The Chameleon (44 page)

“Too bad it was the golden one and not the ugly little Puritan who fell from the balcony.” Duccio's cruel words were in Italian, but Sara understood.
She
should have been the one who died. She was supposed to have been Six's protector. She had promised her mother. And Grand-mère Ophelia. She had let them all down. Six was gone, it was her fault, and there was nothing more to say.

Lorenza had watched, horrified, as the child stiffened and turned icy-eyed, as if her feelings were being carried away by Tutti along with her brother's body down the long, darkening hall. One of the dark men in gray suits tucked Sara under his arm like one of her mute Madame Alexander dolls and carted her up the stairs to her room. The little girl,
poverina ragazza,
hadn't uttered a word since.

Lorenza thanked all her special saints—Maria, Teresa, and Santa Lucia—when Violet finally arrived with the morning. Now she wouldn't be the only one standing sentry, protecting Sara and Claire from only she knew what. The proper lady in the quiet suit could organize the commotion taking place downstairs, throwing out the florists who wove insincere garlands around the small coffin and sending the publicity hounds packing. Lorenza took Violet's hat and apologized repeatedly for her own disheveled appearance. She had lost her apron and her bun had come undone sometime during the long night, which she had spent kneeling on the floor, holding hands with Claire and rubbing a comforting arm on Sara's shoulder. She hadn't allowed herself to doze off for a second, all the while keeping her watchful eyes on the door. Now Lorenza heaved her first sigh of relief in hours and let her aching shoulders fall. Relief had come in the shape of a diminutive lady with a brooch that matched the piercing color of her eyes.

Violet was anguished to see the tragic little scene that she discovered in Claire's private apartment. Her own broken heart and exhaustion from traveling fourteen hours were forgotten when she saw her daughter rocking stone-eyed in Six's chair, but the picture that sucked the air out of her lungs was of her granddaughter guarding a ghost. Sara had curled herself around the imprint Six's sleeping body had made on the bed linens only two mornings ago, so that the child looked as if she were sleeping next to her brother, her arm thrown protectively over the hollow left by his young boy's body.

Violet swung into grim action. There would be time for her own tears later. The best way to help her daughter was to be the person she'd always been: the one who dealt with the necessary details. A casual observer would have mistaken her efficient reserve for lack of feeling; in reality Violet was conducting herself in the only way she knew, burying the ache in her own heart to allow everyone else their sorrow. Grief for Violet had always been a luxury, a private indulgence she could allow herself only when everyone else had been consoled. She asked Lorenza for Claire's agenda, the phone numbers of her closest friends, a washcloth for her daughter's face, and instructed the anxious woman to try to coax some soup or juice into Sara's tightly clenched mouth.

She blinked away the mist from her own eyes as Claire dug her fingers into her arm to tell her with a weak smile what bright thing Six had said only two days ago. Violet purposely distanced herself from this pitiful little scene in Six's bedroom. Three generations of women swallowed up in sorrow. She knew that as always they would be left to their own devices to comfort each other out of tragedy. What the lioness in her felt intuitively was the need to show strength and gather them close together; otherwise Duccio and Ophelia would mark them as vulnerable prey.

The watchful den mother took a moment to lick her cub's wounds. Taking Claire's peaked face between her palms, she listened as Claire begged her to explain why Six was gone. She rubbed her daughter's shoulders as Claire wondered aloud what God could have been thinking. Had he been away from his desk? They'd taken the wrong boy. Violet clasped their hands together, making a double church steeple with their fingers as Claire fretted that Six wouldn't know anyone else in heaven. Who would look after him or show him the way? She wouldn't want him to get in the wrong line with the lost souls.

“Sara, my first baby Sara, why weren't you watching out for your brother? Why did you let him down? Why?”

Violet leaped to Sara's defense and held her grandchild in her arms. All the warmth had left her body. “Hush, Sara, don't listen. Your mother's very upset. An accident isn't anybody's fault.”

Then Claire turned the blame upon herself. “Why wasn't I at home?” She let her face fall into her hands. It was all her fault. She'd been making love to Harrison while Six tumbled off the railing. “Harrison. Harrison.”

Violet patted Sara's hair and tiptoed into Claire's room, a few feet away, where she apprehensively telephoned Charlotte Hall to inquire what time their plane was due to arrive. She was surprised to hear Ophelia's clipped, businesslike tones informing her that Six's burial site and stone were being prepared for interment in the family plot in Tuxedo Park and they would hold the funeral when her grandson arrived home next week. She hoped that the Duccios wouldn't allow Six's Roman memorial service to take on the flavor of one of their over-the-top dinner affairs. She and Harrison would appreciate it if Claire would remember that out of her own neglect she had lost William Henry Harrison VI, the heir to one of America's oldest and most important families, and perhaps out of respect for the rest of the Harrisons, who stood united, she could try to conduct herself with a modicum of good taste.

Violet was flabbergasted, her dark intuitions proving true. It was obvious that, in the moment when Claire was the most defenseless, Ophelia would strike. Like well-bred vultures, Ophelia and her lawyers were already circling over the carcass of Claire's life. Ophelia would seize the death of her grandson, the light of Claire's life, as an opportunity to renew her custody suit for Sara, the child whom she considered her own. With a shudder, Violet realized she'd have to put the steel back in Claire's spine if she didn't want to lose her daughter, too. But why wasn't Harrison helping? She'd long suspected there were deep feelings between the two of them. Where was he now?

One day earlier in Tuxedo Park, Harrison had shifted his jaw into the stiff diplomatic expression he wore for his most difficult negotiations. He adjusted the four-in-hand knot of his English silk rep tie, lying against the precise fit of his formal chalk-striped suit. Ending his marriage to an increasingly embittered Ophelia rated right up there with persuading Emperor Hirohito to deny his birthright as the Sun God. He had left his travel bags at the Waldorf Towers and driven out to Tuxedo Park to deliver the news in person.

He didn't expect histrionics from Ophelia, whose sense of superiority was sustained by never stooping to middle-class emotions. They had lived like a divorced couple for years anyway. She had only to give her legal consent on a piece of paper that Tom had already drawn up. The whole thing would be very civilized. No announcements of divorce in absentia over hash at “21,” in full view of every gossipmonger in town. His code of honor dictated that he conduct this distasteful business himself, in private. He was tired from his long flight, but, more important, he realized that he was truly exhausted from sleepless years spent shuttling between Europe's capitals on presidential whims and missions. Claire was right. Now was the time for him to find some peace and harmony in his life. Most of all, he was bone-tired of the domestic lie he lived. Now all that would change with a few flourishes of Ophelia's boarding-school penmanship from her pearl-handled pen.

Her voice was polite, but anger flashed in her eyes. Even the coolly independent Ophelia was affronted that Harrison had been gone for five wordless months. And now here he was, walking in the door with that damn diplomat look on his face. She looked past him, hoping to see Sara and Six dancing around a mountain of traveling trunks. He never showed up at Charlotte Hall anymore unless he was with the children.

“I came early to have a word with you.” A leaden civility edged his voice.

Little alarm bells rang inside Ophelia's head. If he was going to tell her he wouldn't be escorting her to the Slocums’ ball in Newport next weekend, she was definitely not going to let him off the hook. There were appearances to keep up.

“You could have at least telegrammed that you were coming.” She glanced crisply at her wristwatch, as if he were two hours late instead of two days early. “You look like you haven't slept properly for a week. Don't tell me you just washed up from the
Andrea Doria.
Terrible about that leaky boat. Boots Hollingsworth was on the bloody vessel. Broke her arm. Well, where are Sara and Six? Are the children still arriving on Wednesday?” She was at his heels as he walked into the drawing room.

“You know I prefer to stay out of those arrangements. You should consult Claire about the matter of the children's schedules.” He politely gestured for her to sit down in her favorite chair, the Queen Anne that had belonged to her mother.

The heavy hoods of Ophelia's lids blinked while her eyes remained in trigger focus. “I shall not have a conversation about that woman in my house.”

“That
woman, as you call Claire, is very dear to me.”

Ophelia was startled: Harrison was behaving too badly for words. She tsked-tsked her disapproval and quietly told him to remember his manners in her house. There was only a trace of irritation in her unexcitable facade. She would express her disdain for Claire, but she wouldn't be drawn into an argument about the international tart.

“You know, I've asked the lawyers if they can't do something about her using our good name as if it belonged to her. Sandwiching ‘Harrison’ between ‘Claire’ and ‘Duccio’ is totally unacceptable. It's as if we put our family's seal of approval on that little upstart and her troll of a husband. Why, over at Perkins and Williams the other day—”

“Have the decency to drop the lawsuit, Ophelia. I'm afraid she'll never return if you keep on hounding her. She could prevent you from seeing the children.”

“She cannot break the agreement. I have Sara and Six August and Christmas, and as soon as one of those silly aunts dies and she plants one of her tangoing feet back on American soil, I'll have her hauled into court.” Ophelia was still aghast that her former daughter-in-law had entertained Evita Perón during her Italian visit even giving a well-publicized dinner dance for the Argentinean call girl turned politician. She'd been furious that Sara and Six had been photographed with the bleached blond dictatoress. How she'd been able to live that down at Bailey's was a testament to her self-control and breeding.

“You'll do no such thing.”

“Don't speak to me in that tone, Harrison. My people have been living in Fifth Avenue mansions for generations and are just as good as all your family's public servants.” One unplucked eyebrow went in the direction of the rock crystal chandelier hanging from the domed ceiling.

She was unintentionally making this very easy for him. “I told you I came out today to discuss something quite important with you. Face to face. I've given the matter a great deal of thought and serious reflection.” He smoothed the crease of his double-pleated trousers as he sat down in the Salem side chair.

Ophelia had an unpleasant déjà-vu moment, remembering how Claire had sat in that same straight-backed chair when Ophelia had interviewed her for the position of Harry's bride and found her unsuitable.

“I've decided we should end our marriage.”

He searched her eyes for a reaction, but found none. Instead, she turned and rang for the servants. “Bring some water, Agnes,” she called. “I believe Mr. Harrison's blood pressure's got away from him.” She wheeled around to address her husband. “Have you lost your mind? Is your blood sugar elevated? Divorce! A well-arranged marriage like ours will never end on a piece of paper. Can you imagine Franklin divorcing Eleanor?” That was the ticket; Ophelia always knew when to haul out FDR. “I think your leash is quite long enough as it is. You've no
idea
the lame excuses I've had to invent for your rude absences.” To control the unwelcome anger she felt rising, she plucked a cigarette from a silver eggcup and waited for Harrison to light it. It was always helpful to do something busy with one's hands when emotions started to stir.

“Divorce!” This time the word huskily issued from both sides of her mouth. “Out of the question. And there's simply no way you could afford it. Perkins and Williams has every zero and decimal point in your entire portfolio. The two of us are, quite simply, attached at the pocketbook.”

“Then I give it all to you. Everything I have in the States.”

“Madame, you rang?”

“I'll have some aspirin, Agnes, please.” Harrison was suddenly feeling light-headed.

“He'll have no such thing. Leave us alone now.” Ophelia shooed her away.

Harrison put his fingers to his temples.

“What do you mean, everything in the States? Oh, I see. You've stashed your fortune all over Europe. That's why you've been in Paris and Rome and Switzerland, deceiving me that you were on hush-hush diplomatic duties when you were just squirreling away our assets.”

Harrison rubbed his forehead. The negotiations with Hirohito and even Stalin had been less taxing. “I can assure you, my dear, and Perkins and Williams will back me up, that there's a sizable fortune at your fingertips. I have just kept capital I've accumulated in Europe the last few years, where it was earned.”

He opened his cigar case as he closed his argument. “I would like that glass of water, though.” As far as he was concerned, it was over, done, civilized. There was only one small detail. Better to hear it from him.

“Claire is leaving Duccio.” He spoke in a muted voice.

“So? There's no one I know who would be even remotely interested in her.” She hated it when she had to lean over to hear him.

“Only me.”

The silver eggcup toppled from her fingers.

“I plan to live very quietly with Claire and the children in Europe. I'm sorry if this comes as a shock to you, but I think you've probably known for a long time. Both Claire and I long to step out of the spotlight, so you needn't worry that we'll be a glaring embarrassment to you. Everything should remain pretty much the same for you.”