Disclaimer: Characters belong to Aaron Spelling, E. Duke Vincent, Gary Tomlin, NBC, et al and are used here strictly for non-profit entertainment purposes.
Rating: PG
Genre: Drama
Spoilers: Everything through Olivia on the cruise, then it quickly dances into AU territory.
Summary: Though I dream in vain, in my heart it always will remain my stardust melody, the memory of love's refrain.
Chapter 1: "Overture"
May 1998
It's a common misconception that vodka should be served ice-cold. There is truth to keeping the bottle encased in slabs of ice. The ice allows the flavors of the vodka to fully blossom. Many people assume that's also how it should be consumed.
They're wrong.
My bottle sits on the desk, a fine film of frost on the glass. The Cyrillic script on the label is as foreign to me as is the notion of drinking ice-cold vodka. Neatly, I pour the thick clear liquid into a glass. No ice cubes. My hands surround the glass, letting the warmth of my palms take off the chill. Gregory always said vodka should be served a few degrees warmer than freezing. Cold, like revenge.
Of course, I learned this before I used the alcohol to warm me on lonely nights. Before I would drink myself into oblivion to forget how it hurt to live in the cold of Gregory's glare. It was nearly enough not remembering how glorious it was to live in the shine of his favor, when his eyes would light up at the sight of me.
When life didn't hurt.
When it was worth living.
It wasn't supposed to be this way again. I'll love you. I'll honor you. I'll cherish you. I frown into the glass, the clear alcohol gazing back at me. How desperately he promised me those things. How desperately I wanted to believe them. Did believe them. I am begging you: hang on. Hang on to what we have. Hang on to what it took a lifetime for us to build.
Slowly, I lift the glass to my mouth. The vodka touches my lips as I sip it and I detect a faintly sweet smell. Gregory can have his Bordeaux; I'll take vodka any day. The liquor is warm down my throat and I lean against the chair, savoring the sensation as it moves into my chest. I'll have to remember to leave a tip for Mario. He certainly came through for me when I asked him to bring me a bottle of the ship's best vodka.
I wander throughout the stateroom, my eyes moving over the décor. I think the designers were aiming for the Renaissance. The crème walls and gold molding accent the rich fabrics of the curtains and bed. It's a little oppressive. But, the luxury of it all reminds me how near we are to Europe. I slide open the door to the balcony and step out, the cool breeze stirring my hair. There's a full moon above, allowing me to see the distant landmass of Italy.
After a moment though, I turn away and go back inside. Italy makes me think of Florence. Florence makes me think of my honeymoon. Three weeks of romantic days and love swept nights in the ancient city. Church bells ringing against the pink sky, pigeon wings flapping against the grey buildings of the Uffizi. My honeymoon makes me think of Gregory. The vodka makes me think of Gregory.
Everything makes me think of Gregory.
I thought that leaving Sunset Beach would give me time to heal, time to remember. And, I've remembered plenty, just not what I hoped. I remember the way Gregory used to escort me into restaurants and parties, his hand in the small of my back. I remember the way he would grunt and roll over when one of the children would crawl into bed between us. I remember how easy it was to rest against him, half-asleep and holding Caitlin to my breast for a midnight feeding.
But, most of all, what I can't help but remember is the way he looked at me, his eyes blazing when he admitted he blamed me. I sink down to the settee, taking a deep sip. Oh, Olivia. I wanted to believe you. I wanted to believe that you weren't responsible, that somebody else was responsible for our baby's death. There always had to be someone to blame. He needed someone on the receiving end of his throbbing anger.
I remember the way his voice cracked with barely-controlled anger and a measure of frustration. Me? Me! I'm not the one that killed our baby! He wanted our child. He wanted answers. None of which I could give him. Tell me. Please tell me! You were drinking, weren't you? You were drinking. You got drunk and you had an accident.
I stand abruptly, the silk robe flying around my feet as I walk back to the bottle of vodka. The photos from Caitlin are lying next to it on the desk and after a moment, I trade them for the glass. The first photo attacks my broken heart, stomping on the shattered remnants. Caitlin had the beam that only new mothers wore, one of pride tinged with exhaustion. Sean was next to her, his arm around his older sister as he grinned up at the camera. But, it was the baby who drew my attention, who demanded my gaze. The chubby baby lay in my daughter's arms, just as fair as his mother had been as a newborn.
It was the baby that I can't stand to look at, I realize with disgust as I shove the photos back into the envelope. Tears sting my eyes as an ugly swirling vortex possesses me. My envy is just as great as my happiness is for my daughter. She gets to hold her baby. She gets to smell his sweet skin, kiss the bottoms of his feet. She gets to sleepily lean against her husband during the midnight feedings.
An angry sob racks my body and my fist comes down on the desk. I barely feel my knuckles crunch against the wood or notice the icy pain that shoots up my arm. It was nothing compared to the palpable longing for that which can never be: I want my child. I want the baby whose presence initially took me by surprise, but who I ultimately eagerly anticipated with every fiber of my being. I want to caress his chubby cheeks and blow kisses on his belly. I want to be woken in the middle of the night to the sound of his cry.
I want Gregory to not blame me. I want him to look at me with adoration instead of hate. I want him to love, honor and cherish me. I want his hand in the small of my back. I want his fingers combing through my hair as I breastfeed our son.
A breeze drifts through the stateroom, bringing with it the music from another part of the ship. A sigh consumes me as I drain the glass, licking the remnants of vodka from my lips. It's a familiar song and I close my eyes, swaying my body in time with the tempo.
Sometimes I wonder why I spend the lonely nights dreaming of a song…
There's nothing more romantic than the songbook standards. As a child, I remember peering through the crack in the door of my father's small study, watching him dance with my mother. Their cheeks pressed together, his arms around her slender frame. The way she would look up at him, adoring as the soft music crackled out of the radio. Thomas and Barbara. They were made for each other.
My eyes open, falling on the orange prescription bottle. The doctor in New York was sympathetic when I complained of insomnia and was almost happy to write the prescription. But in the end, the sleeping pills sat unopened and forgotten in my cosmetics bag when I flew to Barcelona and joined the cruise. Until now. My hand curls around the small plastic bottle, my fingers covering the part of the label where it warns against consuming alcohol or operating heavy machinery after taking the pills.
The childproof lock snaps off and I tip the bottle, the pills spilling out onto the desk. A hum rises in my throat and the song plays on as I grind the pills with the bottom of the glass. "When our love was new and each kiss an inspiration," I sing softly, brushing the pill fragments to the edge of the desk and into the well of the empty glass. I barely wince as I take the neck of the defrosting bottle, pouring more vodka.
I turn away, gently swirling the glass so the vodka and the pills mix. Gregory and I danced to this song at our wedding. It was one of the many standards I requested the band play, never forgetting the way my parents looked at each other when they danced to them. Later, as a young bride dancing to them with my new husband, it felt like a circle had been completed. Everything had worked out as it was supposed to.
It just didn't last.
The nightingale tells his fairy tale…
I drink again, the wistful strains of the song tugging at my heart. Everything hurts too much. The baby is dead. Gregory blames me. The dream is over, shattered with the rising of the morning sun. But, the feelings linger, spurring me on. The way his eyes darkened when he growled that it was my fault. The way his eyes sparkled as I came down the aisle, his hand extended to me. The way his face turned when I asked him to let me go. The way he held me close each of the four times I told him I was pregnant.
"My stardust melody," I murmur, closing my burning eyes, "the memory of love's refrain." I sip deeply, succumbing to the music and my memories. Waiting for that blissful moment when I could sleep.
When I could stop hurting.
When I could join my baby.
A soft knock echoes through the office and I look up, irritated. "What?" I snap as the door opens. Annie peeks around the edge of the door and I sigh, turning back to my paperwork. "Do you need something?" I ask as she closes the door.
Her heels click across the floor and I look up slowly, unable to miss the way her hard ankles and taut calves glowed in the afternoon sunlight. "I just wanted to check on you," she says, clasping her hands demurely in front of her. "I've been worried about you, Gregory."
"Really?" I throw my pen aside and lean back in my chair, curious. "Why is that?"
She cocks her head, twirling a lock of her red hair around her finger. "Why shouldn't I be? We're business partners."
A scoff dies in my throat as I look away, rubbing my eyes. "I'm not especially worried about you," I point out. "Nor did your father ever share your concern for me."
Her face turns and she takes a step closer. "No. You and he just shared Olivia."
I sit up, squaring my shoulders as my wife's name echoes in the silence. Four syllables that have the power to break my heart a thousand times over. But, that wasn't enough for Olivia. She just had to squeeze in one more heartache. Vaguely, I hear Annie stuttering an apology, something about crossing a line, and I sigh, holding up my hand. "Enough."
She watches as I go to the bar, throwing a fistful of crushed ice into a glass before I reach for the Scotch. A moment later, she's at my side and I glance over as her hand rests on my shoulder. Her touch burns through fabric of my shirt as she asks, "Have you heard from Olivia?"
I stiffen, raising the glass to my lips. "No," I say shortly, the word a growl on my lips.
"It's been almost three months," she sighs as her hand slowly rubs my arm. "What is she waiting for?"
I don't admit to her that the silence surprised me. When I let Olivia go that day at the airport, I expected she wanted time to herself. I didn't expect that would mean she would cut off all communication. I was left with no choice but to track her through the credit card bills. A week in New York at The Pierre. A flight to Barcelona. A passage on a European cruise. Like a fiend, I demanded the credit card company provide me copies of the receipts so I could scrutinize everything, from the food she ate to the clothes she bought. I told myself that I needed to know so I could make sure she wasn't still drinking. But, alcohol never showed up on any of her purchases.
There was nothing directly from her. I had no ship-to-shore calls from Europe. She was gone. As gone as our son. I found myself devoting afternoons to the study of her signature, a flourishing scribble capped off by a sweeping O and R at the bottom of the credit card receipts. Or remembering the way her eyes would light up when she smiled, violet flecks swirling in her blue irises. Or wishing the damn phone would ring, her breathy voice filling the phone line and waltzing through me.
My hand tightens around the glass, the Scotch rich as I hear Annie say, "Maybe she realized you were right and that she's to blame for your son dying."
As I turn to her, I realize her hand is around my wrist and she slips closer. Her chest brushed against my own as she sighs deeply. I watch her lips part as she leans in, pressing her hands against my chest. "Gregory," she murmurs, watching me with wide eyes, "I know you're in pain." She cups my face when I turn away, her hands warm against my cheeks. "Let me heal you," she whispers, her lips dancing against my own.
She's the only one who recognizes that I'm suffering. Caitlin, Sean, Cole and Bette are only concerned about Olivia. Olivia, who was fragile. Olivia, who went to pieces. Olivia, who was the instrument of her own suffering and my pain. Olivia, the murderess.
The phone rings, a pealing tone that knifes through the silence. I jerk away, watching Annie's trembling lips for a long moment before I go back to the desk. My fingers wrap around the handset and I rip it up, barking a greeting. The voice on the other end of the phone surprises me.
"Signor Richards?"
I frown. The melodious Italian accent is an echo from the time Olivia and I spent in Florence. "Yes. Who is this?" I listen as the woman introduces herself as a representative from the DM Turchino and I immediately recognized the name of the ship Olivia is on. "Is this about my wife?" I ask, distantly aware of Annie hovering behind me.
"Si, Signor. Your wife- your wife is in hospital. In Napoli."
"Hospital?" My stomach turns and I press the phone closer to my ear, sternly asking, "What happened? Is she alright?"
"Si, si. She's alive."
"What happened?" I ask, desperate.
"The doctor on the ship was able to…" She struggles to find the words in English and I close my eyes, waiting in vain until she finally says, "Pump her stomach."
"Pump her stomach? What the hell are you talking about?"
There's a noticeable pause and I hear her muttering apologies beneath her breath in Italian. "Signor, I'm sorry, but your wife…your wife, she try to kill herself."
The bottom drops out from beneath me and I lean heavily against the desk. My hand bumps a framed photo and it falls forward, landing on the glass. I reach for it, turning it over. Olivia's smile looks back at me, her blue eyes brimming with life from behind the glass. A shallow breath echoes from between my lips as a dull wave of numbness washes over me. "She- what?"
I listen, her words coming over a dull drone from between my ears. "Her butler find her."
"But, sui- how do you-"
"We find alcohol…and pills. Also, an envelope for…" She pauses and my eyes close as she finally continues, papers shuffling in the background, "For Caitlin and Sean."
But not me. Her eyes were wide, the blue irises overwhelmed with sadness when I last saw her at the airport. What's the point? I am leaving, Gregory. And, if you have ever loved me at all, I'm begging you, let me go. But, not for this. I didn't let her go for this. The day she left, Caity was frightened. She suspected her mother would do this and I dismissed her concerns. She saw what I refused to: Olivia was drowning. And, I let her slip away.
"You listen to me," I say and my voice cracks as I struggle to make sense of it all, "I want you to open that letter and fax it to me. Immediately." I rattle off the fax number and turn, looking down at my watch. "I'm leaving shortly and I'll be in Italy tomorrow. Which hospital is my wife in?"
I scribble the information down on a piece of paper and hang up. My hand trembles as I fold the paper in half, tucking it away in my pocket.
"Gregory? Is everything alright?"
Annie's question is drowned out by the echo of the Italian woman's voice in my mind as I shrug into my suit coat. Alcohol and pills. Pumped her stomach. She's alive. Olivia is alive and that is the only thought propelling me as I leave the office, brushing past my secretary.
A/N: The song Olivia hears is "Stardust" (composed by Hoagy Carmichael, lyrics by Mitchell Parish). It's also the inspiration for the title of this story.