Indiscretions (47 page)

“Vennie, do you remember that I made you a promise,” asked Fitz, “that night we had dinner together in Barbados?”

She remembered every word they’d said that night. “About Jenny, you mean?”

“Yes. About Jenny. I didn’t forget that promise, and one of the reasons I’m here is to tell you what I’ve been able to find out.”

She waited, her eyes fastened on him, forgetting herself in the unexpected announcement that he had news about her mother.

“It’s both bad news and good,” said Fitz. “I had someone look into her business affairs and I’m afraid they uncovered some very strange facts.” He hesitated—there was no way he was going to tell her about Rory Grant, no way—ever. Death had cloaked Jenny in dignity, and she would keep that. “It’s better, Venetia, if I don’t go into great detail; let it be enough to know that your sisters’ suspicions were correct. Money belonging to Jenny found its way into the wrong pockets.”

Venetia remembered that day at the Malibu beach house, Stan and Bill explaining so very reasonably just
how Jenny had managed to lose her fortune. “Bill Kaufmann?” she whispered.

He nodded. “And Reubin—among others. I’m sorry, Vennie.”

“I’ve known them since I was a little girl,” she said, bewildered. “Why would they do that to us, Fitz?”

He shrugged. “Who can say why? Hollywood is a strange town. Values become distorted, friendships are different—not for everyone, of course, but there are always the weak and the unscrupulous, and when there’s that much money around, it becomes a temptation. Don’t try to understand it, Vennie, just feel glad that your mother had the sense not to get you involved.”

Fitz thrust his hands into the pockets of his jeans and began to pace the floor restlessly. “Anyway, I’ve managed to recover some of the money for you. Again, it would be better if you didn’t ask me how. Just believe me when I say it was a better way than dragging your names—and Jenny’s—through the courts.”

“Yes,” said Venetia, believing him.

“There’s a million and a half dollars waiting for you and your sisters in the First National and City Bank in Los Angeles.”

“A million and a half,” repeated Venetia, stunned.

“It’s not nearly as much as you were entitled to, but believe me, it was the better way to go. If you like, I can have cashier’s checks drawn up for you tomorrow.”

All that money, thought Venetia. Paris would be able to open her Haven Boutiques; India and Aldo would have enough to pay back their bank loans and run their hotel—maybe they’d even have their babies now, sooner than they had planned, but not, she knew, too soon for India. And me? What shall I do?

Fitz was leaning against the desk, hands in his pockets, watching her.

“You don’t know what this will mean to my sisters,” she said.

“And you?”

“And me,” she replied quietly. “Thank you.”

“What will you do now, Vennie?”

Venetia lowered her gaze. She couldn’t say she was hoping that he might tell her what she was going to do, and that it would be with him. She gripped her hands together tightly, entwining her fingers, trying to concentrate on what he was saying.

“You talked of opening a restaurant,” he said. “Maybe this would be a good time—you’ve got the money behind you and the flair. My London office can help you, with the legal end, leases and such.”

“Thank you.”

Fitz sighed. “You’re not making it easy for me, Vennie.”

“I had thought there was more between us than just business.” Their eyes met in the silence.

“It was a warm tropical night,” he said finally. “There was a big lazy moon over the water, a gleaming white yacht—and an older man who took advantage of a situation he’d dreamed about for years.”

Venetia gazed at him, puzzled. Odd, thought Fitz, how she no longer reminded him of Jenny; even that wide, blue-gray gaze was her own now. She was just Venetia. And he loved her. He steeled himself to carry on. He had to be fair, he had to tell her, give her a chance.

“Vennie, I don’t know if you’re going to understand this, but there’s something you should know.”

Venetia watched him uncertainly. She tucked her suddenly cold hands into the sleeves of her navy sweater, waiting. Whatever it was, she had the feeling he would rather not have to say it. A sudden thought struck her. Oh, God, please let it not be about Olympe. Was he planning to marry
her?

Fitz began to pace the cabin. “When Morgan called me from London to tell me that Jenny Haven was dead and that he was with her daughter, I was stunned. I had met your mother, just once—years ago. But more than that, Vennie, I felt I’d known her forever. I’d fancied myself in love with her since I was thirteen years old when I saw her in
Love Among Friends
. I can still remember every detail of that movie—all her movies. I saw them a hundred times. You can’t possibly know what Jenny meant to a poor boy growing up in the grim little town I called home … she was silk and satin to a boy used to patched denim. Women like that didn’t exist in real life—not my sort of reality, anyhow. When you’re a woman, poverty means more than just not enough to eat—it means never being pretty or feminine, it means romance buried in the demands of a hungry brood of kids and a husband who drinks too much—to forget that he can’t afford it. Even the young girls I knew were toughened, old before their time. Venetia, Jenny was a young boy’s dream, she helped me through many a bleak and lonely night. I never forgot her. When I heard she was dead it was as though I had lost someone very close to me—a woman I loved.”

Fitz stopped his pacing and looked at Venetia. How could this child of an affluent world, of good schools and solid English traditions, ever be able to fathom what he was talking about?

“Fitz, I didn’t realize …”

“Listen to me,” commanded Fitz. “When I met you, I was shocked. Venetia, do you have any idea how much you resemble your mother?”

“But I’m not the same,” she protested. “I was never
like
her.” Suddenly she didn’t want to hear what he was going to say.

“Don’t you understand? I never knew what Jenny was
really like
—only what she
looked like!
She was a dream,
Vennie—
I was in love with a dream
. That night when we danced and I held you in my arms … you could have been Jenny.”

Worse, thought Venetia, getting up from her chair, it was worse than that. He’d made love to her. “I have to know,” she said. “Tell me the truth. When you made love to me, was it because you wanted
me …
or …” She couldn’t finish the question.

“I wasn’t sure,” said Fitz softly. “I couldn’t tell if you were Vennie or Jenny. You were my fantasy, my dream girl come true. I knew the way your mouth would feel under mine … I knew you, Vennie. I had loved you forever.”

Venetia remembered that final moment of passion when he’d called out her name. She had wondered then … oh, God, she must know! “Then was it my name you called,” she asked in a voice so low he could barely catch it, “or was it …?”

Gazing into her blue-gray eyes Fitz wasn’t sure which it had been—but he couldn’t hurt her again. “It was Vennie,” he said. “Of course it was you.”

Tears spilled from her eyes. Was it pain, or maybe relief? Fitz loved her, he had just said so. Hadn’t he? He put his arms around her and she leaned against him, her tears staining his shirt.

“It’s odd,” he murmured, “but I don’t notice the resemblance anymore. When I look at you now I just see you—Vennie. My beautiful young Vennie.”

She caught the implication. “You’re afraid I’m too young for you.” She sighed. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

“That I’m too old for you,” he corrected. “Think about it, Vennie. You’ve got your whole life in front of you. I’ve already lived a dozen lives. You can do anything—open your restaurant, build a business, marry someone your own age, make a life together, have babies …”

“And a cottage with roses round the door,” she added,
smiling at the dream images he had conjured up of herself. “But I love you, Fitz McBain.”

“You should be with someone Morgan’s age.”

“It was never Morgan,” she murmured. “We were friends, it was fun …”

“That’s what I mean, Vennie. You are so young, you should be having fun, finding out about life, what you want from it. I love you, Vennie, but I must give you a chance.”

“A chance?”

“To meet other people.”

“Other men, you mean?”

“Yes. Other men.” They fell silent.

“It’s the only way, you see,” he said, letting go of her, “the only way for you to be sure. I’m afraid that in a couple of years you might regret being Mrs. Fitz McBain, that you might feel that you’d lost your youth, missed the freedom to be with people your own age, that you might say to me one day, ‘I had potential, I was young, I could have been something too—not just the wife of a rich man. An older man.’ ”

“But I wouldn’t. I mean … I love you, Fitz.”

“And I love you; that’s why I’m saying this. Vennie, I couldn’t bear it if you married me and subsequently realized you’d made a mistake. Don’t you understand? I’d rather not have you, than have you and lose you. Go away, Vennie, just for a while. Try life on your own terms, experiment with your restaurant, make friends, do all the things people your age do.”

Vennie longed to hurl herself back into his arms, to lock herself into his life now, to be loved by him forever. But she could see his mind was made up. His face was stern and she wanted to smooth away the frown between his brows, to stroke the small, fine lines that radiated from the corners of his eyes, to reassure him that her youth was a liability to her, not an asset. But it would do
no good. He was sending her out into her own world. But for how long?

“How long,” she whispered, “would it take to prove to you that it’s you I love, you I’ll always love?”

Fitz sighed. He knew he could tell her to forget it, that he was being a fool, that he needed her, couldn’t live without her, that he loved her because she was so young and sweet and lovely. But he wouldn’t. There were probably dozens of young men out there who would tell her the same thing. It was a chance he must take.

“Try life on your own for a year, Vennie,” he said. “Twelve months isn’t very long, after all. And at the end of it, if you still want me, I’ll be here—waiting.”

Venetia gazed at him uncertainly. Surely if he loved her, he couldn’t send her away. She recalled a line from one of Jenny’s movies, one she’d watched her mother rehearsing, pacing endlessly up and down some hotel suite clad in a creamy satin robe. Jenny had flung her arms wide, declaiming to the open window and some invisible lover. “True love is not selfish,” she’d cried. “True love never demands. It gives.” Fitz was giving her her freedom to choose. Her mother would have understood that, and approved.

“A year, then.” Vennie ran her hands through her untidy hair. “Just a year, then, Fitz McBain.” She managed a grin. “It’s a business deal.”

Fitz laughed. “If that’s the way you want it,” he said.

“It is,” she replied fiercely. “That way you can’t back out.”

“I’ll never do that, Vennie.”

“You’re sure it can’t be any other way?” Even as she said it she knew his reply—and despite herself she knew he was right. “Okay, okay,” she added hastily, “I know when I’m beaten. Maybe I’ll make a businesswoman yet!”

Their eyes met and she read the love in his. It would be all right. He would be here, waiting for her. Meanwhile,
there was a year to be lived, a whole year without him. She could almost hear Jenny saying it, just the way she had when she’d left her at school in England that first time: “Look at it this way,” she’d said. “It’s time to achieve, time to grow.” And Jenny had always been right.

LÉONIE

PEACH

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