18-04-2019, 11:24 AM
Although, like everyone except them, Propappou had known that Troy and Julie's hearts belonged to each other, he had hoped that Troy and Helena might one day marry, so that she could be his great-granddaughter at least. Unfortunately, she too had noticed the obvious attraction that Troy and Julie had lived in denial of until a little over a year ago.
To the left of Propappou's painting was an empty space on the wall, quite clearly reserved for a third painting. Julie walked to the end of the room to sit at the chair. Troy followed a few steps behind her and put his hand on her shoulder. The others watched from where they'd been seated.
* * *
A tear was forming in Julie's eye as she looked at them. Troy handed her a Kleenex.
"She said she needs it to complete the collection: The only three men she's ever really loved."
Julie wiped away the tear and exhaled.
"That fucking cunt," she said, slowly and evenly; not in anger, simply substituting the words for Helen's name. "Has been asking for me to do a portrait of you since we were last here, Master. She could have said it was for something like this."
"No, she couldn't, Mistress. That's not how she works. It involved an emotion that she couldn't play off."
They'd lost touch with Helen after she and Julie had met The Count in Madrid, while touring Europe after high college graduation. Their relationship had just ended badly, and Helen had decided to go back to the bar, to see if that rich-looking man who'd claimed to be a count was still there.
Julie's knowledge that Helena had the wherewithal and the lack of scruples to take the old man for everything led to the final argument that ended their relationship. As she packed her things to return to America and pursue her degree, Helen and The Count departed for his suite.
Julie had been on the plane home that night, when, after the sex turned out to be better that Helen had expected, and she and the older man with the surprising stamina started talking to each other. A talk that occupied the rest of the night and continued through breakfast; past "getting to know you" stories, and into serious tales of their pasts.
His tales of burying his wife at a young age. Seeing his children and grandchildren fall prey to the decadent excesses of the idle rich, telling her that "Lamborghini and Cocaine have killed more San Finziones than the entire Renaissance." How the once-proud Familia de San Finzione was now only "greedy and spoiled distant relations, with one eye on my blood pressure and the other on the throne." And of the great-granddaughter that he felt was La Familia's last hope, "the last little piece of me that will remain in this world after I am gone."
The stories reminded Helen of Propappou's stories of the people he'd buried in his own long life; both of his wives, and Troy's grandparents and parents. And soon her own stories started flowing. Stories of climbing out her bedroom window and running from the house in the middle of the night to escape Wade's rampages. Of the wonderful old man who took one look at her and understood that her home was a Hell to be escaped, and loved her like the father she never had. Her story of seeing Wade beat her mother to death reminded him of hearing the Nazis broadcast his father's execution live over the radio for failing to give up the Resistance cell that was hiding young Lord Vincenzo.
They discovered more things in common, and the weekend became a week; during which, Helen noticed that she'd hardly done The Thing to the handsome old man at all. Which became an invitation for the beautiful woman who was more intelligent, confident, and a better fuck than any he'd known in decades to come home to San Finzione with him. Which quickly became the kind of whirlwind romance and marriage that both of them had previously thought only existed in movies. And, as sometimes also happened in movies, came to a sudden end.
To the left of Propappou's painting was an empty space on the wall, quite clearly reserved for a third painting. Julie walked to the end of the room to sit at the chair. Troy followed a few steps behind her and put his hand on her shoulder. The others watched from where they'd been seated.
* * *
A tear was forming in Julie's eye as she looked at them. Troy handed her a Kleenex.
"She said she needs it to complete the collection: The only three men she's ever really loved."
Julie wiped away the tear and exhaled.
"That fucking cunt," she said, slowly and evenly; not in anger, simply substituting the words for Helen's name. "Has been asking for me to do a portrait of you since we were last here, Master. She could have said it was for something like this."
"No, she couldn't, Mistress. That's not how she works. It involved an emotion that she couldn't play off."
They'd lost touch with Helen after she and Julie had met The Count in Madrid, while touring Europe after high college graduation. Their relationship had just ended badly, and Helen had decided to go back to the bar, to see if that rich-looking man who'd claimed to be a count was still there.
Julie's knowledge that Helena had the wherewithal and the lack of scruples to take the old man for everything led to the final argument that ended their relationship. As she packed her things to return to America and pursue her degree, Helen and The Count departed for his suite.
Julie had been on the plane home that night, when, after the sex turned out to be better that Helen had expected, and she and the older man with the surprising stamina started talking to each other. A talk that occupied the rest of the night and continued through breakfast; past "getting to know you" stories, and into serious tales of their pasts.
His tales of burying his wife at a young age. Seeing his children and grandchildren fall prey to the decadent excesses of the idle rich, telling her that "Lamborghini and Cocaine have killed more San Finziones than the entire Renaissance." How the once-proud Familia de San Finzione was now only "greedy and spoiled distant relations, with one eye on my blood pressure and the other on the throne." And of the great-granddaughter that he felt was La Familia's last hope, "the last little piece of me that will remain in this world after I am gone."
The stories reminded Helen of Propappou's stories of the people he'd buried in his own long life; both of his wives, and Troy's grandparents and parents. And soon her own stories started flowing. Stories of climbing out her bedroom window and running from the house in the middle of the night to escape Wade's rampages. Of the wonderful old man who took one look at her and understood that her home was a Hell to be escaped, and loved her like the father she never had. Her story of seeing Wade beat her mother to death reminded him of hearing the Nazis broadcast his father's execution live over the radio for failing to give up the Resistance cell that was hiding young Lord Vincenzo.
They discovered more things in common, and the weekend became a week; during which, Helen noticed that she'd hardly done The Thing to the handsome old man at all. Which became an invitation for the beautiful woman who was more intelligent, confident, and a better fuck than any he'd known in decades to come home to San Finzione with him. Which quickly became the kind of whirlwind romance and marriage that both of them had previously thought only existed in movies. And, as sometimes also happened in movies, came to a sudden end.
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