Page 5 of Embracing the Change

And that would cling to Jamie.

This was why Mother had barred the door even to staff (because staff talked, and sometimes sold the tidbits that they’d witnessed).

I had to clean Belinda’s gown as best I could (Lord help me).

I also had to try to get some water into her.

The first was imperative before it dried and got worse. Fortunately, Mother had tackled the worst of it. It was still unpleasant work.

Once I accomplished that, I went to the door and stuck my head out.

One of the security guards looked to me. “Can I have a carafe of ice water and a glass?” I then added, “Also a very strong cup of coffee.”

He nodded.

“Please knock when it arrives,” I continued. “I’ll come fetch it.”

Another nod, and I didn’t wait for him to see to my request (I was an Ellington, and now a Castellini, I knew my request would be seen to tout de suite).

I headed back to Belinda.

I hadn’t officially met her, or Jamie, though I’d seen them at several events since their triumphant arrival in the city.

She was flawless.

He was spectacular.

They were the It Couple: beauty, money, class, and for his part, it was known he was highly intelligent and lethally ambitious.

However, they (as was I, I had to remind myself, even if I didn’t feel that way, as I never had) were young.

But this was an event to raise money for childhood leukemia. There were millions, maybe even billions of dollars in jewels and gowns and custom-tailored tuxedos and Italian shoes floating around that hotel.

This wasn’t a frat party.

How on earth could she get in this state?

As I had this thought, she attempted to lift her head while slurring, “Jamie? Hun. I’m sho shorry. I promoish. Thish time, I promish, never again.”

She then let her head fall.

It was the “this time” that got me, and when it did, a chill slid down my spine.

It was my understanding they had a child. An infant. He couldn’t be more than one, or if so, not much older.

“Good Lord,” I murmured.

The water came before Mother and Jamie did, and I was crouched, attempting to get the second half of the glass I’d poured for her down her throat when they arrived.

I turned my head and looked up at Jamie Oakley.

My husband Roland Castellini was the epitome of swarthy, masculine, sophisticated Italian/American good looks.

Jamie’s features were not elegant or refined, but rugged and robust. He was more in line with the Marlboro Man than Armani. Which made all that was him, his tall, muscular frame encased in an impeccably tailored dinner jacket and trousers, incongruous in the most delightful ways.

I had this thought in a flash before the look on his face as he stared down at his wife washed it clean away.

Worry.

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