20. In a Faraway Land of Old Familiar Faces and Undertows #2
“If by ‘willful’ you mean, independent, talented and successful, then certainly, Mrs. Courtenay.” Done playing nice, Chiara thought she’d rather be dead than call this cold fish ‘My Lady’ again. Her mother, god rest her soul, had had many wonderful Italian appellations for just this type of person.
Too bad Chiara couldn’t use any of them just now.
There were many Page Seven reporters milling about, and the headline of “Newly triumphantly returned Chiara Conti calls the Countess of Rae various creative Italian insults, implying that she smells and might be in an inappropriate relationship with various blood relatives,” wasn’t something that appealed.
Although possibly funny, she assumed Vi would be mortified. Come to think about it, Vi seemed both apprehensive—if not completely overcome by dread—and also embarrassed to see her parents at the gala.
But, just because the last sentence uttered by Gwyneth grated, Chiara couldn’t help herself. The proverbial knife in her hands needed just a little twisting. And she was never one to deny herself simple, petty pleasures.
“And while some things certainly may appear as though they’re what’s best for you, from where I’m standing, your husband is certainly hot in pursuit of his daughter, which is far from what you consider ideal, isn’t it?”
Gwyneth turned to her then, opening her mouth to spew whatever invective had surely been on her tongue, only to be unceremoniously interrupted.
“Here I thought some establishments had better security…” The haughty tones of Arabella broke the standoff, and Chiara had the surprising pleasure of seeing Gwyneth’s already razor thin lips disappear entirely from her now ruddy face.
Before Gwyneth was able to spit out whatever she was preparing to throw at Arabella, she, in turn, turned to Chiara and leaned towards her under the guise of air kissing her cheeks, murmuring, “I think our girl may need to be rescued.”
A chin tilt towards the end of the bar where Vi’s spine was so straight, it was surely about to snap as Charles spoke from between clenched teeth without taking his eyes off his daughter.
“If you would excuse me—” Chiara’s departure, however, was delayed by a burning hot hand that landed on her forearm with slightly more force than was necessary to stop her. Nails dug in, paying Chiara back just a little for her earlier insult.
“This is a family matter, Ms. Conti. Given your humble upbringing, I’m not sure you understand, but if I were you, I’d not intervene.
Genevieve needs to assume her position in the society, although with the company she keeps, I’m not certain that is even possible.
You’ve latched on to her before. Perhaps it’s time to let her family take care of her? ”
Chiara gave Gwyneth a pointed stare. “I’ve seen strangers treat her better than her family ever did, Mrs. Courtenay.
Now, before I reconsider and give into the temptation to create a few potentially scandalous headlines for Page Seven, kindly unhand me.
” Leaning closer, Chiara lowered her voice.
“You may not know this, but you can take a girl off the Italian streets, but you can’t quite get the streets out of this particular girl. ”
She savored seeing fear in Gwyneth’s eyes before she snatched her hand away. Chiara turned on her heel as Arabella chuckled, and Gwyneth slinked off into the crowd.
Given the fact that everyone seemed to know her and wanted to talk to her—from wishing Chiaroscuro well, to expressing the conviction that they’d always known it was her behind the meteoric rise of the brand—Chiara made her way through the throng of people fairly quickly.
Several tried to coax her into divulging details or impress upon her their urgent need for a bespoke wedding gown, but Chiara was not able to really see them or register their words or comprehend what they were asking of her.
Vi was still cornered by her father, so nothing else mattered.
Finally, nodding and smiling vaguely at a man she numbly thought was with a Poise competitor, she reached the bar.
Once there, the sound of the ballroom seemed to recede, allowing her to overhear the last of the words being thrown in Vi’s face by that gruff voice, wiping the last traces of blood from those features.
“…never could do anything right. Just like your mother—”
“Enough!”
Her own voice felt foreign to her. Both the word itself and the low intonation, the command in it like a whip lashing at Charles and steadying Vi.
A memory intruded, breaking the reddening at the corners of her vision. A Parisian rooftop and Vi whispering so earnestly, “Hold on to me. I’m here.”
Her own words, uttered from Vi’s threshold just last night, rang in her ears. Debts incurred. Debts paid. It was Chiara’s turn to prop up Vi, as the world whirled around them with cruelty and fury.
Before either Charles or Vi could say anything, Chiara took Vi’s hand and, without another glance, walked away. She didn’t care how rude or inappropriate her behavior was. Nothing mattered, except the absolutely empty look in those usually sparkling eyes.
The ride to Vi’s apartment was silent, and only the hand, still cold and motionless in hers, kept Chiara anchored to the present, just as it had when they’d entered the cursed ballroom.
* * *
As the keys trembled in Vi’s fingers, missing the lock several times, Chiara took charge. The instinct that always seemed to overwhelm her where Vi was concerned, to protect, to care, to shield, had her gently take them from the listless hand.
As the metal latch turned several times, she pushed the door open, and the scent of verbena wrapped itself around her, bringing solace. The apartment filled her senses, and Vi sighed quietly next to her, leaning heavily on the wall, seemingly unable to move.
“C’mon, one foot in front of the other…” Chiara took both of Vi’s hands in her own, carefully pulling her along as one does a skittish animal.
Despite having been here just once the night before, the apartment felt familiar and comfortable.
Chiara found the bedroom without really trying, another door, this one painted bright yellow, leading her to a queen-sized bed, pristinely made with the comforter pulled over it tightly.
Even as she guided Vi in, slowly lowering her onto the mattress, Chiara peripherally imagined bouncing a coin off it and wondered who had taught Vi such precision, until her mind screeched to a halt in the understanding that this must have been Vi’s life.
Either the vestiges of the myriad of boarding schools, or her father…
She knelt in front of Vi, who sat on the very edge of the bed, unmoving, as if afraid to mess it up, and Chiara’s heart squeezed as she reached for the laces on the polished Oxfords.
One foot, then the other, just as she’d instructed earlier, and Vi still sat like a doll, following her movements with those haunted eyes, silent.
“Vi…” She trailed off, completely unsure about what she could say. Her mother had been disappointed in her. Lived that way and had died that way, leaving Chiara with enormous guilt and a lifetime of therapy bills.
Still, Chiara had been loved. No matter how much pain was in those eyes, they’d never looked at her daughter with anger.
Sadness, yes, but never this much hatred.
Chiara’s mother bore her disappointment like a weight that ultimately sunk her, like the waters of Lake Como, but she had never been cruel.
This specific, very targeted viciousness that rendered one paralyzed in humiliation and despair.
So while Chiara understood what had happened between Vi and her parents for what it was, she could not comprehend the scars it left. And so she didn’t know what to say, how to alleviate whatever was eating at Vi and had left her nearly catatonic.
“Vi… I’m so sorry.” Useless words were falling from her mouth, even as her hands rose to caress the still-so-pale face, thumbs tracing the gaunt cheeks in an attempt to bring some color to them, even as her own desperation at seeing Vi like this clawed at her.
She thought perhaps she should be stronger. More indifferent, apathetic even. After all, this woman had betrayed her before. But Chiara had no such strength and no such skill as to turn away and leave.
They watched each other, amber on ash, and then a tear trembled on Vi’s lashes as she finally blinked and it was set free, rolling slowly down the tender cheek. Before it had a chance to reach Chiara’s fingers, she rose up and kissed it away, her lips lingering on the cold skin.
The gesture set something off in Vi, because suddenly more tears sprang from eyes that no longer looked empty, but instead so full of longing, it took Chiara’s breath away.
“Stay with me.” Barely a whisper among the wretched sobs. Still, Chiara understood and Vi seemed to be completely unaware she’d even uttered the words as she rolled into a ball on the edge of the bed and buried her face in a pillow, weeping in earnest now.
Goddess… How could she refuse? How could she leave her in such despair?
Chiara took off her shoes and climbed in bed from the opposite side, this once becoming the big spoon.
She held the shuddering body against her chest, absorbing all the grief and all the pain, murmuring nonsensical words of consolation as the ragged sobs tapered off into whimpers that slowly subsided as Vi’s breathing leveled.
Chiara stayed the night, her eyes unfocused, staring at the dark ceiling reflecting the shadows from the busy Greenwich Village street below, and wondered why she had never quite shaken off this emotion that lived in her chest. Why, despite all her attempts to stop, she had always been in love with Vi Courtenay, although she’d only truly trusted her for a single night and paid dearly for it.
She should probably be surprised by the revelation. Sigh or cry or laugh. Do something to mark this momentous occasion.
But Chiara was tired. And spent. Vi’s breakdown somehow seeping under her skin and taking everything out of her, stripping everything bare and leaving only the realization that, despite the years and the pain, Chiara loved Vi.
And what would it mean to allow herself to quit those, at best, feeble attempts to exorcize herself from this feeling, and simply let it be? As she had once before on that rooftop.
Could you walk into the same river twice? And if you did, would the waters be the same? Would they carry you to the same end?
* * *
The next morning, she chose to walk towards the townhouse on Mercer Street.
Her thoughts were buzzing inside her head, angry bees that had been disturbed in their routine, and so she’d asked the cab driver to drop her off several blocks away, to try to sort through everything that was on her mind and through the emotions rolling in her chest.
As she approached, she noticed a figure sitting on the stoop. Chiara realized that whoever said you should always expect more trouble so as to never be caught unawares, had been right. And she herself had been quite mistaken. Because this particular trouble, she had not expected.
Frankie Lilienfeld unfolded her long, leather-clad frame from the steps and leaned in, her face inches away from Chiara’s, smoke still playing on those smirking lips as she threw away an unfinished cigarette.
Her voice, the lightly accented roughness of it, was harsher than Chiara remembered it when Frankie finally spoke.
“Hello, wife.”