You always lied about Simon Hampton,
didn't you? Why don't you try to tell me the truth now? Huh?"

Vera sat mutely, her misery and turmoil
clearly evident on her elegant face. How in the name of God did the
conversation take this turn? she asked herself. How could I have
let this happen?

"Come on, Vera," Misha cajoled nastily. "Out
with it. How did you know about Simon Hampton's drowning?"

"Because I was there!" she cried at last.
"Because I saw it happen!"

Misha looked at her in stunned disbelief.
"You were there?" he said. "You saw it?"

Vera nodded. "That's what I said, Misha," she
said quietly.

His mind whirled with a million questions,
and for a moment he couldn't focus on one. Finally he asked,

"Why, Vera? Why were you seeing Simon Hampton
right before our wedding? Were you two still seeing each
other?"

"Oh, Jesus," Vera said. "You think it was a
sexual tryst or something? It wasn't that at all."

"Then what was it?" Misha continued
relentlessly. "What in God's name were you doing with him?"

"I was trying to keep him from killing you,"
Vera finally said.

"Killing me? Again?"

Vera merely nodded again as tears began to
fill her eyes and spill onto her cheeks.

Misha's heart lurched at the sight of her
tears, and he sat down on the bed and gently took one of her hands
in his. "Tell me about it, Vera," he said softly. "Please tell me
everything."

And she did, telling him exactly what had
transpired that horrible evening over five years ago, a night she
had hoped to bury forever.

Misha listened without interrupting her,
alternately fascinated, revolted, and ultimately convinced that no
one else had ever loved him enough to make that sort of
self-sacrifice for him.

When she finished her story, she looked up at
him, tears still in her eyes. Misha slowly took her in his arms and
held her there, stroking her head and her back, while fresh tears,
prompted by his simple loving act, began to flow unchecked down her
cheeks once again. She cried and cried until she'd cried herself
out, for the time being at least, feeling a great burden lifted
from her heart. The secret she had for so long carried was finally
out, and she felt its weight lifted, giving her a sense of freedom
from its heavy guilt and shame.

She reluctantly drew back from the comfort of
his arms and reached over to the bedside table for a Kleenex. She
wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

Looking at Misha, she smiled ruefully. "I
suppose there's some sort of irony in all this somewhere."

Misha cocked his head. "What's that?"

"We were always going to be open and honest
with each other," Vera replied, "and now I'm finally telling you my
last ugly little secret on the very night you've finally chosen to
tell me that you're having an affair with Serena Gibbons and most
likely want a divorce."

Misha, who'd been watching her so placidly,
jerked involuntarily at the sound of Serena's name. A flush
immediately reddened his face. He was momentarily nonplused.

This revelation, tripping so easily off her
lips, made him a little angry: she had known but never breathed a
word to him. How foolish he'd been to think that he could hide
anything from her. At the same time, like Vera, he felt a vast
sense of relief that his secret, too, was at last revealed. There
would be no more subterfuge, and for that he felt, also like Vera,
a new freedom.

"So you knew," he said simply.

Vera nodded.

"For a long time?" he asked.

Vera nodded again.

"How did you know it was her?"

"I caught a glimpse of her in Vienna when we
were there together," she said. "At the Hofburg. And that's when
everything started to change." She shrugged and looked at him.
"It's simple. I put two and two together."

Misha sighed. "And you never said a
word."

Vera shook her head. "I... I just hoped you'd
finally get her out of your system."

He sat staring at her, her delft blue eyes
puffy and red from crying, her nose pink. She truly loves me, he
thought. Like no one else. Then: What the hell am I going to do?
For the revelations tonight hadn't solved his dilemma. There was no
sense in trying to fool himself. He was still drawn to Serena. She
was truly a bewitching siren whose call to him could not be
denied.

What the hell am I going to do? he wondered
anew.

"I know you need time," Vera said softly.
"And I know this isn't easy for you. I just want you to know that
I'll do my best to accommodate this, but I don't want Nicky hurt."
She heaved a sigh. "But that's inevitable. What I mean to say is, I
want him hurt as little as possible."

She looked up at him, pinning him with her
gaze. "If you want a divorce, I'll give it to you."

She saw the look of confusion in his eyes.
He's still uncertain about what he wants to do, she thought.
Perhaps our marriage does stand a chance. Perhaps someday we can
once more be a family.

Misha reached over and took one of her hands
again. "I was going to ask you for a divorce tonight," he said
honestly. "But I don't know if that's what I really want."

Vera reached over with her free hand and
gently stroked his hair away from his handsome features. "We'll
see," she said. "Give it some time."

Misha impulsively took her into his arms and
clasped her to him. His heart swelled with gratitude that she could
be so magnanimous. His hands tenderly brushed through her pale
blond hair, down her back and her arms. Then he tucked a hand under
her chin, lifting her face to his, and began kissing her there,
softly touching lips to forehead, eyes, cheeks, nose, and mouth, so
tenderly at first but more and more hungrily as the feel of her and
the scent of her fueled his desire.

Vera responded immediately, relishing the
intimacy she had so long been denied and at the same time thinking
she must be a fool to let him have his way. But she wanted him as
much as she ever had, wanted him, if it was possible, more
desperately than ever.

In moments they were naked, flesh against
flesh, and that familiar, comfortable lovemaking of the past was
now intensified by their long separation and a new intimacy as a
result of their revelations tonight. Feverishly and inexorably they
moved toward a release at once ecstatic and poignant and ultimately
fell into heavy sleep in each other's arms.

"I think this is the most reckless thing
you've ever done," Coral said harshly. "But since there seems to be
no changing your mind, I've made all the arrangements that I can at
this end."

"Thanks, Coral," Serena said distractedly.
She hadn't really been listening to what her agent had to say, but
she'd caught the gist. Enough to know that she would be having it
her way, as she'd always known she would. She continued sorting
through camera equipment, paring down the possibilities to a bare
minimum. She was going to be traveling light on this trip.

"I've told the magazine editors that you're
working on a super secret project," Coral went on, "so hush-hush I
can't breathe a word. And that you won't be able to do anything
until after New Year's. That'll keep them satisfied for the time
being, more or less, and intrigued with what it is you're up
to."

Coral paused, pleased with herself, and
waited for a response. Then she realized that Serena hadn't been
paying any attention. She was contentedly sitting cross- legged on
the floor, examining camera lenses and filters and such. Coral
frowned and took a deep breath, silently counting to ten,
determined not to start a scene with Serena tonight. This
irresponsible, ungrateful, willful, and very talented young lady
was, she reminded herself, an artist and her prize moneymaker. And
as ill-advised in some ways as Coral thought this trip to Cambodia
was, her business instincts told her that she and Serena might very
well turn the resulting photographs into a gold mine. It could, in
fact, be the beginning of a whole new career direction in which
prints of Serena's work would command thousands of dollars more
than the considerable prices they already fetched in galleries.
Photography collectors would be lining up for prints. Then, of
course, there would be the inevitable coffee-table books of her
work, another source of income—and prestige.

Thus, Coral had convinced herself that she
should overlook the political unrest and other dangers inherent in
Serena's undertaking this project. After all, Pol Pot was dead, and
the country was opening up to outsiders— even his wretched prisons
were being exposed for what they were. Plus, Jason would be with
Serena, she told herself, and if nothing else his appearance would
frighten the natives half to death.

Her concerns for Serena, however, weren't
merely monetary. Coral harbored a genuine affection—once
infatuation—for the prize of her stable and felt a responsibility
to her that was a mixture of the professional and, she supposed,
the maternal. She tried to protect Serena from herself—her
instincts could go awfully awry—and the world at large, including
predators like Misha Levin.