she said. “In Europe, at least once.” She smiled. “Rome, it was, at the Palazzo San Giorgio. But you would not recall, I know. ” So easily she diffused the apology I had started to make. “One meets so many people under such circumstances… I remember you because of the man you were with.” She made a moue of apology. “You see? I am not different than others. But you were not looking at women either, with him at your side, and I made it my business to acquaint myself with you briefly so I could meet him.” Her smile widened. “All women wanted to meet Tucker Pierce, you know. And you, because you had caught him.”
I recalled the magnificent palazzo and the odd little man who had been such a charming host to a multitude of people. European aristocrats, political exiles, artists, actors, even models. Tucker and I had been there and so, apparently, had Francesca Vanetti.
“I am sorry,” she said quietly. “I know, of course… and I will say nothing more of it. ”
It wasn’t pity I saw, merely an understanding of my position. In that moment I realized she was far more than she pretended to be, and not at all the type to overlook a man like Elliot Fitch with his warmth and genuine enthusiasm.
“He has volunteered your services as a tennis player,” I warned her. “Would you care to meet your prospective opponent?”
Francesca laughed. “Already he keeps me busy while he rides his horses. Ah well, I do enjoy it. And I will meet this opponent after I have eaten. I am starving. ” She rose like a cat unwinding from a relaxing nap, all sinew and grace even in getting up from an awkward position in a canvas sling. “I will see you later, perhaps.”
I spent the rest of the day in delightful indolence, sprawled on a lounge next to the pool with oil spread over my too-pale body, soaking up the sun. Nathan wandered by once and commented it seemed a little cool for sunbathing; his idea of cool and mine were poles apart, since May in Arizona seemed more than adequately warm for such activity. I baked comfortably, drowsing much of the time; the rest of the time I paged through the latest issues of fashion magazines I’d brought with me. Old habits, as they say… even on vacation.
Patrick Rafferty was also out by the pool, though across the water from me. He did not sunbathe, being fully clothed; instead he seemed immersed in manuscript pages. He held a clipboard and a pen, wrestling from time to time with the breeze that threatened to snatch his pages away. He wore sunglasses; prescription, I assumed, since I’d always seen him with his horn-rims on. I couldn’t tell if he noticed me or not. He did not appear to, which was just as well. I was still self-conscious about the purplish scars on my forearms, especially set against skin considered too pale for attractiveness.
But it was a lovely way to spend the afternoon, and by dinnertime I felt baked to the bone. I showered, got dressed and went up to the Lodge to eat. Mexican food tonight: tacos, tostadas, enchiladas and other treats from across the border.
Stuffed full, I sat a while on the porch with Brandon in the swing next to me, and then we went for a walk. It was cool now that the sun had dropped below the horizon, but I wore my tweed jacket and a comfortable sweater. And with Brandon’s left arm draped around my shoulders, I wasn’t cold at all.
We walked up behind the Lodge, following the trail the moonlight illuminated for us. It was a companionable silence we shared, unbroken by small talk or great deliberation; we walked because we wished to, both lost in contemplation, and it wasn’t until I stopped to pull the cuff of one pantleg from my shoe that Brandon spoke at all.
“You will be all right.”
I nodded, steadying myself with a hand against his hip. “I will be. It was tough—it still is—but I will be.” I straightened. In the moonlight his face was oddly bare of all pretension. “You miss him too, don’t you?”
His mouth tightened. “Of course I miss him. Tucker and I were good friends, close friends—even if we hadn’t seen so much of each other the last couple of years. He was usually on a picture, or visiting you in New York; I was generally off somewhere gallivanting