Authors: Barbara Delinsky
“Not now, Hillary.”
He sounded annoyed, but she didn’t care. “You don’t love her. I know you, John. You don’t love her. You love yourself and those damned stores. So why are you marrying her? You have the power you’ve always wanted. My God, after tonight you’ll have newspapers and magazines banging down your door for interviews. You’ve got money. You’ve got fame. So why do you want her? She isn’t gorgeous. My looks are better. And she can’t give you what you need. I’m the one who does that. All these years, it’s been
me
.”
His voice was tight. “Hillary, this isn’t the time or place—”
“And speaking of time and place, what was last weekend about? You were with me, John. For forty-eight hours you were with me, doing every intimate little thing we’ve been doing for years. If you were engaged to her, what in the hell were you doing with me?” She wrapped a trembling hand around her middle. “Tell me that, John. What was last weekend about?”
“Last weekend was about us,” he answered, clearly angry that he’d been pushed. “It’s what we’ve always been and done.”
“But you’re engaged to marry someone else!”
“So?”
Hillary’s mouth fell open. “
So?
So you’re two-timing her!”
“Janet will benefit from this marriage. She’ll get the protection she lost when Turner died. She’ll have someone to take control of her life again, which is what she’s missed. I never promised her fidelity, and she hasn’t asked for it.”
“Then you think you’re going to keep it up with me while you’re married to her?”
“She won’t mind.”
“Well, I will!”
“I don’t see why.” He sounded totally serious. “We’ve been involved before, you and I, while I’ve been seeing other women.”
“But you’ve never been married to any of them!”
“And you’ve suddenly turned righteous? Come off it, Hillary. What difference will my being married make?”
“A big difference.”
“No, it won’t change a thing between you and me. We’ll see each other as often as we ever did. My relationship with Janet is a rational thing. It’s convenient. It gets hangers-on off both of our backs. It quiets skeptics. I’m not looking for passion from her. I get that from you.”
“But you’re marrying her!”
“And you refuse to carry on with a married man? Try again.” His voice hardened. “What is it you want? Money? Jewels? Company stock?”
His words hit her like a slap in the face. He was so far off the mark, so far from understanding her, even after all the years they’d known each other. As long as she’d been mistress to a man who shunned marriage, she’d been able to abide the other women who had come and gone in his life. After all, she was the one who remained. John always returned to her, and that had been some solace for all else she might have wanted from him. Now, though, he was giving another woman his name, putting another on a pedestal that had previously been empty. The issue was self-respect. Hillary had too much pride to have her relationship with him finally and deliberately spelled out, reduced to its lowest common denominator.
His presence on the other end of the line suddenly grew grating. Given how raw she felt, it was too much. “Go to hell,” she muttered and hung up, then stared at the phone, praying that it would ring, that he would call back.
But she knew he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t give her a sign that he cared, and he certainly wouldn’t apologize. He was too arrogant for that. Instead, he would turn off the light in the library and return to his party, well aware that she would know he was doing just that as she sat alone in New York. He would let the pain of her imaginings be punishment for having hung up on him.
And so she felt punished. Picturing him with a parlor full of people, one of whom was certainly his fiancée, all no doubt in awe of him for having pulled off such a smashing publicity coup on network television, was torture. Hugging herself, she rocked back and forth on the edge of her bed, but the movement did little to ease her misery. Nor did prowling through the apartment. She felt odd, empty in a gut-wrenching kind of way, yet filled with emotions that all clamored for her attention. Sadness, pain, anger, loneliness, fear—she didn’t know which to address first.
She threw on a long coat and sought refuge in the March night. The air was cool and welcome. Clutching her coat closed, she strode quickly along the city sidewalk, past brownstones and storefronts and many people who were also strolling the streets at midnight. Just then she was glad that New York never slept. Seeing others who were alone, she didn’t feel quite so lonely.
Then again, she had always prided herself on being a step above such urban isolation. No matter how much time she spent alone—and as a writer she spent plenty—there was always the knowledge that she had John. Even when months went by between visits, she knew he was there. They didn’t talk on the phone. They didn’t write letters. But he was there, and she knew that when he was ready he would come to her.
No more.
She walked on and on. At length, feeling chilled despite the exertion, she headed back to her apartment. Her answering machine showed a single message. Telling herself it had to be John, she felt a surge of pure happiness and activated the machine.
“Hi, Hillary.” Her heart fell. “It’s Pam. I really want to talk with you, but I’m not home, so you can’t call me back. I’ll try you again in the morning.”
The machine beeped off. Had it been John, she might have saved the message in order to hear his voice again and again. Instead, she stood where she was, weighed down by disappointment. She loved Pam. But John’s voice was the one she craved.
She wanted to talk with someone, wanted to shriek and cry on a sympathetic shoulder, but Pam wasn’t home, and she couldn’t bother friends at this late hour.
In truth, with the exception of Pam, Hillary wouldn’t have dared call her friends. John was a touchy subject, one she had long ago learned to keep to herself. Few of her friends had met him. Several didn’t even know his identity, only that she had a lover of long standing. None of them could understand why she put up with him. They thought she was crazy to wait out the silence between visits, crazy to let him come and go without making any kind of formal commitment. Every woman had a right to protect her interests, they claimed, and though she had always argued that she was self-sufficient enough not to need that where John was concerned, maybe they were right. If she were to call now and complain about what he had done, she would be in for a string of I-told-you-so’s. She wasn’t up for that.
The night seemed endless. She was too wound up to sleep, too wound up even to sit still for long. No diversion worked. She played soft music, drank mellow wine, soaked in a bath that should have drained the tension from her limbs. But all the while she thought of John, and the pain inside gave no quarter.
With the coming of dawn she was a bundle of nerves. She watched the first needles of sunlight pierce the concrete canyons of her street, watched the delivery truck bring the newspapers. She went down for hers, carried it back upstairs, opened to the society page, and died a little. The article wasn’t large. John wasn’t royalty yet. But the mention was there, four full paragraphs on the imminent marriage of one of the East Coast’s most eligible bachelors. With shaky desperation, she hid it under yesterday’s paper on the kitchen counter.
She took a hot shower, dressed, looked at her watch. It was barely seven-thirty. Pam would be up. But she didn’t want to call her. She was too upset to talk. So she went to her desk, determined to work, but she couldn’t think of a thing to write.
She needed air. Grabbing her coat from where she’d thrown it the night before, she went out walking again. She took deep breaths. She made eye contact with the few other early Saturday morning walkers she passed. She held her head high. Inevitably, though, at each corner stand, her attention fell to the papers. Finally, unable to resist, she bought the one that she didn’t have, tucked it under her arm, and went home.
There, too, was an article on John’s engagement.
Disgusted, she pushed it aside, snatched up her briefcase, and went out again, this time to the library. She stayed there for most of the day, not because she was accomplishing much but simply because she couldn’t bear to be home alone with the bittersweet memories and the silence.
When she finally headed back, she found another message from Pam. This one was more pointed: “Hi, Hillary, it’s me again. Listen, we have to meet. I’ll be flying down on Wednesday to see a client. Let’s do lunch. One o’clock. The Four Seasons. If you can’t make it, call me back. Otherwise, I’ll see you then.”
The message was typically Pam, quiet and efficient, knowing what needed to be done and doing it. Beneath the quiet efficiency was insistence, but it was spawned not so much by arrogance as by a passionate conviction. That was one of the differences between Pam and her brother. Pam was an emotional being. She felt. She cared. She bled.
So did Hillary.
But not John.
That thought, more than any other, kept coming back to taunt her through the long, lonely hours of the weekend. Her emotions ricocheted between disbelief and hurt, confusion and despair. She struggled to see the future as it stretched before her, but the bleakness of it made her turn away. It didn’t seem fair. For too long she had held back, orienting her life to John’s. While she cursed him in one breath, in the next she had to curse herself. He had used her, and she had allowed it.
By the time the weekend was over, she was as angry as she was hurt, and the anger gave birth to an idea. She was finished with John’s abuse. Life went on, and with it her potential for growth. She didn’t care if her anger at John was the catalyst. She didn’t care if he would be furious at what she planned. She had nothing more to lose.
It was time she made something big of her life. Using John to do so would be poetic justice.
P
AMELA ST. GEORGE WAS
the kind of woman who exuded class without knowing it. Self-confidence wasn’t something she gave much thought to, nor was beauty, but she had both. She could catch her long dark hair in a single thick braid and pair it with an Armani suit, and the next week the socialites would be copying the look. Not that she would notice or care. She had priorities in life, and setting the style wasn’t one of them.
Except when it came to jewelry. Jewelry mattered. Especially jewelry with her name on it. She was a live advertisement for Pamela St. George Originals, for as coveted as her designs already were, she could never overlook an opportunity to make them more so. From strength came power, she believed, and though Hillary wasn’t entirely sure why Pam needed all that power, she didn’t find fault. Pam had borne her share of crosses in life. She still did.
Now, watching her approach in the wake of the maître d’, Hillary felt the familiar mix of jealousy and affection for the woman who was closer to her than her own sister. She wanted to hate her—for her looks, her grace, her success—but she couldn’t. Pam was too good a person, too warm, too genuine, and she’d been too loyal a friend.
As always, she had an aura about her. With her hair caught over one ear in a silver clasp, she looked very much the artist. The bohemian effect was enhanced by a suede outfit whose ragged hemline dusted matching boots, but the closer she came, the more Hillary’s attention was drawn from her clothes to her throat. Like her hair clasp, her necklace was silver, encrusted with a mosaic of stones ranging from pale pink to purple. The semiprecious gems were tourmalines—Pamela’s trademark.
Slipping an arm around Hillary’s shoulders, Pam leaned down to hug her for a long, meaningful minute. Then, with a brief smile to the waiting maître d’, she settled into her chair, resting her menu on the china place setting. Her eyes were on Hillary.
“Are you okay?” she asked softly.
They hadn’t spoken since John’s appearance on television. Even after four full days, Hillary still felt battered. “I’ll survive. Pride has a way of keeping things in perspective.”
Pam studied her for a minute longer before saying, still in her soft voice but with the glint of steel in her eyes, “I’m appalled. You do know that, don’t you?”
“You’re kind.”
“Kindness has nothing to do with it. Common sense does. And compassion. And love. It should have been you.” She rushed on when Hillary suddenly looked mutinous. “I’m saying that first thing, because it’s what I believe, and I have to get it off my chest. If he had to marry anyone, it should have been you.”
“But it wasn’t.”
“For which you should probably thank your lucky stars, though you won’t. You’ve always been a sucker for John. God knows why. He’s arrogant, self-centered, despotic, and sly, all of which spells lousy husband material. Think about it, and you’ll know it’s true.” She touched her head. “Up here, at least.” Her hand fell to her heart. “This is another story. We’ve never talked the word
love
—”
“I don’t love him.”
“No?”
“No.”
“You’ve stuck by him for a mighty long time.”
“Habit,” Hillary said with a self-effacing smirk.
Pam gave her hand a squeeze. “You deserve better. John may be my brother, but I want far better than him for you. Maybe what he’s doing now is a blessing in disguise. Maybe it’ll open your eyes to other men.”