The Affair: Week 6 Read online

  Amanda nodded, studying her with sober blue eyes. “He said you’d agreed to spend the time with him, and that you weren’t the type to go back on your promise.”

  Amazement broke through her anger. He really did have balls, sending a message like that. She once again sensed Amanda’s hesitation.

  “What else did he say?” she asked slowly.

  “He said to remind you that you’d agreed to ‘whom these days and hours belong.’ And he said to say that you aren’t a coward. What did he mean by that?”

  Blood started to pound in her ears in the taut silence that ensued. She shook her head, her throat too thick to answer Amanda’s question.

  “Emma, I’m trying not to butt in, because I can tell you don’t want to talk about this thing with Vanni,” Amanda said quietly. “But I can tell you really like him. Are you worried you like him too much?”

  “I’m worried I more than like him, Amanda. Much more,” she said in a choked voice.

  Amanda’s eyes widened. “Oh. I see. No wonder you’re worried about going to France.”

  Emma just nodded.

  “It’s just . . .” Amanda hesitated, clearly torn between speaking or not.

  “What?” Emma asked.

  “Well, you were the one who told me after Colin and I—” she faded off, but then rallied. “You were the one who said it was worth it to take a risk for passion. And I happen to agree with Vanni about one thing for certain.”

  Emma gave her a querying glance.

  “You’re not a coward, Emma. You never were,” Amanda repeated. “He told me to give you this. He said as soon as you called, this man would arrange everything.” Emma glanced briefly at the piece of paper with the name Marco Hagan and a phone number with an international prefix on it.

  She remained unmoving, watching her sister leave the room.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Emma was feeling some strange combination of nervousness, ebullience, and exhaustion when the sleek plane landed at the Nice Côte d’Azur Airport early on Friday morning. She hadn’t slept much on the transatlantic flight, too awed by the luxury of the private plane Vanni had sent for her and excited about the prospect of seeing the French Riviera for the first time . . .

  . . . Too overrun with anticipation at the thought of seeing Vanni again.

  She still didn’t appreciate his heavy-handedness in regard to her job and so many other things, but she did know one thing. She’d sent him away last Monday because she was overwhelmed by what was happening between them. Vanni had known that. His message to Amanda was meant to prick her pride. But it’d been more than that.

  I need you there.

  She recalled him saying those words before Cristina’s funeral. And whether she was a fool or not, she somehow had heard a similar, secret message in the one he’d given Amanda. Like before, she hadn’t been able to refuse.

  As Marco taxied the plane along the tarmac, she stared out the window onto a glorious Mediterranean summer day. The air itself seemed saturated with golden sunlight. As they’d landed, she’d seen the picturesque orange, pink, green, and white roofs of luxury residences and hotels that cascaded down the mountainside to the brilliant azure sea. The sea itself was dotted with thousands of tiny white boats and yachts. It was a scene right out of a glamorous Montand car commercial. Her excitement was huge, but she suddenly regretted not flying there with Vanni. She already felt out of place as things stood, an outsider who didn’t know what to expect. Arriving there alone, she didn’t have Vanni’s epic confidence to ease her anxiety.

  “Vanni isn’t coming?” she asked Marco tentatively after they’d passed through customs and headed to a parking garage. Marco rolled an enormous trunklike suitcase behind him but still insisted upon carrying Emma’s duffel bag.

  “He couldn’t. Time trials for the race were held this morning, so he’s been busy with that,” Vanni’s pilot explained. He was a stocky, friendly American in his forties with reddish-blond, thinning hair and fair skin that looked as if might be perpetually sunburned. He’d acted like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to cross the ocean to go and pick her up at his boss’s orders, an attitude Emma appreciated.

  It also bothered her a little.

  Did Marco regularly go on runs to fulfill Vanni’s companionship requirements?

  Marco stowed the bags in the trunk of a sedate, black luxury sedan and then opened the passenger door for her. “Vanni’s schedule has been pretty booked up with last-minute planning for the race on Sunday and a bunch of pre-racing events. Do you like racing?” Marco asked conversationally once he’d gotten into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know all that much about it,” Emma admitted. “But I’ve been listening to Vanni. I gather he’s going out on a limb a bit, using stock cars instead of the Formula Ones?”

  Marco nodded as he fleetly maneuvered out of the parking facility. “There was some initial resistance on the locals’ part, but that’s all in the past. Vanni’s got himself a world-class race on his hands. He assured that by signing the best drivers from all over the world, whether they race stock cars or F1’s. It helped that Niki and he are best friends. Once Niki Dellis agreed, everyone signed up just for a chance to beat him. It didn’t hurt that Van also acquired the crème de la crème of society to sit on the racing committee and make crucial decisions. With that on his side, he eventually won over any local resistance. Everyone is pouring to the coast in droves, dying to see who will prevail in the race. It’s American-style cars, but it’s on a traditional European road-racing circuit, so both sides have something to prove. I shudder to think about all the money changing hands this week in the casinos.”

  “Are there clear favorites to win?” Emma asked, interested.

  “On the American front, Tito Burton, Joe Hill, and Santo Howles are top runners, the three of them have over a dozen NASCAR championships between them. On the Formula One side of things, the betting favorites are Mario Acarde, a flashy Italian driver with fifteen grand prix wins under his belt, and Niki, who has six world titles. Niki drives Montand cars, but always Formula One racers in the past. He won the pole position this morning in the time trials, so Vanni’s got to be pleased about that.”

  “Wow, I didn’t realize Niki was so good.”

  “The best. You’ve met him?” Marco asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Niki and Vanni go way back . . . family connections,” Marco said.

  They began to climb the rugged mountainside in the sedan. Marco took a tight turn that looked down on the stunning coastline. Emma felt like she’d left her stomach two hundred feet behind them. She trusted Marco, but she suddenly wished it were Vanni behind the wheel taking the hairpin turns with his usual effortless handling.

  “It seems like all of you have to be part racecar driver just to go to the grocery store around here,” she said a moment later, glancing down nervously at the steep drop-off on the side of the road.

  “The French Riviera is no place for the faint of heart, that’s for sure. It’s a strange paradox of people living fast and furious and at the same time, being experts on relaxation. They call it a playground, and it is, but it’s a fierce one. Playing on the Côte d’Azur can become an intoxicating . . . and dangerous business,” Marco said amusedly.

  “I’ll bet.”

  “How beautiful,” she said in awe a while later as they passed the ancient village of Saint-Jeannet set high in the mountains. It sat on a ledge between two looming cliffs overlooking the sea far below. Winding streets passed medieval-looking buildings and stunning vista terraces. “Oh, look,” Emma pointed out, smiling at the red, white, blue, and black flags hanging from lampposts along the street proclaiming the Montand Franco-Américain Grand Prix.

  Marco grinned. “The locals are buzzing about the race almost as much as the people pouring in to all the
top-notch hotels to watch it. Vanni is considered a local boy, and not just because his father started his car company in Antibes nearby. The Montand family has deep roots in the Côte d’Azur,” Marco explained.

  He made his way out of the village, eventually driving onto a thickly wooded road that was so twisting, Emma quickly couldn’t say which direction she was facing anymore. She kept catching a glimpse of the Mediterranean in the far distance and a burnt red slate roof nestled among lush green treetops. Finally, Marco pulled into a secluded drive and there was the villa before them, a white limestone structure with a red roof, sprawling and enormous, yet nestled quite comfortably in the forest and cliffside, almost as if it had been there so long, it had become part of the natural landscape.

  “La Mer,” she breathed out, staring wide-eyed at the ancient home. “Vanni loves it here.”

  Marco gave her a swift, speculative glance, and she wondered what he’d heard in her voice. He brought the car to a halt. “That he does,” he said. “He’s a little happier, when he’s here. I don’t understand why he doesn’t live here all the time, but . . . that’s not for me to decide.”

  Emma glanced at him. She had an uncomfortable suspicion of why Vanni refused to give up the Breakers—the site of so much tragedy.

  A minute later, a dark-haired, aproned, middle-aged woman who introduced herself as Mrs. Denis led them into a circular, sunlit entryway that featured a white alabaster grand staircase and windows that went up for three stories. Such a lovely, bright, airy home, Emma thought admiringly as she stared around in awe. Even though the finishes were ornate, there was an openness to the rooms that she spied off the entryway, an approachability. Emma inhaled deeply of fresh sea air and . . .

  “Is that bread baking?” she asked Mrs. Denis.

  The housekeeper smiled. “I am always baking something.”

  “Lucky for us,” Marco said amusedly.

  Down a hallway, Emma saw a huge terrace that was open to the interior. Fresh sea air wafted into the elaborate entry hall. Bright flowers in huge clay pots waved in the gentle breeze on the terrace. Mrs. Denis noticed where Emma looked.

  “Come,” she said in her French-accented English. “You’ll sit on the terrace and I’ll bring you some refreshment. Vanni has told me you drink tea. Some chamomile, perhaps, so that you can rest after your flight?”

  “Thank you, that’d be nice.”

  “I’ll just put your bag upstairs and see you later,” Marco said.

  “Thank you so much,” Emma replied warmly. “For everything, Marco.”

  “Not a problem. You enjoy yourself. I have a feeling you might be able to get Vanni to relax a little, despite the whirlwind of the race,” the pilot said.

  “I’ll try,” Emma said, returning his friendly wave before she followed Mrs. Denis outside.

  “I’ll just go and get your tea and make sure Marco gets something to eat before he goes. He always has an appetite. I wish I could get him to share some of it with Vanni,” Mrs. Denis said with a grin before she bustled inside.

  Emma walked out onto the terrace, her mouth falling open in delighted awe. The stone terrace was huge, running the entire length of the house. It was filled with fruit trees, flowers, and seating areas. In the distance, rocky cliffs sharply dropped off, but she caught sight of a white staircase. It must meander down to the sea. Far below them, the brilliant blue Mediterranean took up the entire horizon. It was the most breathtaking view she’d ever seen. She soaked in the sunshine and the stunning view for several minutes, standing next to a three-foot-tall stone wall covered in vines and blooming roses. She inhaled deeply of the sea air. The smell of gardenias and roses wafted into her nose. She could almost see Adrian and Vanni on the terrace as children . . . Adrian staring at the magnificent landscape dreamily while Vanni excitedly described some new adventure for them to undertake. Adrian would have calmed his fire, and Vanni would have infused Adrian with energy and purpose. How was it that she could picture Vanni so easily as an animated, happy child when she’d only ever known him as sober and controlled?

  Resigned to his sadness?

  Perhaps it was because of the trace of wistfulness in his tone when he’d talked about Adrian and him at La Mer as boys. Maybe it was because of the glimpses she caught of him when he made love, and she saw beneath the aloof surface to his fierce, savage soul.

  Her thoughts weighed on her. Why couldn’t he make La Mer his permanent home? Why couldn’t he completely reclaim the happiness he’d once felt there?

  And . . . tell Vanni . . . to forgive himself. I know he thinks it’s his fault.

  Some of Cristina’s final words rose to haunt her at that moment, a sad, poignant reminder in such a sunny, beautiful, peaceful place.

  “It’s lovely, isn’t it?” Mrs. Denis said from behind her. Emma turned from the stone wall and saw the housekeeper laying a tea service on the one of the wrought iron tables. Formerly, “tea” meant a bag and hot water in one of Emma’s mismatched mugs, but since Vanni had entered her life, it was an event.

  “I’ve never seen anything to compare to it,” Emma agreed as she walked over to the table. “How long have you worked at La Mer?”

  “It’ll be twenty-five years this winter,” Mrs. Denis said, setting the delicate antique teapot on the table along with a tiered plate filled with cakes, slices of aromatic, thick whole-grain bread, and a dish of butter. Emma’s mouth watered. “It’s hard to believe, especially since La Mer hardly ever changes. It’s the same old house I remember from my first weeks here.”

  Emma smiled and sat when Mrs. Denis pulled back a chair at the table for her. “Some things should always remain the same. La Mer is definitely one of those places. I can see why Vanni loves it so much.” She started to pour, but Mrs. Denis beat her to the task.

  “He does love it here. I only wish he’d be in residence more,” Mrs. Denis said. Her gaze sharpened on Emma as she set down the teapot. “I’ve never heard the tone in his voice before—the one I hear when he speaks of you.”

  Emma’s fingers fumbled the silver cake knife she’d picked up. She looked at the housekeeper in surprise. “Really?”

  Mrs. Denis shook her head, a sparkle in her black eyes. “If I had to guess, I’d say that Vanni thinks you’re special.”

  Emma felt her cheeks heating. “That’s so nice, but it’s not as if . . . that is . . . Will Vanni be away for the entire day?” she fumbled, changing the topic because she didn’t know how to respond to the news. Mrs. Denis’s kind observation warmed her to her very core, but she didn’t know how to tell Mrs. Denis that she’d likely never return to La Mer, given the parameters of her relationship with Vanni.

  “Yes, but I just called to tell him you’d arrived,” Mrs. Denis said, stepping back, her hands folded at her waist. “He asked me to tell you to rest up after your trip. He’s going to take you to Cannes this evening for a dinner planned for the drivers, their teams, and the racing committee at the Hôtel et Casino ‘Le Majestueux.’ We just call it Hôtel Le Maj, for short. It will be très glamour. All of the surrounding villages are very excited for the race, too,” she said, her toothy grin making her look years younger. “We’re having our own little celebrations at the café in town tonight, although it will be nowhere near as fancy as the one you’ll be going to with Vanni. Vanni has a special reason to celebrate, too, since Niki won the pole position for the Montand car today. Is everything all right?” Mrs. Denis asked, obviously noticing the shadow that crossed Emma’s face.

  “Yes, of course. Thank you for the tea.”

  “I probably shouldn’t have spoken about Vanni’s feelings. What do I know? It’s not as if he ever says anything of significance to me. Still, an old woman gets used to reading a man when she’s known him since he was this high,” she said, indicating a place on her leg below her apron. Emma smiled. “Forgive me if I made you uncomfortable,” she said. Emma was moved by her si
ncere, warm manner.

  “You didn’t. You’ve made me feel very comfortable here, in fact,” Emma assured.

  “I’ll keep an eye out for you. When you’re finished, I’ll show you to Vanni’s suite. He said to put you there.”

  “Thank you,” Emma said, watching as the housekeeper left her to her tea.

  In truth, she hadn’t looked worried because she was thinking of what Mrs. Denis had said about Vanni’s tone of voice when he spoke of her. It’d been the mention of the dinner they’d be attending tonight that reminded her uncomfortably that she’d told Vanni to return all the clothing he’d so generously bought her. Had he carried out her request or ignored it? He’d told Amanda in his message that she needed only bring herself, and he’d have everything arranged for her. She’d taken him at his word, bringing only some bare necessities and toiletries. Now that she was here in these glamorous surroundings, however, she started to “get” just how truly out of place she’d be wearing one of the sundresses she’d brought.

  A half hour later, Mrs. Denis led her down an arched-ceiling, whitewashed stone hallway to a closed door.

  “Oh, how lovely,” Emma breathed out when she followed the housekeeper into the room. Like the rest of the house, it was flooded with sunlight from an entire wall made of French doors. It was a large, wide-open room, simple in design, containing a huge iron bed with pristine white bedclothes, two armchairs, and a sofa situated before an ancient-looking fireplace and a fantastic carved antique armoire made of dark stained wood. She saw the large trunk Marco had brought from the plane next to the armoire. Flowers were everywhere, cut ones arranged skillfully on the mantel, bedside, and on the table in the seating area. They were also living ones outside on the shallow terrace beyond the French doors, waving in the sunshine. In the distance was the brilliant azure sea.

  “Do you have everything you need?” Mrs. Denis asked her after she’d showed her the bathroom suite and how to regulate the temperature in the room.