“Hi, you,” Emma greeted Cristina warmly when she saw her eyes were open. “Let me prop you up a little bit,” she said when she saw how Cristina had slumped on the pillows. “Are you comfortable, Cristina?” she asked a moment later. Cristina nodded. She seemed to want to speak, but was conserving her energy. Her lungs rattled with collected fluid as she laboriously gasped for air. Cristina nodded significantly toward the windows. Emma looked around at the draped wall of glass.
“The windows? Do you want me to open the curtains?” Emma interpreted.
Cristina nodded, her anxiety evident even in her waning state.
Emma immediately opened the drapes. Sunlight reflected brilliantly off the sealike stretch of water. She turned, only to see Cristina staring out at the lake and the sunshine, transfixed. A film of tears shone in her rheumy blue eyes. Emma sat in the chair near the bed when she saw Cristina start to speak.
“Such a beautiful place to die,” Cristina whispered.
Emma’s heart lurched. The phone in the bedroom suite began to ring shrilly, jarring her out of the poignancy of the moment. She recalled Montand’s direction to keep the drapes closed. Cristina had specifically made the request for her to open the curtains, however, and Emma wasn’t going to deny her dying wish because of his inexplicable demand.
She started to go answer the phone, but it stopped abruptly midring.
“Here . . .” Cristina beckoned with her outstretched hand. Emma sunk down in the chair next to her bed and took her hand.
“What is it?”
“I’m sorry,” Cristina whispered between gurgling gasps.
Emma nodded. “I know you are,” she assured, understanding that Cristina wasn’t apologizing for anything she’d done to Emma. She was trying to do what she’d hinted she wanted to do; she was repenting in the bright sunlight. For what, Emma didn’t know. It was enough that she unburdened herself and Emma was there to bear witness.
“Tell him . . . I’m sorry . . . for not wanting them. For hating . . . them, at times,” Cristina pleaded with great effort, every word appearing to take gargantuan effort.
“Tell who?” Emma asked. “Your stepson?”
“Vanni . . . I couldn’t share the spotlight . . . Michael’s love. Any of it. I was better suited to be a plaything. A mistress, not a wife. Not a mother.”
Emma nodded, tears filling her eyes when she sensed the deep well of the older woman’s regret. Her desperation. The resentment she had spoken of just now had blocked her from speaking until she was at the threshold, and knew there was no going back.
“I’ll tell him,” Emma assured.
“And . . . tell Vanni . . . to forgive himself. I know he thinks it’s his fault. Maybe because I refused to—”
Cristina wretched. Emma sprung up to alter her position, but before she could assist, Cristina caught her breath and continued and squeezed Emma’s hand hard enough to make her wince.
“. . . to accept the blame. No child should have been left to feel so much. No man forced to feel so little. But I couldn’t help him. Not me.” She met Emma’s stare, her eyes wild. “I am what I am, and nothing more.”
“Try to relax, Cristina. It’s going to be okay. Please rest easy,” Emma implored, sitting again so that Cristina could more easily see her face. “I’ll tell him.”
Cristina’s gaze shifted over Emma’s shoulder, her stricken expression making Emma’s throat tighten painfully.
“Don’t be afraid, Cristina. It’s going to be all right. You’ll see,” Emma assured.
But Cristina was clearly lost in her painful memories, her focus elsewhere. “I never . . . meant to harm Adrian,” she gasped, her blue eyes now haunted. “I was selfish . . . neglectful, but not malicious. Forgive me Vanni . . . please.”
Emma opened her mouth to assure her that her last words were being heard, but someone else spoke.
“Ask for my mother’s forgiveness. Ask for Adrian’s.”
Emma blinked in shock upon hearing the male voice behind her. She turned around and saw to whom Cristina spoke. He stood just behind Emma’s chair, his face as hard and beautiful as sculpted marble.
“Your mother and Adrian would forgive me, Vanni It’s you who won’t.”
“Ask it,” he bit out harshly.
“I do . . . ask it,” Cristina sputtered, fighting for breath.
“If you ask for theirs, there’s no need for mine. I survived,” Montand said quietly, something indefinable leaping into his blue-green eyes.