The Chameleon (38 page)

As Claire slipped on her custom-cut riding jodhpurs and jacket, adding a silk ascot at her throat, she caught a glimpse of an almost giddy girl in the mirror. But it wasn't until Lorenza pointed it out that she realized she was singing the same funny tune that her children had been humming this morning. Harrison was coming. And for different reasons, they were all excited.

All through her morning ride in the park she was breathless. She had taught herself to be a stylish rider but this was the first time she could remember ever riding with passion. She rode faster, trying to outrun the images in her brain of Harrison's long, subtly muscled limbs and his elegant profile. She rode harder, quickening the feeling between her own thighs, but she couldn't put enough horse between her and Harrison; every time she passed a distinguished-looking rider on the trail she imagined it was he, only to be disappointed when it wasn't.

Cooled down, showered, and changed, she sat twirling a pencil at the conference table of the weekly meeting of Eleanor House. Tonight she'd ask Ambassador Luce to serve on the board. Claire could barely concentrate on the business at hand as the speeches droned on and sentences evaporated into annoying, insectlike buzzes. She brought her hand to the back of her neck to stop an itch and realized she couldn't scratch it away. It was
that
spot, his spot on her neck that he loved to caress.

Later, she was blithery as a goose girl, fussing over the seating order as if she hadn't already hosted over two hundred formal business dinners in their four lavishly appointed homes. She had to take a headache powder by four
P.M
., although a worried Lorenza had already brought her three cups of sweetened tea and an Alka-Seltzer. She pressed her fingers against her temples and slowly exhaled to calm herself.

So she was able to appear serene when a hysterical, bathrobe-clad Slim, nearly unrecognizable without her Chanel war paint, was chased into the dining hall by a gun-toting Tutti. The butler was wild-eyed. His master's American bald eagle was on the loose and Tutti was on its trail. He twisted its empty leash menacingly around his wrist.

“You didn't tell me your husband raises goddamn vultures in this crazy house! I found the beast in my bathroom.”

“Only one, and it's a national treasure.”

“The goddamn bird was in my shower!”

“Fulco will be so upset. What have you done with it?”

“Opened the fucking window and pointed to the Grand Canyon, that's what. That bird must have had a wingspan of twenty feet.”

“Eight feet. And it's Duccio's favorite pet. Tutti, we'll just have to find it.”

When Duccio had returned from a trip to New York just in time for Easter weekend last year, he had come laden with presents. He had presented Six with a speargun and skin-diving gear for their summer vacation in Capri. There was a pascal lamb for Sara and for Claire a pair of emerald chandelier earrings from Verdura that reached almost to her shoulders. For himself he had purchased a contraband American eagle. The boxed bird's hooded eyes were narrowly awake after an oversedated flight on the plane Duccio had chartered to bring him and his contraband home.

“You know the great bald American eagle is almost distinct,” he had told Claire.

“I think you mean extinct, dear. How clever of you to save one.”

“I thought it would be a smash addition to our dinners in which we entertain my American clients. It will remind them of the ranges.”

“You weren't thinking of using the eagle as a centerpiece, I hope.” She had to turn away from Sara and Six, who were helpless with giggles behind the lamb. They all jumped back as the national bird of America awakened and opened its wide wings across the quaking cage.

“You and Tutti figure out the presentation.
Forse,
on my gloved wrist like a falcon.
That
would be very dramatic.”

“Or perhaps on a stand like a pirate's parrot,” Six said, entirely straight-faced.

“Oh yes, Six. Like that.” Duccio threw his small, powerful hands in the air. “Like a pirate.” And he stomped happily out of the room.

“SignÓre Duccio asked that I arrange for the bald eagle to be present tonight.” Tutti walked proudly into the room. The bird had been recovered. Tutti had been with Duccio for six-teen years and had witnessed sights Claire didn't even want to hear about.

“Just keep him tethered in the corner, though, please. I wouldn't want to frighten any of the guests. And the new ambassador is a lady, you know, Tutti, so I'd be sure to keep the bird away from her hairdo.”

“Of course, Signóra Claire.” And he backed silently out of the room.

“Mon dieu.
It's like Tarzan and Jane at Greystoke in this place. Are there any other critters you'd like to warn me about?” Slim stuck a Camel into her mouth and lit it with a wooden match.

“Oh, Auntie Slim. I want this to be a fabulous dinner. But you must help me. It's so important to … Duccio. I'm just not sure about who sits next to whom.” She studied the notebook in which she documented her dinner parties, what she had served and who had sat next to whom.

“Let's see, the elder Agnelli has gout, so it's salt-free and no sauces at his place.” Providenzia and Alberto stood at heightened alert behind the mistress of Palazzo Duccio and nodded attentively, as if they were military operatives being briefed by their commanding officer. Their jobs depended on these little details. The headwaiter and his maid followed Claire as she moved down the long table, a pencil in her hand and a spare behind her ear. Slim trailed behind like a smokestack, occasionally backlit by sunlight that floated in through the sheer curtains. Claire had herself selected the crisp, floating fabric that veiled the world outdoors and created an aura of quiet mystery inside her public rooms. Later that evening, lit candles would bathe her guests in a rich golden light. Claire had learned from her European counterparts that the best lighting in the room should be reflected on the guests, making them feel handsome and interesting.

“Ambassador Luce is the reason for the gathering…”

“So put her in the centerpiece with the damn eagle and then Duccio can show her off to all his business associates. That's the point of all this, isn't it?” Slim nailed it.

“Precisely. We just don't discuss it.”

Slim was only recently learning that in this apparently loveless marriage Claire's loyalty to Duccio was solid. She lit a second Camel with the first, Providenzia holding an ashtray under her hand during the tricky maneuver.

“Ambassador Luce on Duccio's right. And let's give her the Vatican cardinal on
her
right. You know she converted to Catholicism after the death of her daughter.” Claire's children, thank goodness, would be present as usual at the cocktail hour, and the thought cheered her. “Mr. Luce is supposed to be a dull conversationalist so Cissy Grant can discuss world events with him over there.” She pointed. “Her husband owns half the newspapers in America.”

“Yeah, their society columnist runs you weekly in her ‘Letter from Abroad.’”

“And you, dear Auntie Slim, get Mr. Grant. You can tell him all the news he doesn't know, you darling.”

“What's cooking?”

“Caviar with all the trimmings and quail's eggs in the drawing room—”

“Yum.”

“And those not on restricted diets get
pasta portobello,
a soupçon of bouillabaise,
vitello con limone,
and fresh from the sea
pesce spada
—that's grilled sea bass—with
pomodori
and zucchini and then all of Duccio's favorite cheeses and iced pears and pear and lemon sherbets, all homemade, and then all our freshly dipped chocolates from the kitchen with espresso. Good?”

Slim stood back and marveled at this gifted, in-charge hostess.

“I'm going to walk around the front to make sure both the Italian flag and the American flag are displayed properly, and Duccio wants the photograph of FDR and me to be on the hall table next to the official Ike.” She rolled her eyes.

“Did you learn all this from us?”

“Every last bit. Well, a few years in the Roosevelt White House and hanging out with your pal the duchess of Windsor helped a little.” Claire grinned and slipped her arm through her auntie's. “Come along to Duccio's little gallery. I have to make sure practically every guest coming tonight has his picture hanging in the library.” She laughed, yet she knew this was very serious business, and the pictures of the former king of Italy, the head of Fiat, FDR's right-hand man, the publisher of
Time
magazine, all with their arms draped around Duccio, as well as Duccio the family man, all had to be arranged with as much protocol and care as the seating. Claire took such pains because she understood that this particular evening was not about politics and power games but about securing a half-billion-dollar account for her husband's shipping line and another for his South American rubber plant. However, it was the international conversation at the highest level, the most interesting people in the world gathered at her table, that made these dinners so appetizing for the hostess. Having discovered as a young Harrison bride that she moved comfortably in the corridors of power, able to slip in softly a change here and there, she took that element in this artificial marriage to Duccio and nurtured it. All of the people so carefully arranged around her table knew she was equal to any power broker in the smoke-filled rooms back home where presidents were selected and elections won. But her greatest asset was taking the spotlight that shone on her and reflecting it back on her guests. Nobody left Palazzo Duccio without having met somebody they needed to know, enjoying the finest cuisine in Rome, and promising to send a check to Eleanor House.
Con piacere,
with pleasure.

As was her custom, Claire dined with her children at six o'clock before her guests arrived. She never missed a family dinner. Tonight her heart was racing a thousand miles a minute because Harrison was going to join their little group. She couldn't decide whether to dress for her party before or after their separate supper. She wasn't sure how she wanted to look when she saw Harrison. She knew he was coming over just for business matters with Duccio and to see the children, but her entire upper respiratory system was hyperventilating, demanding to know if she and Harrison still loved each other. She took a sip of champagne at her dressing table to quiet her nerves. She couldn't appear rattled, not in front of the children, not in front of Duccio, not in front of her guests, and certainly not in front of Harrison. If only she could stop thinking about him, her hands would stop shaking enough so that she could slip into her white taffeta Balenciaga, pull her hair high off her face with her diamond-and-pearl combs, and fasten the string of pearls, the same pearls she had worn for Harrison, around her neck. She picked up the hand-blown Venetian atomizer from her table and sprayed the scent of vanilla and cocoa beans around her breasts. Her eyes twinkled as the familiar scent wafted up. Let the other ladies wear Chanel No. 5 and Miss Dior tonight. She closed her thick lashes, dangerously imagining what might have been. If, if, and if. Claire's romantic heart was still beating for Harrison, her body heat frozen. For two years now she had slipped her passions into a hidden drawer and only pulled them out when she was alone, free to remember and relive the shared moments; the way he held her hand or stroked her cheek. Italy. Harrison was
her
Italy—Lake Como. Their Isola Bella. Occasionally over the years she had allowed herself to dream. What an asset she could have been to Harrison. If she had been setting
his
table instead, assembling world leaders for
him,
they could have accomplished so much. Together they could have brokered world peace instead of just another Duccio deal.

Opening her eyes, she was startled to see her husband standing behind her. He was never supposed to enter without knocking first. By her startled reaction, he guessed her objection.

“I knocked, my darling, but you obviously have thoughts elsewhere.” He held up something big and sparkling. “It would please me if you would wear this tonight. I designed it for you and Verdura made it.” His smile was tentative as he tried to read in her eyes if she liked his gift. She smiled, but the demonstration of gratitude was contradicted by the expression in her eyes. He was taken back by the obvious sadness in them. “Don't you like them? They're the biggest turquoises and sapphires I could find.” He touched the back of his hand gently to her cheek. “They're supposed to be my version of raindrops, not teardrops.”

“I wasn't crying, Fulco. I was just sitting here thinking how lucky I was and how kind you are to me and my children.”

“So it's still gratitude. Someday perhaps.”

She took the hand he offered her. “It's a beautiful necklace that I'll wear proudly because you designed it.”

“Mention that to the other guests. It's nice for them to know I have an artistic side.” He leaned back on his heels and held out a wrist for her to fasten his cuff link. He smelled like vetiver and sandalwood. If she was grateful for his protection, he was grateful for the little gestures that implied they were a couple. And although the rich pirate had his pick of any woman in every port, and had had affairs with some of the world's most beautiful women, he had somehow fallen in love with his elusive wife. He rested his hand on her shoulder as they studied each other in her mirror.

His voice was shaky with desire. “You could show off our necklace better if you put on the blue gown that shows your breasts.” She watched his fingers in the mirror as they found their way to her cleavage. She sat motionless as she always did when he touched her. As crude as he was, Duccio had the sensitivity of an exotic blooming plant. He knew he was being frozen out.
“Allora.
The blue dress, my necklace, and you. My table will be magnificent.” He turned to her in the mirror before walking out of her apartment. “Perhaps, when all the guests are gone, we can talk about the evening over champagne.”

The expression on her mourn never changed as she raised her fingers in the traditional
ciao.
She waited until she could no longer hear his strutting footsteps on the marble before she let the tears she had held back fall down her cheek. She reached for the photograph of her two children to remind herself why she was even there.