Authors: Elizabeth Adler
Then she tilted her chin and gave him that dazzling smile that lit up her face. “Just joking, Harry. Just joking.”
The waiter removed their plates and they sat silently for a moment, looking at each other.
“So why the full psychological breakdown on me?” he asked. “I’m not likely to be on your show, though I can’t figure out why. But I’m warning you, I’m still working on it.”
She ran her fingers up and down the stem of her glass, then said softly, “Perhaps I was interested in what made a man like you tick. What your motives might really be for asking me to dinner.”
“And what about your motives for accepting my invitation?”
Tension crackled between them as their eyes locked. “I just wondered what you were really like,” she said, looking innocent.
Harry ran his hand thoughtfully across the stubble that was already darkening his jaw. “Am I to understand it was just an
abstract
thought? Or are you thinking of getting to know me better, Malone?”
She gave him that cool little smile again. “Just joking, detective. I couldn’t resist.”
He sighed regretfully. “I was hoping it was sexual harassment.”
He watched, amazed, as she tucked into her dinner. She looked as though she lived on fresh air and rosy apples, not real food. He said, “You eat as though you haven’t had a square meal in a long time.”
“I haven’t. I’ve been on twelve hundred calories a day for the past week. And when I was a kid, I never had good
food. Sometimes no food at all. I guess that’s the reason I enjoy it now.”
Finally she had revealed something about herself—a small chink in her protective armor. He said, “You surprise me. I imagined you came from the sort of nice home we all dream about. You know, with Mom in the kitchen cooking up great meals, Dad mowing the lawn or shooting baskets with his sons, taking his family fishing. You making cheerleader and homecoming queen, and all the guys competing to take you to the prom.”
“It’s a nice image.” She sat back in her chair, her arms folded defensively over her chest. “Unfortunately, we are not all born with silver spoons in our mouths, like you, Harry Jordan.”
“True, but neither one is anything to be ashamed of.”
She gave a skeptical laugh. “And how would you know? You probably didn’t even know what the wrong side of the tracks looked like until you became a cop.”
“Is that where you lived then? On the wrong side of town?”
“I was discussing the matter in the abstract. It’s my job to know how the other half lives.”
“Mine too.”
She glanced reflectively at him. “So what does a guy like you usually do on his nights off?”
“You know me through and through. Why don’t you tell me?”
“You hit the night life—those little hole-in-the-wall salsa clubs you seem to like. You’re a hot dancer, you’re a wine connoisseur. You enjoy good food in charming little restaurants like Arlette’s, and women find you attractive.”
“We’re back to that again.”
She leveled that cool innocent look at him one more time. “Funny how it keeps cropping up. Look, Detective Harry, I hate to break the spell between us, but I have to
do the Cinderella act. I’m taping a show first thing in the morning, and I need to get some sleep.”
“Pity. I thought I was just getting to know you.”
“Is
that
what you thought?” She threw him a mocking glance over her shoulder as she headed for the ladies’ room.
He shook his head, watching her weave gracefully through the tables. It was not what he thought. In fact he thought he didn’t know much more about her now than he had when he came in here.
“You don’t have to take me home,” she said later, outside the restaurant, waiting for a cab.
“I always see a woman to her front door.”
“Things have changed since your mother’s day, detective. Women are independent now. They take cabs all by themselves.”
He threw her an irritated glance. “You can say what you like, I was brought up to have good manners.”
“Oh? A mama’s boy?”
“Like the killer. Remember?”
“You promised no business,” she reminded him soberly.
“I’m a man who keeps his promises.”
The cab arrived. He held the door for her, then climbed in next to her. She didn’t protest. She gave the driver the address, then sat quietly looking out the window. She wondered what it would be like, to be loved by a man like Harry Jordan. A man with old-fashioned good manners, a man who kept his promises. A man whose hard thigh she was much too aware of next to hers.
Harry could smell her perfume, soft and grassy. His eyes followed the antique moonstone pendant she wore to where it lay in between the soft curves of her breasts. He cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “Thank you for a delightful evening, Ms. Malone.”
She gave him a long look. “It was a pleasure, Detective Jordan.”
“Back to formality again,” he shook his head sadly. “But then, you never did ask me to call you Mallory.”
“I didn’t, did I.” Her blue eyes were guileless.
The cab pulled up at the curb and Harry got out and held the door for her. “You’ll have to get used to my manners if we’re ever going to do this again,” he said.
She gave him that skeptical look but made no reply as they walked up the steps to her building.
“No nightcap, I guess?” he said regretfully. “You’re taping that show early tomorrow.”
“Right.”
“So this is good night, then?”
“Good night, Detective Jordan.”
Harry stood with his arms folded, watching her walk into the foyer. She stopped, hesitated for a moment, then turned and came back toward him.
“Tell me something, Harry. The time I called you on the phone—exactly
why
were you panting?”
He ran a hand through his hair, smiling. “Truth or dare?”
“Truth.”
“Pity. I had all kinds of good answers for the dare. The truth is, I had just been for a bike ride. I take the dog along. It’s a good way to get us both some exercise.”
Mal threw back her head, laughing. “I just wondered. Good night again, Harry.” She walked back up the steps.
“You know what, Malone?” he called after her.
She turned. “What now?”
“If you could think of one word to describe me, what would it be?”
She frowned. “What is this? A test?”
“Unh-unh, it’s truth or dare. Remember, you started it.”
She thought for a minute. “Cocky,” she said. “Yes,
cocky
. That describes you exactly.”
“Okay. Now you’re supposed to ask me.”
She put her hands on her hips, looking disbelievingly at him. “Okay, so I’m asking.”
“An enigma,” Harry said. “That’s exactly what you are, Malone. An enigma.”
Mal thought for a moment. “I take that as a compliment, Harry,” she said, walking back into the lobby. “Good night, and this time I mean it.”
She raised her hand in farewell, not looking back.
M
AL WAS AT THE STUDIO
at seven the next morning. They weren’t taping until ten, but she always got there early, along with the production crew, to make sure everything was exactly the way she wanted it.
“Even though we’ve gone over it a hundred times,” Beth complained. “After three years, Mal, surely you can trust us to get it right.”
“I just need to be sure, that’s all,” Mal insisted.
“Okay. It’s no skin off my nose if you want to get up early. How about a cup of coffee and a doughnut?”
Mal looked scandalized. “Caffeine and sugar? After last week I’m so pure, just the sight of it might make me swoon.” She eyed Beth’s cup longingly. “Well, perhaps just half a cup.” Beth grinned. “Of decaf,” Mal added guiltily.
“And just one bite?” Beth waved the jelly doughnut under her nose.
Mal closed her eyes against the tempting sight. “Get thee behind me, Satan,” she said, waving it away.
She scanned the script while she sipped the coffee. Then she checked the activity in the studio. Everything was on schedule, so she wandered down to makeup.
“Here I am, ready for my other face,” she said to Helen Ross, who had worked with her ever since that first nervous show three years ago.
Helen put her head to one side, studying Mal’s un-made-up
features. “You always say that, but you know, you don’t look that much different with the makeup. Just a little more defined for the cameras, that’s all.”
“It makes me feel better, thinking I look like someone else.” Mal flopped into the chair and regarded herself in the mirror. “It’s the other woman they see on their screens, not the real me.”
Helen shook her head, not understanding. She began smoothing toner, then moisturizer onto Mal’s clear skin.
“Helen?”
She glanced inquiringly at Mal in the mirror.
“Do you think I’m a control freak?”
Helen laughed. “I don’t. But I know those who do.”
Mal scowled. “I suppose I am,” she admitted reluctantly. “But it’s my show. And if I didn’t keep on top of it, it wouldn’t be number one.”
“I guess so,” Helen agreed mildly.
She finished the makeup in friendly silence, and Mal reread the script while Helen blow-dried her hair. But for once she couldn’t concentrate.
She wondered for the fourth, or was it the fifth time that morning, what Harry Jordan was doing. She imagined him riding his bike, pounding those strong thighs she had felt next to hers last night, the big silver-gray wolf-dog running alongside. Or she saw him in Ruby’s, oblivious to the smoke and the racket as he demolished a plate of eggs and home fries with never a thought for his waistline. Not that he had anything to worry about, she thought, remembering the way he had looked in his Levi’s.
But Harry had taken the day off yesterday to be with her, so most likely he was back at work today. She imagined him in the squad room, wearing his old leather jacket, his hair attractively rumpled, joking with the guys.
Then she told herself abruptly that she was being ridiculous. She had no idea what his life was like. All she really
knew about him were the few facts research had gleaned on his background. She didn’t know the real Harry Jordan. She didn’t know whether he had loved his father, even though he had wrecked his football career. She didn’t know about his wife and how they had met and how much he had cared about her. She didn’t know about his job, except that he was good at it—a dedicated man who gave his time and tenacity to solving homicides, like Summer Young’s.
She turned the page of the script, forcing herself to concentrate. She had no business thinking about Harry Jordan, she told herself. Anyhow, she had a show to do. That was the most important thing.
At the end of the long day, she went to a Chinese restaurant around the corner from the studio with the production crew, where she drank jasmine tea and laughed a lot as they discussed the show, letting out the tension.
It was nine o’clock when she got home. As soon as she opened the front door, the scent of lilacs surrounded her.
She closed her eyes, thinking she must be dreaming. When she opened them again, there was a big crystal vase on the console in the hall, full of fragrant white lilacs as well as a dozen or so tight creamy roses and lilies. She reached out and touched them, entranced.
The card lay on the table, but she knew they were from Harry Jordan. With an apprehensive little shiver, she wondered how he had known about lilacs. Then she told herself he must have called Beth and asked what her favorite flowers were.
There was also a small parcel. Kicking off her shoes, Mal padded into the living room and flung herself into the big chair. She smiled as she read his note.
“Enigma,”
it said. “A person of puzzling or contradictary character. Perplexing, mysterious. From the
Greek
ainigma
, from
ainissesthai
—to speak in riddles.
(Random House Dictionary)
”
“Very clever, Harry,” she said, amused.
She looked at the parcel. The wrapping paper had scarlet Santas and Happy Christmas in gold, with a red bow stuck clumsily in the center. She guessed it was all the wrapping he had on hand. Still, she ripped it open as eagerly as a child on Christmas morning.
It was a CD.
The Enigma Variations
by Edward Elgar. Smiling, she went over to the machine and put it on.
She sat cross-legged on the floor, gazing into the flames as the romantic music filled the room. The scent of lilacs permeated the house and the logs crackled comfortingly in the grate. Somehow, because of Harry Jordan, tonight she felt less lonely.
It hadn’t always been that way. Once upon a time she had been Mary Mallory Malone, the invisible girl at Golden Junior High. And the loneliest girl in the world.
Mary Mallory had not been born in Golden. She and her mother had gone there when she was twelve, after her father had walked out on them. She had never seen him again, but to this day she could remember how he looked: tall and wiry, with a tattoo of a mermaid on one sinewy arm and a deep scar cutting across his left cheekbone. He would flex the muscles in his arm so it looked as though the mermaid’s breasts were jiggling, then laugh uproariously, glancing slyly at Mary Mallory and her mother, knowing he was embarrassing them.
He was a sailor, of sorts. He worked as a stoker on the merchant ships that sailed from Seattle to Asia, but all he ever saw of the vast oceans he crossed regularly was in the brief respites from the sweltering heat in the boiler rooms, when he would go on deck for a smoke, staring with narrow, wary brown eyes at the heaving expanse of water.
Then he would disappear quickly below again, to his bunk to sleep or back to shoveling coal into the giant furnaces.
It was different when he hit port. Mary Mallory knew, because she’d heard him telling her mother about it through the thin walls that separated their bedrooms.
Torturing her
with graphic accounts of his exploits would be a more accurate description.
Mary Mallory would cover her ears and bury her head under the covers, so as not to hear about the women he’d bought in Macao and Taipei and Honolulu. But her mother was forced to listen as he told her exactly why she could not compare to his roving sexual conquests.