The Scarlet Thread (15 page)

Angela's son said suddenly, “Actually I'm half American. My father was in the American army. He was killed fighting in Italy. Just after Mum married him. Maybe that's why I like New York so much.”

“Maybe,” Steven Falconi agreed. “I'm sorry about your father.”

“Mum told me all about him. He was jolly brave. Rotten luck for her, though.”

“Here's your mother,” Steven said, and got up. He took the whiskey from Angela. “I've been hearing about Charlie's school,” he said.

“And I've been telling him about my father,” the boy interrupted. “Where was the place he was killed, Mum?”

“Salerno,” Angela answered. She didn't look near Steven Falconi. “A lot of Americans were killed in that battle.”

She thought,
Anyone who saw them together would know there's a blood relationship. They're so alike it's uncanny
.

She said to her son, “Darling, I have some business to talk over with Mr. Falconi. Would you pop off to bed now?”

“Okay, Mum. Good night, sir.”

They shook hands again. Steven watched him pat his mother affectionately on the shoulder, too grown up to kiss her in front of a stranger. He closed the door, and they were alone.

“You've done well, Angelina,” he said slowly. “He's a great boy.”

“I'm glad you think so.”

“I want to do something for him. For both of you.”

She shook her head. “Not money, Steven. We don't need it. I've got a good job, and my mother left me some capital. Charlie's school is paid for till he's eighteen. My father did that. It's good of you and I'll always be grateful, but we don't need anything.”

“Because of where it comes from? Is that it?”

“I didn't want to say so. I don't want to hurt you.”

“You're not hurting me. You could be hurting the boy. What's he going to do when he leaves school? What about college? He's intelligent. Who's going to pay for that?”

“I will, if necessary,” she answered.

He got up and paced the small room. “I can settle money on him,” he said. “You can't stop me.”

“No, I can't. You can make him rich, Steven, and ruin his life. He'd ask questions. He'd find out that I'd lied to him; he'd find out what you did to make that money.”

“You deny him to me,” he accused her. “He's my only son. And I married you, Angela. You're my wife, remember?”

“You have a wife,” she said. “I'm sorry if you're not happy, but I shouldn't have brought you here. I shouldn't have let you meet him.” She got up and went to the apartment door.

He came close to her and said, “You feel nothing for me?”

“I love my son,” she answered. “I've made a life for him, and he's happy. I can't let myself feel anything for you, Steven, because of what it would do to him. Now please. Please go.”

She opened the door and stood aside.

“I don't believe you,” Steven Falconi said quietly. He reached out and put a heavy hand on her shoulder.

She said quickly, “No, Steven, don't.…”

“I won't, not with our son in there. I'll go now, Angela, but I'll be back.”

Later, she went to the boy's bedroom and opened the door. He was asleep. Suddenly she rememberd doing the same thing the night she refused Jim Hulbert, just before leaving for London and a new life. She had done the right thing then, instead of taking the easy way out. She must do the right thing now. For her son, not for herself.

“You feel nothing for me?” His question haunted her that long night without sleep, and she dared not face the answer. Fear, anger, pity … a whisper of desire inside her when he touched her. Were those the sum of her feelings? Or was her love still there, a bar to other men, a weapon turned against herself.
We have to get away
, she kept repeating,
we have to, before he comes again. And he will. I know him. I saw it in his eyes. He won't let Charlie go. He won't let me go. And God knows whether I'd be strong enough next time
.

“Mum, why do we have to go early?”

“Charlie, I've already told you. I spoke to David Wickham, and he wants me to start next week. I'm sorry, but we've got to go back. I know you're enjoying it, but it can't be helped.”

“But when did you speak to him?” he questioned. “You didn't say anything about it last night.”

“I didn't have time. Now stop arguing, will you, please? I'll make it up to you another time. You don't think I want to go home, do you?”

He saw her blinking away tears. He muttered something very scatological about Mr. David Wickham, which would have surprised Angela had she heard it, and went in to pack.

She phoned for tickets on the afternoon flight to London. They cost a lot more than the originals, but there were no cheap seats. She telephoned the second client Wickham had asked her to see, made the same excuse she had made to Forrest, who had to be telephoned too. Her son was ill and she was flying him home. Mr. Forrest, who was extremely annoyed at having been left in the middle of dinner, wasn't sympathetic.

She thought,
He'll put in a bad word for me with the agency
, and then shrugged it off. It couldn't be helped. She wished there'd been an earlier flight.

“I'll be back,” Steven had said. As she packed and tidied up the apartment, she dreaded hearing the bell, finding him standing there, forbidding her to go. But the hours passed, and nothing happened.

“I'll go down to the deli and get something for us to eat,” she said.

“I'll go,” her son offered.

“No, you stay here. I'll get some hamburgers. And don't answer the telephone.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because I say so!”

She hurried out, and he grimaced. He'd never seen her in such a bad mood and so close to crying as well. He said something even nastier about Mr. Wickham and settled down sullenly to watch the wonderful American television for the last time. When the bell buzzed, he pressed the catch release and then opened the apartment door.

“Hello,” Steven Falconi said. “Is your mother here?”

“Er, no. She's gone down to get some lunch. Down to the deli. We're going back to England, worst luck!”

“Mind if I come in and wait?”

“No, no, please come in. I'll turn the TV off.”

“Don't mind me,” Steven said. “Go ahead and watch.”

The buzzer sounded again. “I'll get that,” Steven said. He opened the door to Angela and said, “Let me take that,” and lifted the package out of her arms. He turned to the boy. “If you were to take a short walk, Charlie, I might be able to persuade your mother to stay on in New York and finish your vacation. Would you do that?”

“No,” Angela started to say, but the boy bounded up in excitement.

“Could you? Oh, that'd be super. See you later, Mum,” and with a quick grin at Steven, he dashed out of the flat.

Falconi glanced at the packed suitcases and said, “I guessed right. I guessed you'd fly out today. I know you pretty well. Before you start giving me an argument, will you listen to me first?”

“You won't stop me leaving,” she protested. “You can't stop me.”

“I know that,” he admitted. “Oh, I thought about it, Angela. I thought about taking you and my son to Florida and keeping you there till you'd changed your mind. But it wouldn't work with you. Don't look at me like that. Sometimes I think like a Sicilian, that's all. It wasn't serious. This is America. You're not allowed to kidnap your wife and son. Will you sit down a minute? I won't make a big speech, I promise you.”

“All right, if you promise to go before he comes back.”

“I promise,” he said, “if you say so. But let's get this straight first.”

“Get what straight?”

“This,” he said, and took her in his arms. She didn't resist. He was much too strong. She tried to hold out mentally. He murmured to her in Italian, kissing her mouth, her eyes, her throat. Just as he had on the Sicilian hillside all those years ago. The same words, and the same rush of passionate feeling. He let her go and said softly to her, “
Cara mia
, remember? I love you. I said it then and I say it now. You can't lie to me now, can you? You feel it too.”

“I feel it,” she said desperately. “But it's no good. You can take me to bed, but it won't change my mind. It'll just make it harder for both of us.”

“If there were no boy, would you say that?”

“No,” Angela admitted. “No, I wouldn't. I still love you, Steven. I don't know if I could shut my eyes to what you are, but I could try. But not with him. Never.”

“Tears,” he said, touching her cheek with his fingertip. “It's time I made you happy, Angelina. Come stay close to me while I tell you something. In my family I'm the figures man. I add up all the sums and make the policy decisions. It won't make any difference to you, but I don't carry a gun. That was a crazy lie the other night.

“I've been doing some calculating for myself. I have money, respect; my father's proud of me. I'm Don Stefano to a whole lot of people. I'm a big man. I've got bodyguards who'd die for me, a hundred guys who'd do whatever I told them. I'll be the boss when my father dies.

“But I have no home life, no happiness, no children. I go to whores for comfort. If I give it all up, will you come away with me? We'll start a new life—you and me and the boy.”

“You couldn't,” she said. “You couldn't do it.”

“I can do it. I will do it. If you promise me we'll be together, I'll go into business for myself. Legitimate business. Nothing to do with the families. I've thought it through. We'll leave the States. We'll live in Europe. I have to talk to my father first, but he loves me. When he knows about Charlie, he'll help. I have a younger brother. He can take over. I swear this to you, Angela. On my honor. You know what that means to a Sicilian?”

“I know,” she said. “If you swear like that, I know you mean it.”

“Will you swear too?” he asked her. “Swear we'll be together?”

She laid her hand against his cheek. It was an old gesture of tenderness between them.

“If you will do that for us, then I swear.”

“We'll be happy,” he promised. “I'll never give my son reason to be ashamed of me. And one day maybe he can learn the truth. Maybe he'll be proud of a live father in the end.” He took her hand and held it. “You'll stay in New York till I've made arrangements? It'll take a little time.”

“I'll stay,” she promised. “But what about my job?”

“No job,” he countered. “That's all over. I take care of you from now on.”

She said, “What about your wife?”

“She's not my wife. The marriage is null. She has no rights over me. I can walk out tomorrow. Kiss me, Angelina.”

They kissed lingeringly and gently, and then she rested in his arms. Suddenly she felt a shadow come over her happiness. “What about her family? Aren't they part of it too?”

“Sure—her father's boss of the Fabrizzis. That won't matter. It'll be fixed between her people and mine. At a price, but it'll be fixed. Forget about it. There's the buzzer, my darling. He's back.”

Angela paused by the door. “What do we tell him?”

“The truth,” he answered. “You're staying on because I've made you a better offer.… Hi, there, Charlie, had a good walk?”

“Yes, thank you.” He glanced quickly at Falconi. There was an empathy between them already. “Was it long enough? Are we staying?”

“I managed to persuade her. You're not going back home just yet. And I'm taking us all out this evening to celebrate.”

“There's a new woman,” Clara said to herself. She was in the Elizabeth Arden salon, having a facial. She looked at the reflection in the glass. The mask covering her face had set hard; her eyes stared back at her, circled in white like a clown's. She didn't need the expensive treatments. Her skin was soft and smooth as cream. A girl squatted on a stool beside her, manicuring her nails.

“A new woman,” the inner dialogue insisted. “He's out most nights.… It's not just screwing. I know him, the bastard. It's different with this one. He's happy. He was singing this morning. I heard him.” She rounded furiously on the manicurist. “Watch what you're doing—that hurt!”

“I'm sorry, madame. Can you hold your hand still, please?”

Other men desired her, Clara knew. Men who detected that she was a woman in her own right, not just the soft little breeding cows they had chosen. But she didn't want any of them. She wanted the husband who slept with her only to conceive a child. Since the last specialist's report, he hadn't come near her. Not for months. She abased herself, pleaded, offered herself without shame, but he maintained an icy indifference. At least he suffered. That helped. But now he was singing the old songs under his breath, not even seeing her, brushing her aside when she demanded his attention.

“I can't stand it,” she went on, the mummy image staring at her in the glass. “I've got to find out. I can do something about it then.”

The beautician appeared behind her. “I guess we're ready now, Mrs. Falconi. Gloria, have you finished Mrs. Falconi's manicure?”

“I've just painted on the final coat,” the girl answered. She glanced up at her client. Clara spread her hands, examining the newly painted nails. Steven's big diamond solitaire flashed on her finger under the light. The hands were white, pampered, with scarlet claws, as if they had been dipped in fresh blood.

“I got rid of the first one,” the silent voice exulted. “The one in Monte Carlo. That bitch Lita Montini stopped sniffing around after Papa had a word with her father. He sent her back home to her cousins in Linsano for a whole year. I'll find this one, whoever she is.”