She made a striking figure as she wove through the tables, smiling gently and nodding at one acquaintance or another on her way to the door. Slim and of an average height that was accentuated by strappy gray high-heeled sandals, she wore a cream-colored linen blouse with a loose V neck and generous billowing sleeves that were gathered at the wrist. Her skirt was of the peasant variety that no peasant could dream of affording, a rich mix of browns, grays and écrus that floated gracefully about her as she walked. The only jewelry she wore was a pair of simple gold earrings, a wide-banded gold necklace that lay flat on her bare throat and the plain gold wedding band she had taken a preference to wearing over the more elaborate rings her husband had bestowed on her. In her simplicity, she was as elegant as the dining room she left.
The hotel elevator quickly whipped her up to the fortieth floor, where she lived in the sumptuous suite that had been hers and Larry's through their nine plus years of married life. Friends had often wondered why they hadn't bought a spacious home in one of the suburbs of Atlanta. Larry had offered it to her more than once, but she knew he enjoyed the hotel. Perhaps if they'd had children they might have made the move. But children had never come and they'd remained here. It was as though Larry had known that then people would be around to look after her in his absence.
Deanna paused outside her door long enough to punch out the numerical combination to unlock it, then pushed it open and stepped into a wide foyer. “Irma?” she called once, then again more loudly as she closed the door and scanned the empty living room.
“Right here, Mrs. Hunt.” Irma materialized instantly from the far end of the suite. She was a small bundle of energy in a gray and white starched uniform, the image of warm-blooded efficiency. “I was just changing the linens,” she explained, stuffing the same into a pillowcase. Irma had served as Lawrence Hunt's housekeeper since he'd moved into the hotel. Her husband, Henry, was chauffeur, handyman and messenger wrapped into one wiry, white-haired package. They shared a smaller but still roomy suite conveniently adjoining the kitchen and their sole duty now was to see to Deanna's needs. On occasion, Deanna turned the tables.
“Here, Irma.” She extended the bag of rolls toward the older woman. “Pecan rolls for you and Henry. They're delicious today.” She leaned forward, listening. “Is he out already?” When Henry was at work cleaning or polishing around the suite, there was always a telltale sound to be heard, a whistling, a humming, even a scratchy chatter to himself. Now everything was quiet.
Irma tucked the pillowcase under her arm and accepted the bag. “He's gone ahead to the garage to polish the car. I'll give him a buzz when you're ready to leave. And ⦠thank you for the rolls,” she added with a self-conscious smile. “You really shouldn't bother yourself about us.”
Deanna's cheeks dimpled as she squeezed the woman's arm gently. “Don't be silly, Irma. It was no bother. Enjoy them!”
“Oh, we will. Pecan rolls are Henry's favorites. But you knew that, didn't you?”
Deanna passed off the observation with a sheepish shrug, then began to move away. “I'll be working in the den for a little while. Will you have Henry bring the car around in half an hour?”
“Certainly. Your bag is all set to go. I'll bring it right out Oh, and Mrs. Hunt?”
Halfway down the hall now, Deanna turned. “Uh-huh?”
“I thought I'd make a roast lamb for dinner. Is there anything special you'd like for lunch?”
Deanna considered the matter briefly before dismissing it and continuing down the hall. “Something light,” she called back over her shoulder. “Perhaps an omelet?”
Irma smiled and shook her head at the disappearing figure. She knew just how Deanna Hunt liked her omelets: moist, with cheese and spinach. It was a simple meal to prepare. She half suspected that Deanna chose it often for that very reason. But Deanna was as undemanding in other things as well, which was remarkable, since she had grown up amid nearly as much wealth as she currently enjoyed.
Indeed, Irma mused, it would not have been surprising had she been spoiled and demanding, yet she was neither. She was an easy woman to please, her temper calm and controlled even during those times when her eyes held that well of loneliness she kept so stoically to herself. Through the months following her husband's death she had held her emotions in check. Now over a year had passed and she did no differently.
It seemed odd that a woman as young and attractive as Deanna Hunt should lead such a simple existence. Not quite the poor little rich girl, she was outwardly content. But surely she should be out more, with people, enjoying life. Surely she should be having fun, leading a less structured life than she did. Perhaps ⦠in time. Shaking her head in silent regret, Irma headed for the laundry room.
Meanwhile, in the den, Deanna lifted her pen to write another of the letters she was personally sending to each of two hundred potentially major contributors to the hospital project “Dear Monte and Diane,” she wrote, then let the pen fall idle once more. Monte and Diane
were friends of Larry's, contemporaries of his rather than hers. What were her own contemporaries doing with their lives?
More often now than ever in the past, she wondered what things might have been like had she gone on to college as her brother had, rather than marrying fresh out of high school and becoming Larry's wife and hostess. Certainly she would have formed a different, if smaller, circle of friends. She might even have married someone her own age rather than a man twenty years her senior whom her parents had known for years. Larry had courted her gently, offering her the care and protection she had come to depend on. He had loved her, and she him, but in a way that was somehow different from what she had imagined it to be in her wildest dreams.
In place of starbursts and rainbows she had found companionable serenity. While Larry lived, it had been enough. Now, as she faced a future alone, she wondered. What would it be like to do something wild? Something irresponsible? Something selfish? Could she ever kick up her heels and truly let loose? Her brother had done it and the results had been tragic.
Shaking her head free of the sad memories, Deanna grimaced at her inappropriate thoughts. She was simply not the rebellious type. Even had her brother not died so young, she probably would always have stayed close to home. After all, she did enjoy her life and its comforts. She couldn't deny that. And there was definite psychological merit in devoting oneself to philanthropic concerns such as those encompassed by the Hunt Foundation.
“Dear Monte and Diane ⦔ She reread the salutation aloud, put pen to paper and proceeded to complete the letter from one of the prototypes she'd worked out with the public relations department. By the time she had
finished and signed her name with a disciplined flourish, it was time to leave.
This Wednesday passed as did every other Wednesday. Henry dropped her at the club for the morning and picked her up later. She ate lunch back in her suite in the sunny, informal breakfast room, which was never used for breakfast, only for lunch and dinner. The larger, more formal dining room, which seated sixteen easily, had been unused for over a year.
Her afternoon was spent quietly at home, ostensibly heading the Hunt Foundation from the comfort of her den, in reality serving as a high-ranking social secretary. She received her customary call from Robert Warner, the executive director of the foundation, in whose hands true power rested. The call was filled with pleasant words regarding what she should be doing that day, what the next day's meeting would discuss and any small tidbits that Bob chose to pass on. There was, in fact, little substance to the conversation. But it had been that way for months. Why should Deanna be frustrated by it now?
She wrote ten more letters to add to the growing stack, kept up with other personal correspondence to one friend or another of Larry's who had dropped her a note, then made several phone calls on minor foundation business. She picked up the novel she'd bought the day before and read for an hour before dinner, then for several more after dinner, before bathing and retiring to begin again the next morning.
But this would be Thursday. Tuesdays and Thursdays held a special place in her heart. Though the afternoons were spent at the Hunt International offices several blocks away, the mornings were her own. Few people knew that she spent them in the pediatrics ward of the Atlanta General Hospital, talking with, reading to or sometimes simply holding those children whose parents could not be
there. It filled a special need of hers and she would have given up almost any other activity before she gave up this one. There was an added lightness to her step when she entered the hotel dining room Thursday morning and took her regular table.
“Good Morning, Mrs. Hunt.” Frank welcomed her with a half bow and a smile. “How are you today?”
“Just fine, Frank.” Deanna cocked her head in the direction from which she'd just come. “Was that a slice of honeydew I just passed?”
The waiter grinned. “It was.”
“May I have one? And an order of cinnamon toast, please?”
“With honey?”
“Without honey.” She cast him a humorous look that recalled the previous day's chiding and enough was said Frank moved off, clearing the way for her to see to the far corner near the window. Instantly her senses came alive.
He
was there again, that tall, auburn-haired man, looking at her with that same profound expression that took her breath away. It hadn't occurred to her that he'd returnâshe hadn't allowed herself to think it. Yet there he was! Was he a guest at the hotel?
Fascinated by the unspoken depths of the stranger's gaze, Deanna couldn't look away. His presence tugged at her, evoking sensations of silent communication she'd never experienced before. His eyes said “Good morning” and hinted at a smile when hers returned the greeting. “Who are you?” he asked wordlessly, and “Where are you headed?”
“Here you are, Mrs. Hunt” A gleaming china plate bearing a generous wedge of succulent green melon was slid into place before her. Startled, Deanna snapped her attention back.
“Oh! Thank you, Frank,” she murmured, then
breathed deeply to steady her pulse as she watched the waiter carefully set down a plate of toast with its heat-saving silver dome.
Who was that man? Deanna opened her mouth to ask Frank, but shut it just as quickly and let the waiter leave without another word. Only then did she scold herself for her foolishness. If Frank hadn't known the stranger's name he could easily have discovered it. Deanna often made similar requests when she couldn't find the name to fit a face she recognized.
But this was different. He was different. Hadn't she known it from the start? Though Deanna willed herself not to look up again, his face was indelibly etched in her mind. It was a strong yet gentle face, sun-touched and manly. Today his suit was of a lighter shade, a misty gray that emphasized the dark thickness of his hair and the even darker, deeper awareness in his eyes. Today the distance between them seemed to fade, bridged by an incredibly sensual familiarity. Absurd as she knew it to be, Deanna felt that she had known him for years. She stared at him, stunned by the force that flowed between them. It was as though they were emotionally tuned to one another. It was strange, but she sensed that he needed her.
Then she caught herself. That was ridiculous! She didn't know the man! Scoffing at her runaway imagination, she dragged her gaze downward and raised a spoon to the waiting melon. But she paused before making the first gouge that would mar the perfection of the slice. Was it ridiculous? Was there such a thing as an instant attraction that could explain the wild fluttering in her stomach? Wild fluttering? With a quiet chuckle of self-indulgence, she realized that this soft internal fluttering might be the wildest thing she would ever feel. And then she sucked in her breath as an even wilder thought
titillated her senses. Blushing warmly, she forced it from her mind with a piercing thrust of her spoon into the melon's soft flesh.
Reaching for the morning paper which was always left for her, Deanna applied herself to the news of the day with greater intentness and less success than ever. Had Anthony Broad and his two out-of-town clients, the three old acquaintances of the Hunts, asked her what she'd read when they paused to greet her moments later, she might well have been embarrassed by her ignorance. But it didn't matter. Her purpose was served. She returned to the paper, ate breakfast with a painstakingly unhurried air, smiled at those who dropped byâall the while denying to herself the presence of that man and his startling effect on her.
As on the previous morning, the mystery man was gone long before Deanna finished. When she threw caution to the winds and glanced helplessly toward his table there was only a lingering sunbeam to mark where he had been. With a sigh that was as much of relief as disappointment, she forced herself to close the book on a short-lived fantasy. Decisively shouldering her bag, she headed directly for the spot in front of the hotel where Henry and the car were waiting.
The morning was as gratifying as she might have hoped, as rewarding as it was tiring. Henry picked her up at the hospital at noon and chauffeured her home for lunch, then delivered her an hour later to the executive offices of the Hunt Foundation, where she spent the afternoon in conference with various members of the foundation organization.