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CHAPTER TWELVE
ON A HOT summer afternoon a few weeks later, Caroline trooped wearily home from work and opened her mailbox to find a long white envelope bearing the logo of the Davis School of Design. She looked at it, then clasped it to her breast and closed her eyes.
“Please,” she murmured as she climbed the steps to the fifth-floor Brooklyn Heights apartment she’d subleased for the summer, “please, let this be an acceptance!”
If it wasn’t, she would just have to grit her teeth and start all over again.
Sighing, she unlocked the door, closed it after her and carefully relocked it again. She put the envelope down on the small table that served double duty as desk and dining surface, eased off her shoes, and stepped out of the cotton dress that felt as if it were stuck to her damp skin. She went into the tiny bedroom, stripped off her hose and slipped into a loose T-shirt and boxer shorts. Yes, she thought as she worked her hair into a French braid, that was better. Barefoot, she padded into her cramped kitchen and took a can of Coke from the refrigerator. Finally, she snatched up the envelope from the table where she’d left it and carried it to the one window that might, if she were lucky, catch a vagrant breeze from the river a block away.
She held the envelope to the light, squinting at it with one eye while she tried to read the first paragraph. Would it say, “Dear Miss Bishop, Thank you for your recent inquiry, but…” which was what the letters from Parsons and FIT had said. Or would it, by some miracle, say, “Yes, we approve of your credentials, yes, we have room for you in our summer classes, yes, yes, we want you…”?
“Oh, come on,” Caroline muttered. “Just open the stupid thing and get it over with.”
Still, she hesitated. What if Davis had denied her application, too? The practical part of her said it wouldn’t be the end of the world. She wasn’t broke—she’d found a job selling cosmetics at Macy’s, just across the Brooklyn Bridge in Manhattan. It was a bit cheaper living here in an older neighborhood than in the heart of the city, so she hadn’t had to tap into what she’d earned as companion to Anna Sabatini. She hadn’t wanted to take the four months’ pay from Nicolo, but he’d been coldly adamant.
“It was our agreement,” he said, thrusting the check at her, and finally she’d swallowed her stupid pride and admitted to herself that he was right. That had been their agreement, and, if she was walking out on the deal earlier than expected, it was as much his fault as hers.
The money was sitting intact in the bank, earmarked for tuition at either the Fashion Institute of Technology or at Parsons for the autumn term, when at least one of the schools would admit her.
Caroline hitched her bottom onto the wide windowsill, put up one leg, and leaned back against the frame. It was just that September was too late. She wanted to get started now. Immediately.
“What’s the rush?” a harried clerk had asked when Caroline had tried to talk her way into being permitted to enter a summer class that was already under way. “Surely it won’t be the end of the world if you don’t start school until fall.”
Caroline had stared at her blankly before finally smiling faintly and agreeing that it would not be. She sighed, raised the can of Coke to her lips, and let some of the cool, sweet liquid ease down her throat. What would have happened, she wondered, if she’d told the woman the truth, that it just might be the end of the world, that she couldn’t keep going through the days this way, with nothing to devote her energies to, nothing to occupy her thoughts—except Nicolo, and how much she despised him?
It amazed her that she’d ever believed herself in love with him, that she’d deluded herself into seeing his arrogance and his egotism as positive qualities. That she should have wasted time crying over him was not just amazing, it was incredible. And that she couldn’t stop thinking about him now was infuriating, never mind that the thoughts were angry ones and not the sloppy, sentimental stuff that had made her weep the first few nights after she’d left Rome.
She’d finally realized that what she needed was to commit mind, body and soul into something challenging and exciting. She grimaced as she took another swig of Coke. It seemed absolutely logical that that “something” should be her new career, but the schools had a different idea.
“Sorry, but we’re booked,” said the admissions officer at one.
“Classes have already started,” said the clerk at the other.
And then, one Saturday, as she walked listlessly through a Matisse exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art, Caroline had run into a girl she knew from catalog modeling. Over ice tea and sandwiches, she’d mentioned her useless attempts to gain last-minute admittance at design school.
“Yeah, I’ve heard it can be rough. How about DSD? Did you try them?”
“I never even heard of DSD. What is it?”
The girl had grinned and taken a gulp of ice tea. “Very, very small, and very, very choosy. They have some kind of summer apprentice program—you know, they pay you a stipend and farm you out to some posh house like Givenchy or Calvin Klein.”
Caroline had sighed. “I’d give my right arm for something like that, but so would every other would-be designer in New York.”
“Yeah, well, I’d give it a shot. From what I hear, they’re big on oddball backgrounds, not the usual, ‘I’ve taken umpteen million courses’ thing but the sort of stuff you’ve done. Modeling, a stint overseas, a few sketchbooks, maybe some clothes you’ve made for yourself.”
Caroline swung her leg to the floor, put down the Coke can, and with one determined yank, ripped open the envelope.
“Dear Miss Bishop,” she read aloud. “After a review of your credentials and your application, we are happy to offer you…”
“Yes!” she said joyously. “Yes!”
DSD not only wanted her; they wanted her enough to offer her six weeks working as an apprentice at Chanel, in Paris.
Beaming, Caroline scanned the rest of the letter. “If this is acceptable to you, please sign the enclosed forms, arrange for a current passport, and contact this office as soon as possible.”
Caroline hugged herself as she danced to the telephone. Suddenly, life looked quite a bit brighter.
* * *
THE WOMAN she met with at DSD explained that Caroline had been very lucky. They’d almost had to turn her down because all their openings for the summer had already been filled.
“But then the young man who was slotted for this spot had to back out. Something about an incomplete grade on his college transcript.”
Caroline tried to sound compassionate. “How unfortunate for him.”
The woman nodded. “Yeah, but he’s the nephew of one of our directors,” she said with a just-between-us smile. “I bet he’ll still get a spot for the summer if he gets things sorted out.”
Caroline paled. “Are you telling me I might get bounced?”
“Oh, no, nothing like that.” The woman became very businesslike. “Once you sign this contract, we’re committed to you—and you to us.”
Quickly, Caroline scrawled her signature on the proffered form. Nothing could stop her now. She was on her way to Paris, and to a new life…
At least, she thought she was—until the day before her flight, when a DSD representative phoned and told her there’d been a change of plan.
“Sorry about this, Miss Bishop,” the man said briskly. “I’m afraid we’ve had to reassign you.
Caroline’s face fell. “I’m not going to Paris?”
“No. But you’re going some place just as good. In fact, I’m sure it will please you, considering the information on your résumé.”
Milan, Caroline said to herself with that sudden, strange insight fate often provides. The floor seemed to give way beneath her. No, she thought, please, no, don’t let it be Milan…
It wasn’t Milan.
It was Rome.
* * *
THERE WAS NO WAY out of it. She had signed a contract and besides, why should she pass up six weeks’ apprenticeship with
a top-flight designer because she and Nicolo Sabatini would be living in the same city? Four million people lived in Rome. She wasn’t going to run much risk of rounding a corner and coming face-to-face with him—and, even if she did, so what? When she’d been very little, not too long after her parents had died, she’d had bad dreams.
“Something awful’s in the closet,” she’d sobbed to Grams, and Grams had first held her and comforted her, then opened the door to show her that there was nothing inside but clothing.
“If you’re scared of something, look it straight in the eye and it will go away,” Grams had said.
And that was what she’d do now, if by some chance she bumped into Nicolo. Not that she was afraid of him; there was no reason she should be. Still, the principle was the same. The only way to banish the bogeyman was to look him in the eye without flinching.
And that was what she’d do if—if—she ever had the misfortune to run into Prince Nicolo Sabatini again.
But she didn’t. The days passed quickly in hard, yet fulfilling work. Caroline was not only learning, she was doing what she’d wanted to do, channeling her energy into something positive.
But it wasn’t helping. Instead of thinking of Nicolo less often, she was thinking of him more and more. The reason for it was obvious. Every narrow, cobble-stoned street, every white-pillared ruin, every little ristorante, reminded her of Nicolo and the time they’d spent together.
She hated herself for remembering, not just that last ugly confrontation in the campagna but the things that had preceded it, the good things, starting with the fun they’d had together and ending with that long, sweet night she’d spent in his arms. But most of all she hated herself for awakening in the darkness night after night, with Nicolo’s name on her lips and tears on her cheeks.
