Mark Winegardner - The Godfather returns

“We’re going to the Alps,” she whispered. Her heart was going even faster.

“I don’t ski,” he said.

“We’re not going skiing,” she said. “I’m not sure we’ll even leave the room.”

“Except for Mass, obviously.”

He wasn’t mocking her. “Not even that,” she said. “I don’t have to go every day.” Only as she said it did she realize she suddenly didn’t feel the need to go every day, either.

She gave him the details. They’d take a little plane he’d fly himself. They’d stay a week, then go home early, get the kids, and go to Disneyland. She’d cabled a travel agent she knew in New York, and arrangements had been made for that trip, too. He seemed amazed she’d salvaged their vacation so fast.

“You underestimate me,” she said. “Do you have any idea how far ahead of schedule we are on things at Lake Tahoe?”

“I’m really going to fly over the Alps?”

“I thought you’d love it,” she said. “If it’s too challenging or-”

“I do,” he said. “I love it.” He squeezed her hip. She squirmed in warm, carnal assent.

This was always where things had been the best for them, in bed. It was not at all unlikely he’d get her pregnant. The way she felt now, for the first time in a long time, that wouldn’t have been unwelcome. Lately, in the rare times they’d made love at all, Michael had been on top or she had, and they’d stayed in the position where they’d started, executing the act like some grim household errand. This time, as they had when they arrived, too, they did it the way Kay liked best, switching positions often, him on top, then her, then she turned around and faced away from him, her eyes clenched closed, grinding into him, happy enough that it might have been enough, just that. But he surprised her by not coming. He rose from the bed and lifted her onto the marble sink. The cold stone sent jagged shivers through her, and she looped her arms around his neck. She threw back her head. Michael’s hands slid over the curves of her breasts and trailed lightly across her ribs and she shivered again, harder this time. Perfect height. When she could feel how close he was, she put her fingertips gently to his sweat-slicked chest. She didn’t have to say anything. He knew to stop and pull out, and she hurried to the bed and got on all fours. As Michael entered her, she heard a growl escape from her throat. The sun on her skin seemed baking, burning, scorching. The sheets had come loose from the corners, revealing the bare striped mattress beneath. Kay’s arms gave out, and her face fell against the wadded sheets. The next thing she knew, so fast she was barely aware of how it happened, she was on top of him again. He was pulling her hard into him, and the look on his face, his openness, his vulnerability, his ardor and attention to her, to what she liked and how she liked it, that was what did it for her. It was painful, more like electroshock than orgasm, and she felt like she was giving off sunlight-like it was radiating off of her, a haze of undulating waves. Somewhere in the trembling rills of aftershocks she felt his spasms below her, far below her. And at some other point-it could have been ten seconds or ten years-Kay felt herself tumbling exhausted onto the sodden mattress.

It hadn’t been painful at all, of course.

Michael blew gently on her dripping back. He touched her, lightly, a single finger. He traced the words I love you. Over and over. Her breathing and her beating heart finally slowed. Suddenly, a torrent of words came out of her, a long and grateful expression of love. Only when she stopped did she realize she’d said it all in Italian.

“Where the hell did you learn all that?” Michael said, laughing in amazement.

“No idea whatsoever,” she said in English, rolling over and kissing him. “That was-”

He put a finger to her lips. They smiled. He was right. No need for words.

Mary wore her new Mickey Mouse ears, Cinderella dress, and Davy Crockett moccasins everywhere, every day. She was three years old and thought the bear she’d danced with was real. Anthony went around belting out note-perfect renditions of the songs that had been featured at various rides and attractions. He had the spooky ability to hear a song once and perform it. This had caused him no small amount of trouble at his kindergarten, but Kay was sure this skill would bode well for the boy in the long run. In fact her father, an opera buff, planned to hire someone to give Anthony singing lessons for his next birthday. They were lucky kids, Kay supposed, but she felt even luckier to have them.

Could Michael possibly know how much he was missing by being gone so much? But he loved them, too. He’d taken an obvious, visceral delight taking them to Disneyland. Anytime Michael was home, he absolutely doted on Mary. Anthony was harder for him, but it was unabashed love for Anthony that made Michael’s befuddled regard of his son so heartbreaking. Several days after their vacation, Michael had to go to New York, both for business and to see how his mother-who’d had a few complications but was back home again-was getting along. As he was packing, he called Kay to their bedroom window. Anthony had dug a big hole behind the swing set and was standing over it, alone, head down, praying.

“It’s a funeral for his coonskin cap,” Kay explained.

“You’re kidding.”

“Don’t be angry,” she said.

“I’m not angry. I’m-” He couldn’t seem to come up with a word for what he was.

“I think it’s sort of sweet.”

“That cap cost four dollars.”

“Unless there’s something more you’re not telling me, we can afford four dollars.”

He paused. Obviously there were other things he wasn’t able to tell her. They both knew that. “That’s not the point. The four dollars. Obviously.”

“Oh, really? So what is your point?”

Anthony was burying the cap, Kay knew, less out of sympathy for a dead raccoon than because several months ago on TV he’d seen a senator from Tennessee wearing such a hat, campaigning for president and denouncing Michael Corleone, among others, by name. Buying the cap had been Michael’s idea, not Anthony’s. Anthony rarely seemed able to tell his father what he did or didn’t want, and Michael meant well but was oblivious. This whole matter wasn’t something Kay wanted to get into with Michael, not right now.

Michael sighed, resigned. “Think that’s real raccoon fur he’s burying?” he asked. “Or rabbit?” She kissed the top of his head. He forced a chuckle and went outside and joined Anthony. Kay watched. They stood on opposite sides of the hole from each other. Anthony looked down and didn’t seem to be saying anything. At a certain point, he broke into “Ave Maria.” Michael heard him out. He could have hardly looked more uncomfortable if he’d learned his son was actually a little green man from Mars.

It was while Michael was on that trip to New York that their half-finished house at Lake Tahoe burned down. Tom Hagen, who was back working as the family lawyer, walked over to give her the news. There had been a lightning storm. The insurance should cover everything, he assured her. There had been no damage to the foundation. Kay had done such a good job of making all the decisions that they could simply hire a few extra crews and rebuild in no time. Also, there was a mansion in Reno, a castle really, that used to belong to a railroad baron; it was being torn down to make way for a modern hotel, and Kay could have any of the fixtures she wanted. Once Kay saw this place, Hagen said, she’d end up thinking the fire was a blessing in disguise. Hagen knew she’d been hoping to move this summer, so he’d talked to the head contractor, who seemed to think it was still possible to be done by Labor Day.