These thin lines, p.28
These Thin Lines, page 28
A chin tilt towards the end of the bar where Vi’s spine was so straight, it was surely about to snap as Charles spoke from between clenched teeth without taking his eyes off his daughter.
“If you would excuse me—” Chiara’s departure, however, was delayed by a burning hot hand that landed on her forearm with slightly more force than was necessary to stop her. Nails dug in, paying Chiara back just a little for her earlier insult.
“This is a family matter, Ms. Conti. Given your humble upbringing, I’m not sure you understand, but if I were you, I’d not intervene. Genevieve needs to assume her position in the society, although with the company she keeps, I’m not certain that is even possible. You’ve latched on to her before. Perhaps it’s time to let her family take care of her?”
Chiara gave Gwyneth a pointed stare. “I’ve seen strangers treat her better than her family ever did, Mrs. Courtenay. Now, before I reconsider and give into the temptation to create a few potentially scandalous headlines for Page Seven, kindly unhand me.” Leaning closer, Chiara lowered her voice. “You may not know this, but you can take a girl off the Italian streets, but you can’t quite get the streets out of this particular girl.”
She savored seeing fear in Gwyneth’s eyes before she snatched her hand away. Chiara turned on her heel as Arabella chuckled, and Gwyneth slinked off into the crowd.
Given the fact that everyone seemed to know her and wanted to talk to her—from wishing Chiaroscuro well, to expressing the conviction that they’d always known it was her behind the meteoric rise of the brand—Chiara made her way through the throng of people fairly quickly. Several tried to coax her into divulging details or impress upon her their urgent need for a bespoke wedding gown, but Chiara was not able to really see them or register their words or comprehend what they were asking of her. Vi was still cornered by her father, so nothing else mattered.
Finally, nodding and smiling vaguely at a man she numbly thought was with a Poise competitor, she reached the bar. Once there, the sound of the ballroom seemed to recede, allowing her to overhear the last of the words being thrown in Vi’s face by that gruff voice, wiping the last traces of blood from those features.
“…never could do anything right. Just like your mother—”
“Enough!”
Her own voice felt foreign to her. Both the word itself and the low intonation, the command in it like a whip lashing at Charles and steadying Vi.
A memory intruded, breaking the reddening at the corners of her vision. A Parisian rooftop and Vi whispering so earnestly, “Hold on to me. I’m here.”
Her own words, uttered from Vi’s threshold just last night, rang in her ears. Debts incurred. Debts paid. It was Chiara’s turn to prop up Vi, as the world whirled around them with cruelty and fury.
Before either Charles or Vi could say anything, Chiara took Vi’s hand and, without another glance, walked away. She didn’t care how rude or inappropriate her behavior was. Nothing mattered, except the absolutely empty look in those usually sparkling eyes.
The ride to Vi’s apartment was silent, and only the hand, still cold and motionless in hers, kept Chiara anchored to the present, just as it had when they’d entered the cursed ballroom.
As the keys trembled in Vi’s fingers, missing the lock several times, Chiara took charge. The instinct that always seemed to overwhelm her where Vi was concerned, to protect, to care, to shield, had her gently take them from the listless hand.
As the metal latch turned several times, she pushed the door open, and the scent of verbena wrapped itself around her, bringing solace. The apartment filled her senses, and Vi sighed quietly next to her, leaning heavily on the wall, seemingly unable to move.
“C’mon, one foot in front of the other…” Chiara took both of Vi’s hands in her own, carefully pulling her along as one does a skittish animal.
Despite having been here just once the night before, the apartment felt familiar and comfortable. Chiara found the bedroom without really trying, another door, this one painted bright yellow, leading her to a queen-sized bed, pristinely made with the comforter pulled over it tightly. Even as she guided Vi in, slowly lowering her onto the mattress, Chiara peripherally imagined bouncing a coin off it and wondered who had taught Vi such precision, until her mind screeched to a halt in the understanding that this must have been Vi’s life. Either the vestiges of the myriad of boarding schools, or her father…
She knelt in front of Vi, who sat on the very edge of the bed, unmoving, as if afraid to mess it up, and Chiara’s heart squeezed as she reached for the laces on the polished Oxfords. One foot, then the other, just as she’d instructed earlier, and Vi still sat like a doll, following her movements with those haunted eyes, silent.
“Vi…” She trailed off, completely unsure about what she could say. Her mother had been disappointed in her. Lived that way and had died that way, leaving Chiara with enormous guilt and a lifetime of therapy bills.
Still, Chiara had been loved. No matter how much pain was in those eyes, they’d never looked at her daughter with anger. Sadness, yes, but never this much hatred. Chiara’s mother bore her disappointment like a weight that ultimately sunk her, like the waters of Lake Como, but she had never been cruel. This specific, very targeted viciousness that rendered one paralyzed in humiliation and despair.
So while Chiara understood what had happened between Vi and her parents for what it was, she could not comprehend the scars it left. And so she didn’t know what to say, how to alleviate whatever was eating at Vi and had left her nearly catatonic.
“Vi… I’m so sorry.” Useless words were falling from her mouth, even as her hands rose to caress the still-so-pale face, thumbs tracing the gaunt cheeks in an attempt to bring some color to them, even as her own desperation at seeing Vi like this clawed at her.
She thought perhaps she should be stronger. More indifferent, apathetic even. After all, this woman had betrayed her before. But Chiara had no such strength and no such skill as to turn away and leave.
They watched each other, amber on ash, and then a tear trembled on Vi’s lashes as she finally blinked and it was set free, rolling slowly down the tender cheek. Before it had a chance to reach Chiara’s fingers, she rose up and kissed it away, her lips lingering on the cold skin.
The gesture set something off in Vi, because suddenly more tears sprang from eyes that no longer looked empty, but instead so full of longing, it took Chiara’s breath away.
“Stay with me.” Barely a whisper among the wretched sobs. Still, Chiara understood and Vi seemed to be completely unaware she’d even uttered the words as she rolled into a ball on the edge of the bed and buried her face in a pillow, weeping in earnest now.
Goddess… How could she refuse? How could she leave her in such despair? Chiara took off her shoes and climbed in bed from the opposite side, this once becoming the big spoon. She held the shuddering body against her chest, absorbing all the grief and all the pain, murmuring nonsensical words of consolation as the ragged sobs tapered off into whimpers that slowly subsided as Vi’s breathing leveled.
Chiara stayed the night, her eyes unfocused, staring at the dark ceiling reflecting the shadows from the busy Greenwich Village street below, and wondered why she had never quite shaken off this emotion that lived in her chest. Why, despite all her attempts to stop, she had always been in love with Vi Courtenay, although she’d only truly trusted her for a single night and paid dearly for it.
She should probably be surprised by the revelation. Sigh or cry or laugh. Do something to mark this momentous occasion.
But Chiara was tired. And spent. Vi’s breakdown somehow seeping under her skin and taking everything out of her, stripping everything bare and leaving only the realization that, despite the years and the pain, Chiara loved Vi.
And what would it mean to allow herself to quit those, at best, feeble attempts to exorcize herself from this feeling, and simply let it be? As she had once before on that rooftop.
Could you walk into the same river twice? And if you did, would the waters be the same? Would they carry you to the same end?
The next morning, she chose to walk towards the townhouse on Mercer Street.
Her thoughts were buzzing inside her head, angry bees that had been disturbed in their routine, and so she’d asked the cab driver to drop her off several blocks away, to try to sort through everything that was on her mind and through the emotions rolling in her chest.
As she approached, she noticed a figure sitting on the stoop. Chiara realized that whoever said you should always expect more trouble so as to never be caught unawares, had been right. And she herself had been quite mistaken. Because this particular trouble, she had not expected.
Frankie Lilienfeld unfolded her long, leather-clad frame from the steps and leaned in, her face inches away from Chiara’s, smoke still playing on those smirking lips as she threw away an unfinished cigarette. Her voice, the lightly accented roughness of it, was harsher than Chiara remembered it when Frankie finally spoke.
“Hello, wife.”
21
IN A FARAWAY LAND OF UNWANTED CONVERSATIONS
Chiara Conti was exhausted. The previous night had left her emotionally battered, with Vi asleep in her arms, tears still drying on those haunted cheeks and Chiara’s heart responding with a painful contraction to each twitch and soft whimper Vi let out.
She’d looked forward to the morning; to an hour alone in her workshop, an hour to draw, to drink her cappuccino, to collect her thoughts, and to tuck away the scattered emotions that kept pulling her in all directions.
She was looking forward to making peace with her newly acquired knowledge that she was in love with Vi, and this was now something she would need to address, at least for herself.
Ideally, she would have liked to get all those things done before Vi and her team descended on Chiaroscuro for the long day of shooting and interviews.
Except the visitor at her front door pretty much ensured that, not only did Chiara not have anything to look forward to where the morning was concerned, she also had to rapidly raise all her defenses. The ones she’d mostly forgotten how to erect after years of not having to deal with her ex-wife.
As it was, she sidestepped Frankie and jiggled her keys as she stood in front of the townhouse. She had never regretted having an apartment in the same building as her studio and shop, the flat nestled under the roof, with a beautiful view and a convenient lack of a commute. But with Frankie here, Chiara resented that convenience just a little. Because it made her vulnerable to exactly these kinds of visits.
She couldn’t even take any consolation in looking good. She knew she had no such armor to hide behind. In yesterday’s finery—now severely tainted by a long night of twisting, turning, staring at the ceiling and holding Vi—she looked like she was making the infamous walk of shame. And perhaps she’d flaunt that in Frankie’s smug face, if only it were true. As it was, Chiara was clutching her shawl around herself in a desperate attempt to cover up the marks Vi had left two nights ago.
Perhaps reading her thoughts, the smirk on her ex-wife's mouth grew lewder.
“Long night?”
“You came all this way from wherever you’ve been the past however many years to inquire about my night? What a waste of time, if you ask me.”
To her surprise, her words—which were rather tame by anyone’s standard, but certainly by her own, considering they had said so many, much more hurtful things to each other over the years—wiped the grin off Frankie’s face.
“Apologies.”
Chiara almost gasped, but stopped herself at the last second, her sense of self-preservation kicking in.
“That easy? Are you okay, Frankie? No fever? And you should probably quit whatever charade this is. I am really not ready for it to snow in September.”
Frankie gave her a long look, one Chiara couldn’t decipher, then lowered her eyes.
“I’m sincere, babe.”
She pulled a pack of Marlboros from her leather jacket and Chiara watched with something akin to a déjà vu as the oh-so-familiar fingers performed the ubiquitous dance of tearing the filter off and flicking the Zippo to life.
As she searched for something to say, anything to end this dreadful silence that could only stretch between two people who were nothing to each other and no longer had anything to talk about, the door behind her was flung open, and Chiara could swear Aoife actually growled.
“What is it with all these bad pennies just effin’ turning up around here these days? Are you lost then, Lilienfeld?”
Despite the reference that lumped Vi and Frankie into the same category, that was where the similarities ended. There was no warmth in Aoife’s features, no begrudging welcome like the one she had bestowed on Vi after the initial ribbing. Here, it was open hostility, and Chiara winced, her frayed emotions abraded further as Frankie took a long drag and blew out the acrid smoke, enveloping Chiara whole.
“Wasn’t aware I needed your permission to be on this sidewalk, Sully. This being the land of the free, or whatever bullshit they claim...”
Chiara tuned out the rest of the sermon. Now this was the Frankie she knew. This was the Frankie who had hounded her in Paris for an entire year after she’d filed for the divorce. This was the Frankie that was painfully familiar. The one with the moralizing speeches and logical fallacies, sprinkled with a wounded expression that was fooling no one, least of all Chiara.
Still, one thing was certain: the sidewalk was no place for this argument. Someone was bound to recognize them, and Frankie and Aoife’s bickering—something about rotten fish—was already turning heads.
Chiara rubbed the bridge of her nose, yesterday’s contact lenses irritating her eyes. She was beginning to regret ever getting up from Vi’s bed. Surely, an awkward conversation with her would not have been this painful.
As the voices around her rose in volume and in insults, Chiara had enough.
“Children, how about we take this inside?”
“How about Frankie leaves? She’s not welcome here!” Aoife shot back immediately, and Frankie smiled victoriously.
“I love you too, Sully.”
Chiara rolled her eyes at the two of them as she held the door open. Once inside, she laid a calming hand on Aoife’s arm, squeezing gently.
“I’ll handle this. You should get the showroom ready. The crew will be here in about an hour, and once they arrive, it’ll be nonstop go, go, go for the day. Help me out here, Sully.”
Her eyes must have been particularly pleading, because for once, Aoife didn’t argue and simply shook her head and disappeared into the beautiful fall tones of the silks and satins strewn all over the showroom.
“Well, now—” As they walked towards the staircase, whatever Frankie had been about to say was interrupted by a stern voice that made even Chiara wince.
“Never would I have thought, Franziska Marie Lilienfeld. You had better be dying or something equally irrevocable to show your face after everything you pulled in Paris. What the hell are you doing here?”
Renate’s bark was merciless. Unlike with Aoife though, Frankie just laughed at her sister.
“Missed you too, sis. And how are you?”
Before Renate could blow a gasket and do anything drastic, such as throw something heavy and sharp at Frankie, Chiara started to take the steps to the studio two at a time and motioned for her ex-wife to follow her.
“Renate, please, I will handle this. Go see if Aoife needs any help—”
“I will do no such thing. I will be right here in case you need assistance or if she gets up to no good.”
Chiara closed her eyes, counted to ten and kept walking up towards the studio. She didn’t want to let Frankie into her apartment, so her work area with its large, open floor plan would have to do. Plenty of space there to avoid whatever it was her ex-wife was trying to achieve with this early morning, five-years-too-late visit.
“I love what you’ve done with the place, Chiara. Though I have to say that this is like running a gauntlet before reaching Sleeping Beauty. All those dragons downstairs…” Frankie laughed again, the low, raspy tones of the familiar sound doing nothing to calm Chiara’s thundering heart.
A second later, Frankie yelped and clutched at her ankle as Binoche stubbornly swiped at her. The sound of the angry cat, the curses of Frankie trying to protect herself, along with the shouts emanating from downstairs as Renate and Aoife sparred over something in the showroom, started to overwhelm Chiara.
Yesterday’s clothes chafed, seeming too small and suddenly uncomfortable. The level of the sounds coming at her from everywhere made her want to put her hands over her ears. But she couldn’t do that, no matter how much she wanted to. Instead, she scooped up Binoche and glared at Frankie.
“I’m exhausted, I didn’t get any sleep last night, and I have a very long day ahead of me. So before I sic the cat on you again, why are you here, Frankie?”
Binoche squirmed in her hold, but she figured it was premature to let her go just yet. Not that she pitied Frankie’s ankles, which, by the looks of them, had taken considerable abuse from the cat’s attack. But another round of screeching and yelping would simply be too much, regardless of the sadistic pleasure she might deride from allowing the protective feline to have one more go.
Frankie straightened and looked Chiara dead in the eye, hands finding her trousers’ pockets.
“I’m here for you.”
Well, maybe she should give Binoche one more shot after all. Especially when Frankie was talking nonsense like this.
“Here for me?” She repeated, trying to process her ex-wife’s point even as the meaning of the sentence was all too clear to her tired mind.
“I want you back, and I am prepared to do whatever it takes.” Mindful of the cat, Frankie approached Chiara carefully, laying a hand on her cheek. A sudden movement in the doorway interrupted Binoche’s loud meow.
