Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [125]
“We all love our husbands, Renata,” she said, “and we love our children. There are more important things in life than passion.”
Renata glanced sideways at her with a sly smile. “I see. I’ll keep that in mind, Marisa, this weekend.” She put her foot down on the gas, suddenly anxious to reach Marina di Montefiore.
India dashed down platform six of the big railway terminal in Naples, late as usual. The traffic had been hell in the city, but thank heavens, the train was also late. Paris, slender as a reed, chic in an old cream safari jacket from St. Laurent and with her short Japanese haircut, waited by a mound of baggage, clutching a wicker basket from which piteous meows emerged.
“India, I’m so happy to see you, you don’t know how much it means to me.”
Tearfully they clung to each other as the little white cat kept up its mournful refrain.
“Oh, by the way, this is Alice.” Paris displayed her cat, and India poked a finger into the basket and received a friendly purring rub. “She’s very bossy,” complained Paris. “She runs my life. I warn you, India, she sleeps on my bed and she eats proper food, none of this canned cat stuff. Alice is a person.”
India looked at the little blue-eyed cat and back at her sister.
“A substitute person,” she commented, taking the basket and beckoning a porter.
“She’s a friend,” admitted Paris, “one I was glad of. I’ve been so lonely, India.”
India tucked her arm into her sister’s.
“There’s no need to be lonely anymore,” she said firmly. “You’re here with me now. We can tell each other our problems and cry about them—or maybe laugh, whichever we feel like.”
“The trouble is, we’re too much like Jenny,” said Paris. “She couldn’t change our genes just by sending us away to school.”
Thinking of Aldo, India knew Paris was right.
The short, sturdy Neapolitan porter hefted Paris’s bags and wheeled them toward the exit where India was double-parked—as usual. There was no ticket today, though.
“It’s a good omen,” she exclaimed. “You see, Paris, the gods are with us at last!” She inspected her sister’s too-thin figure worriedly. “Listen, kid,” she said finally, “the food’s terrific at this place and you’re going to eat it all—every string of pasta, every sauce, everything. A few breakfasts at the Cafe-Bar Ricardi and I’ll soon have you in terrible shape!” They were laughing as India pulled the car out of the traffic of Naples and headed south down the open road toward Marina di Montefiore.
The massive wooden doors of the palazzo stood wide open to the day’s sunshine, ready to welcome its guests. Paola di Montefiore, delicate in lavender linen, paused in the hall to adjust the huge vases of flowers that stood on the equally massive hall tables. She patted her hair into place in the mirror and emerged onto the front steps just as the Chrysler with Fabrizio and the children pulled to a stop.
“Hello, hello.” She waved. “How lovely to see you. Ah, just look at you children, you’ve grown so much! Fabrizio”—she kissed him affectionately—“I can’t bear it. They become bigger and bigger and it reminds me that I’m getting older.”
“You never get older, Paola,” said Fabrizio gallantly. His daughter clasped the Contessa’s hand, beaming up at her engagingly.
“Can we swim now?” she asked, resting her head against Paola’s hand.
“Of course not,” Fabrizio replied for her. “You’ve only just arrived. After lunch and after your rest, that’s when you can swim.”
Fabiola’s eyes widened into tragedy at the idea of waiting.
“Oh, Papa, how cruel you are,” she moaned. “That’s ages and ages.”
Paola laughed. “You’re right, Fabiola. Why not go on inside and see our new puppies instead? They’re so sweet.”
“Puppies!” Fabiola and Giorgio were up the steps in a flash, disappearing down the hall, followed by their nurse, just as Renata’s car appeared in the drive.
Marisa was immaculately turned out, as usual. Why was it that she never had the knack of appearing completely casual? wondered