Diamonds and Pearls

Prologue

At five minutes to five on a particularly busy day in the second week of June the hum of the history department of Northeastern University came to a stop. The footsteps and voices of student traffic on the stairways ceased, and the click of typewriters and the ringing of telephone bells in the department's administrative offices gave way to a satisfying early evening quiet.

In the office of the director of graduate studies, Francesca Lucchese sank back in her desk chair to wait. Everyone else was going home. But for Francesca the biggest part of the work day was about to begin, thanks to the personal habits of Professor Wesley Montburn, the director.

She gathered together the tall stacks of processed applications of college students wanting to come to Northeastern to do graduate work in history and glanced at the clock. June was the month when graduate-student applications descended on colleges like a landslide. From the looks of the pile of paperwork from those hoping to take their master's or doctoral degrees at Northeastern, she knew she was going to be lucky if she got out of the office by nine that evening.

The secretary to the chairman of Northeastern's history department, Marjorie Anderson, stuck her head in the door of the graduate studies office and said, "Don't work too late, Frannie," in a warning tone. It was what she always said. This was like any other day.

Francesca looked up and smiled.

"I mean it." Marjorie's voice rose a decibel. "Don't just sit there and smile, turkey! Not past seven-thirty this time, remember?" She made an aggressive gesture with both hands, thumbs up. "Frannie, tell him you're not getting paid for all this!"

At five-thirty, never earlier and sometimes later, the red-faced and sometimes irascible person of Professor Montburn would arrive in the graduate studies office for an evening's work. When he arrived, he expected Francesca to have all the work of graduate studies laid out for him, and her entire evening free.

"If old Wes Heartburn wasn't what he is," the chairman's secretary said from the doorway, "anybody'd think you two had something going on in here at night."

Francesca stuck out her tongue at her friend. Of all the things that might be suspected of her, this wasn't one of them, and with good reason.

Marjorie shrugged. "Frannie, you can't waste your life like this! Honest to God -- don't you want to go out, see movies, have dinner, go dancing? Don't you want to meet men? There are half a dozen guys in the department, including the gorgeous hunk we just got as an exchange instructor from Oxford, who are dying to have you say something to them besides 'I gotta work.' What does Joe say when he calls? Doesn't he raise hell about your working until eight or nine o'clock every evening with Montburn?"

Francesca opened her desk drawer and took out her coffee cup. Joe Iaccone was a more-or-less steady boyfriend who worked for her uncles in their east Boston concrete and construction company. And Joe knew better than to raise hell with Francesca about anything. All the Italian and Sicilian men her own age walked very softly around Carmine and Anthony Lucchese's niece. It was one of Francesca's very real problems. It was only non-Italians, like Steve Livermore, who raised hell with Francesca about everything. Problem number two, Francesca told herself.

Francesca walked with Marjorie out to the corridor water fountain to fill her coffee cup. "Who wants to go out?" she murmured. "Do I have to go on dates with just anybody?"

Marjorie leaned against the wall while Francesca directed a steady stream of icy drinking water into the coffee cup. "Frannie, how can you say a thing like that, when you're so beautiful men's eyes hang out on their faces when they see you? Listen, you've got to get out and look for men! Meet men -- before you find out whether they're interesting or not! What's the matter with you, anyway?" she cried. "Here you are hiding out at Northeastern, wearing college bags for camouflage --" She pointed to Francesca's chambray work shirt and long denim skirt and wooden-soled clogs. "Hiding how gorgeous you are, hiding from everything, actually -- and letting an old wimp like Heartburn treat you like a coal miner! An Italian princess like you, Francesca, who's had all those uncles pampering her and standing guard! Somebody hasn't gone and broken your heart, has he? I mean, you're not going to use the history department of Northeastern as a permanent psychological bomb shelter, are you?"

Marjorie followed Francesca back into the graduate studies office as she talked. Francesca took down the asparagus fern from the top of the bookcase and watered it, and then went on to the two pots of philodendra on each side of her desk.

"It all depends on what you're willing to settle for," Francesca said softly. "Nobody's broken my heart. It's just that I've had such a hard time getting my family to let me move out on my own after all these years, that I've had to find this ultra-respectable job to reassure them. My family is very impressed with colleges. Working for Montburn is only one step down from working for the Diocese of Boston, or being the Cardinal's file clerk, or something like that as far as they're concerned." Francesca turned to look at her friend, a troubled expression in her eyes. "Marge, I was twenty-five when I left home! I hadn't been anyplace -- not even to summer camp as a kid. And I almost didn't make it when my uncle Carmine started reading newspaper stories on how many rapes take place on Boston campuses."

"Francesca --" Marjorie began.

She handed her friend a battered arrow plant to hold while she watered it. "Marge, it's really hard to explain how old-fashioned Sicilian families are to people who don't know them, or anything about their traditions. Both of my uncles are from Sicily; they were born over there. Then my father died in an accident when their company was just getting started and left me in their care. Which is a sort of sacred trust my uncles can never forget. They didn't let my aunts forget, either. I really had a strict upbringing, even stricter than their daughters'!"

Her friend's eyes narrowed. "Is that what you're hiding from, Frannie -- a strict upbringing?"

"Am I hiding?" Francesca asked, putting the arrow plant back up on the shelf beside the asparagus fern. She looked thoughtful. "If I am -- hiding, you know -- it doesn't make me unhappy. It won't make me unhappy if I never get married, honestly. I'm twenty-eight-years old and, frankly, I don't think I can find anybody my family will think is good enough. And all the Italian guys are scared half to death of me. And you know something? I don't think I'll ever find anybody I'll want to marry, either!" Francesca put the coffee cup back in her desk drawer. "Being an Italian princess has a lot of drawbacks, you know." Her lips quirked up in a half smile. "One of them is that you get so spoiled and overprotected you can't make up your mind." "You're not serious," Marjorie protested.

"Oh, no?" Francesca opened her mouth to confide in her friend and then thought better of it. The chairman's secretary stood observing her skeptically, her hands on her hips.

"You could always get a better job, Frannie," she declared. "You know you can. After three years of taking Montburn's nonsense you've certainly got enough to build up a good resumé. And you've got a master's degree in business administration that you're certainly never going to get a chance to use here!"

The telephone rang and Francesca said, before picking it up, "Marge, that master's degree doesn't open any doors for women. In fact, you know it opens fewer doors than being able to type."

As Marjorie Anderson mouthed a silent "good-bye" and left, Francesca heard a man's voice say, heavy with sarcasm, "Don't tell me you're still at the office!" It was Steve Livermore on the line.

Francesca sighed and sat down at her desk, holding the telephone receiver slightly away from her ear. Steve was a lawyer, one of the types Marjorie had been so eager for her to meet. And Steve, unlike the Italian-American men who dated her or who wanted to date her, was supremely self-confident, even overbearing. With Steve, Francesca knew, her ego stayed mostly at ground zero while, in his arrogant voice, he questioned the importance of her job, her relationship with Professor Montburn, her clothes, that part of Boston where she lived, and why she wasn't more physically responsive when he tried to make love to her.

Steve Livermore was very tall, very blond and very Beacon Hill Boston. Francesca knew these were the things that had attracted her to him in the first place. She didn't really need to speculate on what had attracted Steve to her, because she already knew. Steve was on record as saying she was the most gorgeous, sexy, desirable creature he had ever met. And that his one goal in life was to possess her and awaken her fully to love and womanhood. The young Italian men her uncles watched over so carefully talked of love and marriage. Steve Livermore was interested in having an affair.

The clock said six-thirty-five.

"I can't talk, Steve," Francesca said into the telephone. "Professor Montburn is due right now, and we have a pile of work because of graduate student applications this month."

"Francesca, listen to me!" This was Stephen Hill Livermore, the Third, the Beacon Hill lawyer speaking. "You told me you'd get out of this mess of working at night, especially since you're not getting paid for it. Woman -- is it impossible for you to stand up to this slobbering academic, just once? I honestly don't know what the hell's the matter with you, Francesca! I'm sitting here with reservations at the Copley for dinner and a show afterward, hoping that for once when I called --"

Francesca looked up to see a man standing in the doorway of the graduate studies office. He was a rather distinguished-looking middle-aged man in a light gray summerweight suit, small in stature, silver-haired, and he carried an old-style but very expensive-looking calfskin briefcase. He smiled.

He said, "I'm so glad you're still in your office, Miss Lucchese. I was afraid I'd missed you. Finding one's way around a college campus is not the easiest thing in the world. I've been lost for about an hour."

The voice of Steve Livermore was saying, "I've come to the conclusion it must be some neurotic need on your part, Francesca, to let this graduate studies flunky subject you to this sort of idiotic treatment. And I'm not fully convinced he doesn't understand the implications of his demanding, night after night, that you stay until all hours while he catches up with work he's paid to do during the daytime! I swear, I feel there are strong overtones of sadism in all this --"

"You're looking for me?" Francesca said, surprised.

"Oh my, yes." The small distinguished-looking gentleman stepped into the office and looked around. "Do you suppose I could have a word with you right here? Since I'm running late, and you seem to be closed for the day, it would seem to suit, very nicely."

"... about nine-thirty, do you think you could make it this time?" the voice on the telephone said. "Look, Francesca, I realize I pushed things too fast last Saturday night, but you've got to realize I'm not made of stone. We've been seeing each other for --"

"Steve," Francesca interrupted. The small man with the briefcase was watching her, and the office was so small he couldn't help but overhear. "I'll have to talk to you some other time. Do you mind?"

"Is he there?" Steve demanded. "Is that what's the matter? He just walked in and you've got to drop everything? Francesca, are you listening to me?"

Francesca's lips tightened. People tended to underestimate her, and it was her own fault. She always waited until the last minute to make up her mind. She thought of what she had said to Marjorie about not ever getting married. It sounded better and better all the time.

What she really wanted to tell Steve Livermore was that she didn't think she would ever want to go to bed with him. She knew how devastating that news would be. So she wouldn't be able to make it tonight at nine-thirty, and probably never would be able to make it.

Instead she said, "I'm sorry, Steve, I'll have to call you back. Are you at home? I'll call you later," and hung up.

She could see the man with the briefcase was not only listening, he was regarding her keenly. She knew her face was slightly pink.

Francesca said, frowning, "I'm sorry, but I have to tell you I'm not really through with work. Professor Montburn will be in shortly. In fact, I'm expecting him now. We plan to work on graduate-student applications, which take a long time. So if you --"

"Of course," he said promptly. "I'll make it quick, and to the point. I'm Harry Stillman of Stillman, Newman and Vance, attorneys, of Miami. We specialize in estate work." He presented Francesca with a business card. "At this time I'm acting for the estate of the late Carla Bloodworth Bergstrom. Your father, Giovanni Lucchese, is named in Mrs. Bergstrom's will as sole inheritor of her very substantial fortune." He put his briefcase on the edge of Francesca's desk and drew up a chair and sat down in it. "I understand you lost your father some time ago, Miss Lucchese, and I'm very sorry to hear that, but now let me get to the point. Under the terms of Mrs. Bergstrom's will, you are the sole inheritrix of the estate."

"Oh," Francesca said. The words really had little impact, perhaps because she was still thinking of Steve Livermore. She gathered someone had left her some money. Francesca could only stare, remembering that Professor Montburn was due to arrive at any moment. Personal business was not supposed to be transacted during working hours.

On the other hand, didn't business hours end at five o'clock?

"Is it good news?" she said, rather inanely.

The twinkle had returned to the lawyer's eyes.

"You could say that, my dear. Yes, you could. Mrs. Bergstrom's estate entails, among other things, the Bloodworth Palm Beach house, Ca'ad Carlo, a condominium in New York City, a cattle ranch in Wyoming, a house on the island of Maui in Hawaii, a collection of jewels that belonged to Mrs. Bergstrom and her grandmother, Mrs. Charles D. Bloodworth, Senior, fifty percent of the shares of common stock in Bloodworth's, Incorporated and the Bloodworth Foundation, and assets generally estimated in the neighborhood of between forty and sixty million dollars."

Francesca was silent for a long moment. The blood began to pound in her head, making it hard to think. What she was hearing was unbelievable. She knew she didn't believe it.

Finally she said, "Is that Bloodworth's, the dime store company?"

"F for you," the lawyer said some few minutes later, "Mrs. Bergstrom died without other heirs -- that is, she had no children of her own, so your position is assumed to be virtually unassailable under the terms of the will. It's all very exciting, I suppose."

"I don't understand it," Francesca insisted stubbornly. "It says, 'To Giovannni Lucchese, my former chauffeur and being the only man I have ever truly loved, I bequeath all my worldly goods and chattels, to wit ... ' and et cetera. But I know my father didn't have an affair with this woman! He wasn't that sort of person."

The lawyer looked sympathetic. "I think," he said gently, "that we will have to conclude that whatever the true meaning and circumstances of this document some thirty years ago, we will never really know the facts, and let it go at that. After all, it is for the living, not the dead, to explain themselves."

"It's too much money," Francesca said dazedly. It was impossible to try to conceive of sixty million dollars.

"It's all rather unusual, I realize," the lawyer said, "but people do inherit money rather unexpectedly. It's not all that unique. The question is, my dear young lady, how do we get you introduced to a set of very new and different circumstances and responsibilities with a minimum of difficulty? The answer is, we hope, that you will let us propose a simple plan." His smile grew broader. "It's my wife's contribution, actually, but a very good one. She remarked that if she were a young woman about to inherit the Bloodworth millions, she would want to proceed very slowly and cautiously. That prompted our thinking -- that we would like to try not to throw everything at you at once." He opened his briefcase again.

In spite of all that was happening to her and the state of shock that was beginning to settle over her mind, Francesca could detect in Harry Stillman's kindly manner a very smooth and sophisticated professional at work. One who was proceeding with the utmost tact.

He handed her a sheaf of papers. "Here are some photographs of Ca'ad Carlo, the Palm Beach estate. It's very quiet down there in the summer, as you probably know. We like to think it would be a very good place for you to start picking up the reins of your new position. The house also has the advantage of being ready for occupancy -- something the Hawaii estate and the New York place do not. But most of all --" The smile faded and was replaced with a serious expression. "Most of all a move like this will not only provide a transition period, but it will also help to protect you, a young and very beautiful young woman, from premature publicity which could make your life very difficult. One needs time to cope with a very public life. In the past very rich young women like Doris Duke and Barbara Hutton and more recently Mrs. Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis became what the business calls 'media queens,' in that their every move was chronicled in the press and television, and they lived their lives in the public eye. We'd like to spare you that, at least for the first few months, by suggesting that you live quietly in Palm Beach at Ca'ad Carlo, enjoying yourself, and that you learn as much as you'd like about the details of your inheritance and go about making some friends unencumbered by the spotlight. Palm Beach is a very good place to start. People there will be very much like yourself, with substantial incomes and a good bit of property, and so you won't be excluded from a relatively normal sort of life. As it is lived at this level, of course."

After a few moments Francesca said slowly, "Live in Palm Beach?"

"Oh, I think you'll find Ca'ad Carlo quite comfortable. You have an excellent staff there to maintain a main house of twenty-eight rooms, five guest cottages on the grounds, two swimming pools, a nine-hole golf course that is, regrettably, not in usable condition at the moment, six tennis courts, a yacht basin and -- at your disposal -- at least one Rolls-Royce which is, I believe, a very well-kept Silver Ghost. It was Mrs. Bergstrom's favorite car."

Francesca turned wide eyes on him. Her brain was not really absorbing all this. The lawyer leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees.

"Please allow us to do it this way, my dear. We have a charter Lear jet out of Boston's Logan International Airport which can be made ready for you any time you decide to leave, and which will deliver you in comfort and the utmost privacy to the West Palm Beach airport, where you will rendezvous with me and members of my staff and be taken out to the island. We'd like to ask, in order to insure that everything goes smoothly, that you try to tell as few people as possible about your inheritance at this time. If you can confine the news to your immediate family, that would help. Within a few weeks, when you've settled in, you can then write or telephone your friends and tell them and, of course, invite them down to Ca'ad Carlo if you wish."

Over the lawyer's shoulder Francesca saw the figure of Professor Wesley Montburn looming in the doorway. Professor Montburn did not look pleased.

"Hello, what's going on here?" he boomed. "Francesca, are you ready to work now, or what?"

Francesca still held the copy of Carla Bloodworth Bergstrom's will in her hand. Her first impulse was to hide it, to open her desk drawer and slip it inside. Then she thought, What am I doing? Francesca looked at the face of Harry Stillman, ready to be of immediate service, and then to the thundercloud visage of Professor Wesley Montburn, director of graduate studies of the Department of History of Northeastern University. A dizzy, frantic sense of excitement rose in her suddenly. It was real! She was incredibly, unbelievably rich! She was free!

For the barest of seconds Francesca saw the stack of graduate-student applications and had a wild impulse to jump up, grab them up in handfuls and throw them up in the air while Professor Montburn watched. She gave a sob of choked laughter, aware that she could hardly breathe. The air seemed to be growing very dim.

She saw Professor Montburn glaring at her.

"I think I'm going to faint," she whispered.

"Nonsense," the Miami lawyer said firmly. "You're too rich now to faint."

Copyright © 1985 by Maggie Davis