“No thanks.” Jeff handed it back.
Gunther looked perplexed. “What do you mean ‘no thanks.’ It’s yours. You’ve earned it.”
“I don’t need it,” said Jeff.
“I’m not sure I see what ‘need’ has to do with it.”
“All right, then. I don’t want it.” Jeff sounded more angry than he’d intended to. “Sorry, Gunther. But money doesn’t help me. It doesn’t mean anything. Not anymore.”
Gunther gave a nod of understanding. “You must give it away, then,” he said. “If it can’t help you, I’m sure it can help someone else. But that’s your decision, Jeff. I can’t keep it.”
TWO WEEKS LATER, AN article appeared in Leggo’s Rome edition under the headline TINY CHARITY RECEIVES REMARKABLE GIFT.
Roma Relief, an almost unknown nonprofit organization devoted to helping Gypsy families in some of Rome’s worst slums, received an anonymous donation of more than half a million euros.
The mystery donor asked that the money be used to set up a fund in memory of Nico and Fabio Trattini, two Roma brothers who died in an accidental fall from a condemned building two years ago.
“We’re incredibly grateful,” Nicola Gianotti, Roma Relief’s founder told us in an emotional interview. “Overwhelmed, really. Thank God for the kindness of strangers.”
CHAPTER 7
THREE MONTHS LATER
STEAMBOAT SPRINGS, COLORADO
TRACY STOOD ON THE deck of her new home and gazed out at the mountains. She’d chosen the place for its privacy, set back off a private road in the hills above the quaint town of Steamboat Springs, and for the views, which were breathtaking. The snowcapped Rockies loomed like protective giants against a vast sky, cloudless and blue even on this cold October morning. Tracy could smell wood smoke and pine, and hear the distant whinnying of the horses in the fields.
It’s a far cry from my childhood in New Orleans, she thought, stroking her swollen belly protectively. Tracy’s father had been a mechanic and her mother a housewife, and although Tracy had been very happy, the Whitneys had never had much money. As a little girl growing up in the city, Tracy had always dreamed of wide-open spaces and ponies. Or somewhere just like Steamboat Springs. You’re a lucky girl, Amy. You’re going to grow up here and it’s going to be perfect.
It had not been an easy decision, returning to the States. Tracy hadn’t been back since the day she set sail on the QE2 from New York, to start a new life in Europe. Released from prison early, having spent years in the Southern Louisiana Penitentiary for Women for a crime she didn’t commit, Tracy had tried hard to go straight. But she quickly learned that very few people were prepared to give an ex-con a second chance. Her old employer, the Philadelphia Trust and Fidelity Bank, had laughed in her face when she attempted to get her old job back. Tracy was a brilliant computer expert with a first-class education. But she found even menial cleaning jobs hard to come by, and even harder to keep. As soon as anything was stolen or damaged, Tracy would get the blame and find herself fired. Without a means to support herself, she grew bitter and desperate. It was desperation that drove her to her first job as a jewel thief, robbing a thoroughly unpleasant woman by the name of Lois Bellamy.
That was the job during which she had first met Jeff Stevens. He conned her out of Lois Bellamy’s stolen jewels. Furious, Tracy had stolen them back. So began a rivalry that became an attraction that became love. The love of my life. Jeff Stevens had made Tracy Whitney’s life an adventure, a wild roller-coaster ride of adrenaline, excitement and fun.
But all rides must come to an end. Tracy had trusted Jeff utterly, but he had betrayed her utterly, shattering that trust and, with it, Tracy’s heart. The image of Jeff in the bedroom with Rebecca was seared permanently in Tracy’s brain, like a cattle brand.
She still loved him. She would always love him. But she knew she could never go back. Not to Jeff, not to London, not to any of it. From now on it would just be her and the baby. My baby. My Amy.
Right on cue, Tracy’s daughter gave a whopping kick. Tracy laughed out loud. You’re trying to break out of prison, aren’t you, my darling? Just like Mommy did.
Tracy had learned at her twenty-week scan that her unborn child was a girl, and she amazed herself by bursting into sobs of relief. A boy would have reminded her too much of Jeff. She decided at once to name her daughter Amy, after Amy Brannigan, the warden’s daughter at the penitentiary whom Tracy had come to love like her own.
Amy Doris Schmidt.
It was a good name, a fitting blend of the past and the future. Doris was the name of Tracy’s beloved mother. Doris Whitney would never know her granddaughter, but her memory would live on in Amy. Schmidt was the family name Tracy had chosen for her new identity, a tribute to dear old Otto Schmidt, her father’s business partner back in New Orleans. Tracy had adopted countless alter egos over the last ten years, but this one was different. The name she chose now would be hers and Amy’s for life. Tracy Whitney no longer existed. Nor did Tracy Stevens.
My name is Tracy Schmidt. My husband, Karl, a wealthy German industrialist, was killed in a freak skiing accident in February, shortly after Amy was conceived. I came to America to start a new life with our daughter. Karl always loved the mountains. I just know he would have adored Steamboat.
With Tracy’s computer background and long experience as a con artist, forging a new identity had been easy. Passports, credi
t history, medical records and Social Security cards—all could be created and altered at the click of a mouse. Telling Amy the truth, as she would have to one day—that would be the hard part. But Tracy would simply have to cross that bridge when she came to it. For now, Mrs. Tracy Schmidt had enough on her plate, decorating the nursery—Tracy had gone for a whimsical, Flower Fairies theme—and attending pregnancy yoga classes and doctor’s appointments down in town. Between that and managing the ranch—Tracy’s luxurious log-cabin home came with over a hundred acres of private land—she had little time to dwell on the future. Or the past.
“Knock knock. Don’t suppose you’ve got any coffee perkin’, ma’am?”
Tracy spun around. Blake Carter, her ranch manager, was in his early fifties but looked older, thanks to countless hard winters and hot summers spent outdoors in the mountains. Blake was a widower and handsome in a craggy, rugged sort of way. He was also shy, hardworking and relentlessly old school. Tracy had been trying for months, but nothing would stop Blake from addressing her as “ma’am.’ ”
“Morning, Blake.” She smiled. Tracy liked Blake Carter. He was quiet and strong and he reminded her of her father. She knew she could trust him not to ask questions about her background, or to gossip about her in the village. She knew she could trust him, period. “There’s plenty in the pot. Help yourself.”
She walked back into the kitchen. “Waddled” might be a more accurate word. At over eight months pregnant, Tracy’s belly was enormous and in the last two weeks her ankles had started to swell terribly. Come to think of it, everything had started to swell. Her fingers looked like five sausages sewn together and her face was as puffy and round as a Dutch cheese. The effect was made worse by the ultrashort haircut she’d adopted for her new persona as Mrs. Schmidt. Tracy had thought it looked so chic in the salon, when she was still slim and barely showing. Now it made her feel like a lesbian prison warden.