Authors: Roberta Latow
Once in the impressive skyscraper, Judd Whyatt stepped out on the forty-fifth floor and walked down the hall and up a few stairs to one of the penthouses where his firm’s offices were located. He opened the plate-glass doors and cheerfully greeted his staff as he breezed through, issuing orders to hold all calls with the exception of Cheyney Fox’s. In his office he opened the safe. He placed the file marked
CHEYNEY FOX — KURT WALBROOK CIA CLASSIFIED MATERIAL
on his desk and flipped it
open. He removed his jacket, sat down, and began to read. Half an hour later the phone rang. Judd swiveled his chair around to face the glass wall behind his desk. He looked down at the dots of people scurrying like ants through the canyons of steel and glass. Finally he spoke:
“Yes, Cheyney.”
“Judd, I am here in David Rosewarne’s office.”
“Now do you feel more secure about taking a bite into your destiny?” he asked teasingly.
“I never felt, and don’t feel now, insecure about my destiny, Judd. I’m just lining up my generals. Protecting myself from attack. Planning for a counterattack, if need be. One thing I have learned about destiny, it’s always better to be ready for it.”
Judd smiled. A few blocks away David Rosewarne smiled. Both men enjoyed the excitement in her voice, each proud of the role he had played in turning the onetime loser Cheyney Fox into a big-time winner. Businesswoman of the year? Understatement. Probably of the decade, and soon to be the most glamorous lady serving her country, if she rose to the bait that was on offer.
“And has David Rosewarne agreed to act on your behalf?”
A waspish “Not yet” told him Cheyney was not having an easy time with David Rosewarne. But the determination in her voice assured he would. “I’ll call you from England. I intend to take the afternoon Concorde. I don’t dare lose any time getting to Taggart, otherwise someone in school will garble my news for me.”
“Cheyney, how will you deliver your answer to the president?”
“A direct call to his office, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I do, actually. Inadvisable to do anything else. No press release, or anything that smacks of your campaigning for the job. Just a call to him, and let the White House make any announcements they choose to. I suggest that the gallery and your staff should give no statements, just take messages, until your return. Everything should remain business as usual. I think that’s essential.”
“Thanks for everything, Judd.”
Cheyney hung up the telephone. She looked across the desk
at David Rosewarne. They smiled at each other. He stood up and offered his hand. Hesitantly she took it. He said, “Good luck, Cheyney. It’s actually very thrilling, all this.”
“Yes, it is, isn’t it? But you still have not given me an answer. Will you or won’t you take me on, David?”
“That is up to you, Cheyney. You go away and see your son. Make your decision about becoming the first secretary of art. Then make a second decision, as to whether you are prepared to tell me everything, all the things you’re holding back from me about the life you have led since we last met, the life you’re so afraid to reveal publicly. If you call me, I’ll know it’s on those terms and I will be acting as your lawyer.”
Embarrassed by the ultimatum and at having slipped into his clever trap — he had left her no scope to charm him to her side, on her terms — she slowly drew her hand from his. “Thank you for seeing me, David. I am really very grateful for the time you have taken with me.”
As she turned away from him, her eye rested on a silver-framed photograph. In spite of herself, a wave of jealousy came over her. She picked up the picture: it was Mrs. Rosewarne. And then the hurt surfaced. She looked at him only fleetingly before she turned her back and walked from the room. The hurt had been in both their eyes.
Whatever fantasy Cheyney had been conjuring up about David Rosewarne and herself, the sight of Mrs. Rosewarne dispelled it at once. These were not the desperate days of long ago, when Cheyney had been swept into love by David Rosewarne and all he stood for: security, respectability, his deep and abiding honesty, the care and protection he offered. Had what she felt for him been nothing more than a desperate need for comfort and peace of mind? Of course, there had also been the unblushing excitement of sexual attraction from a man she trusted.
Cheyney was surprised that her emotions were still so fragile over a love that had died more than twenty years before. It had been the same family photograph of Mary and David Rosewarne with their two boys, Joshua and Calvin, that she had learned to live with, and, in the end, given him up for.
In the elevator, Cheyney began to feel as if the past was pursuing her. She hurried through the lobby as if it were nipping
at her heels. She burst through the doors into the street almost at a run. Heads turned for the stunningly beautiful woman dressed in a red-and-black suit who was dashing across the pavement, long black silky hair, a web of seduction dancing on a gust of wind, to duck into a waiting limousine purring at the ready for her. She looked back through the rear window and into the past.
A
New York City end-of-October rain. The huge drops tap-danced on the sidewalks and over the streets. Once they had beat out their rhythm, they dissolved into instant pools of water. The puddles, skimmed by a chill wind with the scent of autumn in it, swirled over the tops of well-shod feet. The rain made no distinction between Gucci loafers, Delman high heels, McAn’s hushpuppies or any other footwear for that matter. Every shoe in town was waterlogged.
High-speed wipers swooshed streams of water off windshields. Rubber tires navigated flooded streets. Small tidal waves of water pursued pedestrians against skyscraper walls and storefronts. Shoppers sought shelter or dashed from canopied entrance to entrance, frog hopping toward their destinations. Empty taxis with their flags down swished past stranded travelers in a pipeline of water, refusing fares and drenching all within range, as they made for their garages. The gray sky turned into waterlogged daytime darkness.
The city was under siege by the elements. In fifteen minutes the streets of the world’s greatest metropolis were almost deserted. Except for the occasional car, the odd umbrella blown inside out and rolling through the streets on the sodden wind. A Manhattan tumbleweed.
Cheyney stood huddled with twenty other people under an arched, dirt-smudged, yellow canopy whose flounce, flapping in the wind and dripping rivulets of rainwater, read, “Joe Maranetti’s Hero Sandwiches.” It stretched from the entrance of an old renovated brownstone building to the curb. Every
surge of wind down West Forty-ninth Street brought with it a sheet of water that doused the refugees and drew an answering wave of protest, a gust of despair. They stood shivering, crushed against one another, giving off a perfume of damp wool that mingled with after-shave, French and some not-so-French scent, body odor, and a faint whiff of Italian meatballs with oily, thick tomato sauce.
A little too close to Manhattan’s human element, thought Cheyney. She stood on one foot and then the other. She eyed her chilled, wet feet. Positively the last outing for her shoes: they made watery squishing sounds as she shifted her weight. Whipped by the wind and spray of rain off the pavement, even her ankles were damp and cold. She looked up from them to the office building across the way. Floor upon floor of lighted windows reaching skyward exhibited their inhabitants. The motions of “business as usual” cast a warm yellow glow on the gloom of the day.
Cheyney liked the slick glass curtain walls of modern architecture that punctured Manhattan’s prewar cityscape and gave rein to a new kind of American-art royalty: the architect. So many American princes who at first danced in the shadows of Mies Van der Rohe, Walter Gropius, Le Corbusier, were now beating their own drums and vying to be crowned king with every new and exciting building erected. The thrill of Skidmore, Owings & Merrill’s 1952 Lever House as the new look in American architectural palaces immediately dictated change on Manhattan’s skyline, and along with it a broader recognition for the modern arts. Even more exciting American modern art. For seven years, ever since she had first seen the Lever House and felt the excitement of its architecture, she had been on the fringe of the American art world. In just a few days she would be right in the middle of it.
Cheyney suddenly felt ridiculous, standing on one foot, allowing herself to be stranded by a storm. She was living in the most exciting city in the world, a city she loved with passion, in a place where every sight, every scent, teased the senses and set the adrenaline flowing. New York dictated, “Experience everything, take it all. Live and laugh and love at high speed, success is just around the corner.” And she was living up to its every demand. How silly to let a little rain put a
damper on one’s joie de vivre. She began to plot the route she would take in her race to get to the gallery in time to talk with the electricians. Time was running out before they left for the day, and before the opening of the Cheyney Fox Gallery. Just eight days to go.
Several minutes later, still standing there in the chilling rain, it was a matter of the spirit overcoming the reality of the situation. It was a bitch of a cold and windy rain storm. She pushed her way to the edge of the crowd and made an instinctive but foolish gesture. She held her arm out, palm up, from under the shelter. Raindrops beat into her hand and soaked the sleeve of her jacket while she contemplated her sixteen-block dash for the gallery. An accidental shove from someone in the crowd sent her stumbling into the torrential rain just as a speeding Series 60 special, hardtop black Cadillac, elaborate fishtail fenders and all, displaced a wave of water and drenched her. Furious, she swung around to make her protest. Seeing the miserable, grumbling crowd, she burst out laughing instead. No one smiled. And no one made room for her to come in out of the rain. The storm was no laughing matter to them.
Joe Maranetti’s sandwich shop’s extractor fan switched on and swirled out a gust of hot air. The heat felt good, but, oh, the smell. Cheyney watched the blue-gray cloud of fumes billow out over the heads of the crowd huddled under the canopy and dust them down with its fragrance: a double dose of stale smoke, garlic, and olive-oiled oregano finally moved Cheyney to call out, “That’s it.”
Cheyney walked as fast as she could, darting for cover wherever she found any, sprinting in short runs. By the time she reached Saks Fifth Avenue, the reality of the storm had soaked her spirit as well as her clothes, but not her resolve. She was determined to get to the gallery. Cold and wet through, she could hardly see the point of stopping now. She pressed on. At Best & Company, she flattened herself against the wall for a moment to catch her breath and wring out her silk kerchief before she pushed on. A gust of wind and it was gone. She shook her head in disbelief as she watched it disappear up Fifth Avenue. Oh, well, her hair was soaked anyway. She was nearly halfway to the gallery.
As she rushed past FAO Schwarz, a man in a clean, crisp,
Burberry trench coat and a brown felt hat came bounding out through the plate-glass doors and smashed into her. Both were taken aback. Only his quick reflexes saved her from crashing onto the wet pavement when her knees buckled. He pulled her up by the elbow:
“Good God, woman, one of us doesn’t know the rules of navigation.”
“Obviously not,” she snapped back, pulling her elbow away from his hand and releasing herself from his arms.
Without another word she walked somewhat shakily to the corner and had the bad luck to have the traffic light change as she was just about to cross the street. She caught a glimpse of the man as he passed to one side of her and around the corner. He slipped into the backseat of a waiting taxi. Before he even had the door firmly closed, the yellow cab rolled up the street and past her. She had no chance of avoiding the splash.
Grant Madigan placed his hand on the cabdriver’s shoulder and said, “Stop the cab, Harry.” The cabbie slammed on the brakes just as he was negotiating the corner to go up Fifth Avenue. He turned and looked at his fare. “Back up, Harry. We’re going to give that idiot woman a lift before Fifth Avenue has its first suicide by storm drowning.”
The cabbie reversed, looking back over his shoulder through the rear windows while navigating, and asked, “You sure about this? We don’t have much time to spare if you wanna make that plane of yours.”
“Time enough. She gets a lift only if she’s going our way,” he said. He pulled off his hat, shook the water from its brim, and placed it on the rear window ledge. He ran his fingers through his hair and opened the top button of his raincoat before he flung the door open squarely in front of Cheyney. Ducking down, so he could see her from inside the taxi, he shouted over the sound of the rain, “Hop in, we’ll give you a lift.”
Cheyney’s hesitation had more to do with relief at being rescued than concern about getting into a cab with a stranger. The man in the backseat was not to know that. Impatient to get on his way, he reached out to grab her by the wrist and yank her into the cab, saying, “Don’t flatter yourself. This is no abduction. Just a mercy mission.” Leaning over her, he slammed the cab door closed.
Cheyney Fox and Grant Madigan had a really good look at each other. The rain drummed on the roof of the taxi, pounded at the windows. Shivering with cold, Cheyney began to rub her hands together. “Where to?” he finally asked, rather too sharply for a man on a mission of mercy.
Shaking with cold, dripping water everywhere, Cheyney was a sorry sight. Her teeth chattered but she managed to get out, “Sixty-third Street, between Fifth and Madison.”
Grant Madigan looked toward Harry, who was twisted around in the front seat facing them and lighting a big fat cigar. Madigan asked a shade grudgingly, “Did you get that, Harry?”
“Yeah, I got it. Sixty-third goes the wrong way for us. So we go east on Sixty-second, up Madison, and west on Sixty-third. So we drop her on the comer of Madison and Sixty-third and save a few minutes?”
“What’s the house number, miss?” asked Cheyney’s knight.
She stuttered, “Thirteen, the middle of the block.”
“So we drop her on Fifth or Madison and beat it back to the Triborough Bridge. Then we don’t get caught twice in crosstown traffic.”
Cheyney was beginning to find the conversation, the ride that had not yet even begun, and the state she was in, too embarrassing. She held up a hand, signaling them to stop. “Never mind, but thanks for the offer,” she managed with as much dignity as she could muster.
“Oh, do sit back and be quiet, woman, while we figure out how to get you home. We take her to the door, Harry.”
“Okay, you’re the boss, Mr. Madigan. And the one that has to make the plane.” With that, Harry turned round, released the emergency brake, and let the yellow cab roll up to the traffic light.
Grant Madigan eyed his rescue mission. She was dripping all over his portable Olivetti. He picked it up off the seat between them and placed it next to his hat. He watched her rubbing her hands together, tapping her feet, trying to get warm. He took her hands in his and was appalled at how cold they were. He rubbed first one, then the other, between his palms and, when he felt some warmth coming back into them, he removed his yellow-plaid wool scarf from around his neck, dropped it over her head, and vigorously toweled the water
from her hair. He was too rough. She took his hands away and continued herself. He watched her. She was still trembling with cold. He began to unbutton her black wool jacket. She tried to stop him. Angrily he said, “I am only trying to help, you silly lady.”
The saturated jacket was both heavy and floppy. Clumsily he removed it. Cheyney watched him wring it out and felt the strength of his hands. She watched the stream of water flow from it onto the floor. The demise of her Trigere suit jacket gave her a pang as it slapped onto the plastic-covered seat. Untying the belt of his Burberry, he opened his coat and pulled her close into his arms. Almost at once, the heat from his body seemed to help.
He removed her shoes and rubbed her feet. That particular kindness somehow felt too intimate. She flushed with embarrassment and, to hide it, murmured. “Please, let me go. I’m all right now.”
They gazed into each other’s faces. For the first time they became aware of one another as man and woman. Cheyney felt something stir within her, something more than sensual, more than a deep feeling of belonging. It was as if she had come home. Fanciful, she told herself. Now there’s an ancient stereotype. You aren’t going to fall for it, are you?
“I suppose you pick up stray dogs and wandering waifs, and help old ladies across the street, as well? I am very grateful for this ride.”
“No, I don’t, actually. Only beautiful, misguided ladies in distress.”
“Well, I wasn’t exactly in distress.”
“A moot point.”
“In a rush to make an appointment. Wet, cold, not wanting to be defeated by a rainstorm. Unwilling to have it ruin my day and my spirit, yes. Distress, no.” There was a feisty little edge to her voice that was not unattractive.
He smiled at her for the first time as he raised her foot and slipped her shoe back on. Handing her the other shoe, he said, “You still have the arrogance of youth.”
“If you knew me, you would understand how wrong you are.” She raised her chin just a bit too high and gave him a hint of haughtiness. She had passionate violet eyes, and he
knew he had got it quite right. That knowledge broadened his smile. “Alas, that’s not meant to be.”
“You could have left me there on the curb. I dare say I would have survived.”
The taxi swung off Madison and onto Sixy-third Street. She was looking at him, waiting for some answers. And something inexplicable happened: she fell in love for a few minutes with a stranger.
“How do the numbers run? You on the right or the left side here?” asked Harry through the rearview mirror.
She heard the cabdriver but didn’t answer. She was trying to hold on to her exquisite sense of love, even as she felt it slipping away. It wasn’t as if she were dreaming, she was aware of everything around her. The rugged handsomeness of the stranger next to her, his scent, his maleness, power, sexuality. The cloying heat from the noisy fan heater, the din and rhythm of the rain on the roof of the cab, the steamed-up windows, even her own scent of Jolie Madame, and Harry’s cigar smoke.
And then she lost it. Those few fleeting minutes of oneness and love and being in the heart of life. She knew something remarkable had happened to her and she would never forget it, ever. Humbled by her experience, rather too softly, she answered, “On the right, the middle of the block.”
Grant Madigan and Cheyney were still engrossed in each other. Without taking his eyes from her, he repeated what she had said just loud enough for Harry to hear. He watched her slip the ruined Trigere jacket onto her shoulders, tuck her handbag under her arm. The taxi stopped. Grant Madigan wiped the mist from the window and glimpsed the number on a handsome, limestone-fronted house. Thirteen. There was a change in the pitter-patter on the roof. It was barely audible. He wound the window down. The damp cold air was strangely invigorating in the backseat of the overheated taxi. Gloomy darkness was lifting and the storm was raining itself out. Wet pavement glistened like mirrors. He slipped out of his raincoat and put his hat on. Then he looked at her and declared, “I’ll see you to the door. Here, hold this over your head.”