The Horn family hosted a house party at the end of spring every year, a tradition that had been handed down from generation to generation. We would all be pressed into service attending the whims of bankers, socialites, and investors. Since some of the guests would require extreme patience––Bentifourt actually said ‘the patience of a saint’––he admonished us to be on our best behavior. Charlotte, never missing an opportunity to offer her opinion, rolled her eyes theatrically while I pushed down the urge to giggle. We were all in the kitchen, wiping down an infinite amount of china, when Mr. Bentifourt walked in.
“Marianne, Mrs. Redman will be joining us as well. Make the arrangements.”
Mrs. Arnaud pursed her lips. “Merde.”
Well, that said it all. I leaned in closer to Charlotte. “Mr. Horn’s mother,” she whispered, “very high maintenance. And he gets even crazier and nastier whenever she’s here––as if that’s possible,” she added with another comically wide-eyed stare.
“What are you gossiping about, Charlotte?” Isabelle interrupted in a snide tone.
“We weren’t gossiping you meddling bitch.”
Mrs. Arnaud eyed her sternly. “Charlotte.”
“Mrs. Redman?” I asked.
“The name of her fourth husband, chérie.”
* * *
It was way past midnight. I sat in bed staring at the screen of the laptop. I couldn’t bring myself to call it my laptop because I couldn’t risk getting attached to it. Although I was probably already deeply attached and in complete denial about it––just looking at it made me quiver in excitement. It had been a long time since I was connected to the world. Cell phones, the Internet, all the technology we take for granted these days, I had learned to do without. I had pawned my computer and cell phone years ago. Besides, there was no one left to stay in touch with.
It had been weeks since I had dropped off the query letters at the hospitals and still hadn’t heard anything. A bit demoralizing, even though I knew persistence would eventually pay off. Filling their requirements wasn’t the issue. My medical school grades were impeccable and The University of Milan was well regarded. I spoke fluent English and Italian, had a working knowledge of French. German would have given me an added advantage, but there weren’t enough hours in the day. Besides, the Swiss German spoken in some Cantons is so harsh and unique that even native speaking Germans have a problem understanding it.
There was no question that being a foreigner was a disadvantage, I just wasn’t certain how much. I expanded my search to include hospitals in Zurich, and crossed my fingers as I hit the send button along with a Hail Mary to help my cause.
An iMessage bubble popped up on my screen addressed to [email protected]
[email protected]&Cie.com
‘You’re up late.’
I froze, my fingers suspended over the keyboard. My emotions took a hairpin turn from confused to appallingly thrilled.
‘How do you know my email address?’
[email protected]&Cie.com
‘I set up an account for you when I bought the computer.’
Oh, I hadn’t thought of that. And now that I did, I wasn’t certain I liked it.
‘I’m writing letters to hospitals in Zurich.’
[email protected]&Cie.com
‘Why Zurich?’
‘I can’t afford to be picky. I’ll go anywhere I’m accepted.’
The silence was deafening. Then I heard the bling of an incoming message.
[email protected]&Cie.com
‘You can’t leave Geneva.’
What does that mean? It wasn’t even a question.
‘Of course, I can. There’s nothing keeping me here.’
No response. I wanted to end it on a good note so I rushed to fill the silence.
‘Why are you up this late anyway?’
[email protected]&Cie.com
‘Couldn’t sleep.’
‘Pain?’
[email protected]&Cie.com
‘No.’
I waited patiently, hoping he would explain. God knows why I cared, but I did. Then I heard the bling.
[email protected]&Cie.com
‘Thinking of you.’
I felt blindsided, at a loss as to how to respond. Before I could spontaneously combust from nerves, the bling of an incoming message sounded.
[email protected]&Cie.com
‘Good night, Vera.’
‘Good night, Sebastian.’
It was the first time I had called him by his name, crossing another invisible line. Concentrating on the letters after that was impossible. My mind wandered, my fingers wandered. I hit the Safari button and stared at the cursor until my fingers started moving without consent.
‘Sebastian Horn’
Don’t do it. Do not do this! This was wrong. Every intelligent cell in my brain screamed for me to stop. I hit the enter button anyway, then the images icon.
-Sebastian at a charity event for Sudan, Bono standing next to him.
-Sebastian on a sailboat.
-On the beach in St. Barth with some model.
-In Aspen, with a tall blonde TV reporter.
…and then I saw it.
-Sebastian and India Horn.
I clicked on the picture. They were on a sidewalk, outside a hotel. The caption read: Four Seasons, New York City. He was dressed in a sleek black coat, a grey scarf wrapped around his neck. Only his stoic profile was visible as he pulled her along with his fingers laced through hers. Turning towards the cameras, she wore a wide, bright smile on her delicately beautiful face, her pale blue eyes sparkling with joy, her long, chestnut hair flying behind her. Tall and thin, they were a matched set. She looked blissfully happy…and in love.