Mila 18 - Leon Uris [79]
Everyone seemed to know that Flora was being had, but how does one tell a queen bee? She woke one rainy morning to find her lover flown from the nest after skinning her out of a small mint. When the detectives dragged him back for a tear-filled showdown, there came the revelation that he had a wife and three children “somewhere in Maine.”
Comforting friends soothed her. A trip to Europe would be the remedy for her shattering experience. She pulled herself together for “their” sake. Yes, they were right. An ocean voyage and the long-overdue grand tour to put the broken pieces together.
Flora, her traveling companion, secretary, Irish maid, and two poodles got no farther than the second stop, Monaco. In barreled the Count Alphonse de Monti at a hundred and twenty miles per hour in a red Ferrari. He saddled up to a chair opposite her at the Casino and began throwing around ten-thousand-lira notes like kleenex at the baccarat, table.
From the second he bowed and kissed her hand Flora knew what a hell of an elegant gentleman he was. And with a title to boot. She shrieked with exhilaration as he buzzed around hairpin turns in his red Ferrari. She listened breathlessly, as he whispered his way through Verdi love arias.
“God damn,” she told her traveling companion, “this continental charm is the living end. I checked his financial rating and the bastard’s loaded to boot.”
Since European titles and rich American divorcees were fascinating subjects, when Flora became the Countess de Monti it almost knocked the World Series off the front pages.
The glitter lasted through two spaghetti dinners. She found that Italians had very very funny ideas about their womenfolk. His old Kentucky home outside Rome was big and marbly enough, but although she had investigated his solvency she had failed to check into a stable of mistresses stashed in villas all over southern France. Now that she was properly the Countess de Monti, his charm became reserved for rivers yet uncrossed.
In fact, in many respects, he proved a slob.
He had peculiarities that she had not tested before in men. He was saturated with pride from head to foot. He bathed in old tradition. He professed to be deeply religious. And, like many normal and healthy Italian men of means, he fully expected his wife to stay in the old Kentucky home and get quietly plump while he barreled around Europe in his red Ferrari.
One more thing! An heir! Italians considered the production of a male offspring as some sort of monumental feat. With Flora as his mate, it was—but he managed.
She went into wild scenes about her treatment. Alphonse was proud because his wife was so spicy. But when she blurted out her plan to get rid of the unborn baby, it was another matter. He promptly slapped her into a private apartment under lock and key and the watchful eyes of a pair of matrons, then barreled off in his red Ferrari.
The result of this happy union was Christopher de Monti.
The proud father came home and celebrated long and hard. In fact, he dropped his guard so low that Flora was able to bundle Chris up and flee to the United States.
This time the divorce and custody battle did knock the World Series off the front pages.
Final judgment Momma got another splendid settlement mostly in olive groves. Chris was to spend summers with Poppa in Italy.
Flora never quite forgave little Chris for lowering her breasts, ruining her eighteen-inch waistline, and turning her stomach muscles to jelly. Unfortunately a society larger than her personal clique imposed certain conditions which called for her to be a “good mother.” She smothered Chris in a sea of