Authors: Danielle Steel
Adam, on the other hand, was bitter and angry about his parents. The short version, in his mind, was that his mother was a nagging bitch, and his father was a wuss. He was angry at both for their contributions to his life, or lack of them, and their depressing home life, as he viewed it. He said all he remembered of his childhood was his mother bitching at everyone, and always picking on him, since he was the youngest, and being treated as an intruder, since he had arrived so late in their lives. His vivid recollection was of his father never coming home from work. Who could blame him? As soon as Adam left for Harvard at eighteen, he had never gone home to live again. Spending holidays with them was bad enough. He said that the unpleasant atmosphere in their home had created an irreparable rift between all three children. All they had learned from their parents was how to criticize, look down at each other, nitpick, and be condescending about each other's lives. “There was no respect in our family. My mother didn't respect my father. I think my father probably hates her, although he'd never admit it, and there's no respect between any of us kids. I think my sister is boring and pathetic, my brother is a pompous asshole with a wife just like my mother, and they think I run around with a bunch of sleazebags and whores. They have no respect for what I do, and don't even want to know what it is. All they focus on are the women I go out with, and not who I am. At this point I see them for weddings, funerals, and high holidays, and wish I didn't have to do that. If I could find an excuse not to, I would. Rachel takes the kids to see them, so I don't have to. And they like her better than they like me, and always did. They even think it's okay that she married a Christian, as long as she brings my kids up Jewish. She can do no wrong, as far as they're concerned, and I can do no right. And by now, I just figure screw them, who cares.” He sounded bitter as he said it.
“But you still see them,” Gray commented with interest. “Maybe you care. Maybe you still need their approval, or want it. And if so, that's okay. It's just that sometimes we have to admit to ourselves that our parents aren't capable, that the love we wanted so desperately when we were kids just wasn't there. They didn't have it to give. Mine didn't, they were too busy doing drugs when they were young, and looking for the holy grail after that. They were pretty crazy. I think they liked my sister and me, as much as they could, but they had no idea how to be parents. I felt sorry for my brother Boy when they adopted him. They should have bought a dog, but they were lonely after we left, I think, so they got him.
“My poor sister is out in India somewhere, living on the streets with the poor, as a nun. She wanted to pretend she was an Asian all her life, and now she thinks she is. She has no idea who she is, and neither did they. I never knew who I was either, until I got away from them, and I still wonder sometimes about who the hell I am. I think that's the key for all of us eventually—who are we, what do we believe, what are we living, and is this the life we want to lead? I try to ask myself these questions every day, and I don't always know the answers. But at least I try to find them, and I'm not hurting anyone else while I do.
“I think the real travesty of people like my parents having kids, or adopting them, is that they really have no business having kids. I know that much about myself, which is why I don't want kids, and never did. But I try to tell myself my parents did their best, however lousy that was for me. I just don't want to recreate the same misery, and hurt someone out of my own selfish need to reproduce. I think in my case it's best for the bloodline and the insanity to stop here.” He had always felt extremely responsible about not having children, and still had no regrets about his decision not to have any. He felt utterly incapable of taking care of children, or giving them what they'd need. The thought of getting attached to them, or having them depend on him, seemed terrifying to him. He didn't want to let them down, or have them expect more of him than he could give. He didn't want to hurt or disappoint anyone as he had been in his youth. It never occurred to him that the women he constantly rescued and took care of were in effect children for him, birds with broken wings. He had an overwhelming need to nurture someone, and they met that need for him. Adam thought he would have made a good father, because he was a kind, intelligent man, with strong moral values, but Gray did not agree.
“What about you, Charlie?” Adam asked. He was bolder than Gray about moving through sacred gates and across boundaries, going where angels feared to tread. Adam always asked painful questions that made one think. “How normal was your family when you were a kid? Gray and I are competing here for having had the shit parents of the year, and I'm not sure who would win first prize, his or mine. Mine were more obviously traditional, but they didn't have much more to give than his.” They had all had a fair amount to drink by then, and Adam wasn't shy about asking Charlie to open up about his youth. They had no secrets from each other, and Adam had always told both of them everything. As had Gray. Charlie was more private by nature, and far less expansive and forthcoming about his past.
“They were perfect, actually,” he said with a sigh. “Loving, giving, kind, understanding, never abusive. My mother was the most loving, sensitive woman on earth. Affectionate, funny, beautiful. And my father was a truly good man. He was my hero and role model in all things. They were wonderful, and so was my childhood, and then they died. End of story. Sixteen happy years, and then my sister and I were alone in a big house, with a lot of money, and servants to take care of us, and a foundation for her to learn how to run. She dropped out of Vassar to take care of me, which she did beautifully for two years, until I went to college. She had no other life, just me. I don't think she even had a date during that time. Then I went off to Princeton, and she was sick by then, although I didn't know that for a while, and then she died. The three best people on earth, gone. Listening to you two makes me realize how lucky I was, not because of the money, but because of the kind of people they were. They were wonderful parents, and Ellen was great. But people die, people leave. Things happen, and suddenly a whole world is gone and your life is changed. I would rather have lost the money than any of them. But no one gives you that choice. You have to play with the hand you're dealt. Speaking of which, anyone for a game of roulette?” he asked in a jovial tone, changing the subject, and the other two were silent as they nodded.
It was a painful story, and both men knew it was probably why Charlie had never attached to anyone permanently. He was probably too afraid they'd die or leave or abandon him. He knew it himself. He had discussed it a thousand times with his therapist. It didn't change anything. No matter how many years he spent in therapy, his parents had still died when he was sixteen, and his last living relative, his sister, had died a horrible death when he was twenty-one. It was hard to trust anything and anyone after that. What if you loved someone and that person died or abandoned you? It was easier to find their fatal flaws and abandon them, before they could do it to you. Even with a perfect family as a child, by dying when he was so young, his parents and sister had condemned him to a life of terror forever after. If he dared to love anyone again, for sure they would die or leave him. And even if they didn't, or seemed reliable, there was always that risk. A risk he still found terrifying, and he was not willing to put his heart on the line again, until he knew he was a thousand percent safe. He wanted every guarantee he could get. And so far, no woman had come with a guarantee, just red flags, which scared the hell out of him. So, however politely, he abandoned them. He hadn't found one yet worth risking his all for, but he felt certain that one day he would. Adam and Gray were no longer so sure. It looked to both of them as though Charlie was on his own for good. The three of them were a perfect fit, because all of them were equally sure of the same thing for themselves. The risk of coupling, for any of them, more than temporarily, was just too great. It was a curse put on them by their families, and one that none of them could erase, exorcise, or lift. The distrust and fear they lived with now was their families' final gift.
Charlie played baccarat, while Gray watched Adam play vingt-et-un, and then all three of them played roulette. Charlie put up some money for Gray, and he made three hundred dollars with a bet on the black. He gave the original hundred back to Charlie, who insisted he keep it all.
It was two in the morning when they went back to the boat, an early night for them. They went to their cabins as soon as they got home. It had been a good day, an easy companionship between friends. They were leaving for Portofino the next day. Charlie had instructed the captain to leave the dock before they got up, sometime around seven. That way they would be in Portofino by late afternoon, and would have time to walk around. It was always one of their favorite stops on their summer route. Gray loved the art and architecture, and was particularly fond of the church up on the hill. Charlie loved the easy Italian atmosphere, the restaurants, and the people. It was an exceptionally pretty place. Adam loved the shops, and the Splendido Hotel high up on the hill, looking down on the harbor.
He loved the tiny port, and the gorgeous Italian girls he met there every year, as well as those from other countries who came there as tourists. It had a feeling of magic for each of them, and as they went to bed in their cabins that night, they smiled as they drifted off to sleep, thinking of arriving in Portofino the next day. As it was every year, their month together on the
Blue Moon
was a piece of Heaven for each of them.
3
T
HEY ARRIVED IN
P
ORTOFINO AT FOUR IN THE AFTER
-noon, just as the shops were opening again after lunch. They had to stay at anchor just outside the port, as the keel of the
Blue Moon
was too deep, and the depth of the water in the port too shallow. People were swimming off other boats, as Adam, Gray, and Charlie did when they woke up from their naps. By six o'clock, a number of other big yachts had come in, and there was a festive atmosphere all around them. It was a gorgeous golden afternoon. By the time dinnertime rolled around, none of them wanted to leave the boat, but they decided that they should. They were happy and relaxed, and enjoying the scenery, and the food was always delicious on Charlie's boat. But the restaurants in town were good too. There were several excellent places to eat, many of them in the port, tucked in between the shops. The shops in Portofino were even fancier than those in St. Tropez: Cartier, Hermès, Vuitton, Dolce & Gabbana, Celine, a number of Italian jewelers. It was a hotbed of luxury, although the town itself was tiny. All the action centered around the port, and the countryside and cliffs looking down at the boats were absolutely gorgeous. The Church of San Giorgio and the Splendido Hotel sat perched on separate hills, on either side of the port.
“God, I love it here,” Adam said as he grinned broadly, looking at the action all around them. A group of women had just jumped into the water topless from a nearby boat. Gray had already taken out a sketch pad and was drawing, and Charlie was sitting on deck, looking blissful and smoking a cigar. It was his favorite port in Italy, and he was happy to stay there as long as they wanted. He was in no hurry to move on. He actually preferred it to all of the ports in France. It was an easier place to be than dodging the paparazzi in St. Tropez, or wending their way through the crowds in the streets, as people ebbed and flowed out of discothèques and bars. There was something much more countrified about Portofino, and it had all the charm and ease and quaint beauty typical of Italy. Charlie loved it, as did his two friends.
All three of them wore jeans and T-shirts when they went into town for dinner. They had reservations at a delightful restaurant near the piazza, where they had gone several times before in previous years. The waiters recognized them when they walked in, and knew about the
Blue Moon.
They gave them an excellent table outdoors, where they could watch people drifting by. They ordered pasta, seafood, and a simple but good Italian wine. Gray was talking about the local architecture, when a female voice interrupted them quietly from the next table.
“Twelfth century,” was all she said, correcting what Gray had just told them. He had said that the Castello di San Giorgio had been built in the fourteenth century, and he turned his head to look at who had spoken when he heard her. A tall, exotic-looking woman was sitting at a table next to them. She was wearing a red T-shirt, sandals, and a full white cotton skirt. Her hair was dark, and she wore it in a long braid down her back. Her eyes were green, and she had creamy skin. And when he turned to look at her, she was laughing. “I'm sorry,” she apologized, “that was rude of me. I just happen to know it's the twelfth century, not the fourteenth. I thought I ought to say something. And I agree with you, it's one of my favorite structures in Italy, if only for the view, which I think is the best in Europe. The
castello
was actually rebuilt in the sixteenth century and built in the twelfth, not fourteenth,” she repeated, and grinned. “The Church of San Giorgio was also built in the twelfth century.” She glanced at the paint splattered on his T-shirt, and identified him immediately as an artist. She had managed to impart the information about the
castello
without sounding pompous, but knowledgeable and funny, and apologetic about her intrusion into her neighbors' conversation.
“Are you an art historian?” Gray asked with interest. She was a very attractive woman, although not young or eligible by Gray or Charlie's standards. She looked about forty-five years old, maybe a little younger, and she was with a large table of Europeans who were speaking Italian and French. She had been speaking both fluently with them.
“No, I'm not,” she answered his question. “Just a busybody who comes here every year. I own a gallery in New York.” Gray squinted at her then, and realized who she was. Her name was Sylvia Reynolds, and she was well known in the art scene in New York. She had launched a number of contemporary artists, who were now considered important. Most of what she sold was very avant-garde, and very different from Gray's work. He had never met Sylvia before, but had read a lot about her, and was impressed by who she was. She glanced at him, and the two men at his table, with a look of interest, and a warm smile. She seemed to be full of life, energy, and excitement. She was wearing an armful of silver and turquoise bracelets, and everything about her said she had style. “Are you an artist? Or did you get paint on the T-shirt painting your house?” She was anything but shy.