Authors: Danielle Steel
"Kezia?"
"Hm?" Kezia had been lost in her own painful thoughts, and she had had a dull pain in her stomach for the last twenty minutes. "Yes?"
"Why don't you come to dinner tonight?" She looked like a little girl with a brilliant idea.
"It ... it ... I ... I'm sorry, love, but I just can't." She couldn't do that to herself. And she had to see Mark. Had to. Needed to. Her survival came first, and the day had already been trying enough. "I'm sorry."
"That's okay. Not to worry." She kissed Kezia gently on the cheek as Harley drew up to the Sherry-Netherland, and the hug they exchanged was ferocious, born of the longing of one and the other's remorse.
"Take good care, will you?"
"Sure."
"Call me sometime soon?"
Tiffany nodded.
"Promise?"
"Promise."
Tiffany looked old again as they exchanged a last smile, and Kezia waved once as she disappeared into the lobby. She waited five minutes and then came out and hailed a cab, and sped south to SoHo, trying to forget the anguish in Tiffany's eyes. Driving north, Tiffany poured herself one more quick Scotch.
"My God, it's Cinderella! What happened to my shirt?"
"I didn't think you'd notice. Sorry, love, I left it at my place."
"I can spare it. It is Cinderella, isn't it? Or are you running for president again?" He was leaning against the wall, observing the day's work, but his smile told her he was glad she was back home with him.
"State senator, actually. Running for president is so obvious." She grinned at him and shrugged. "I'll get out of this stuff and go get some food."
"Before you do, Madam Senator . . ." He walked purposefully toward her with a mischievous grin.
"Oh?" The suit jacket was already off, her hair down, her blouse half-unbuttoned.
"Yes, 'oh.' I missed you today."
"I didn't even think you'd notice I was gone. You looked busy when I left."
"Well, I'm not busy now." He swept her into his arms, her stockinged feet dangling over his arms, her black hair sweeping his face. "You look pretty all dressed up. Sort of like that girl I saw in the paper while you were gone, but nicer. Much, much nicer. She looked like a bitch." Kezia let her head fall back gently against his chest as she began to laugh.
"And I'm not a bitch?"
"Never, Cinderella, never."
"What illusions you have."
"Only about you."
"Fool. Sweet, sweet fool. . . ." She kissedhim gently on the mouth, and in a moment the rest of her clothes marked a path to his bed. It was dark by the time they got up.
"What time is it?"
"Must be about ten." She stretched and yawned. It was dark in the apartment. Mark leaned out of bed to light a candle and then snuggled back into her arms. "Want to go out for dinner?" "No."
"Me neither, but I'm hungry, and you didn't buy any food, did you?" She shook her head. "I was in too much of a hurry to get home. Somehow I was more anxious to see you than to see Fiorella."
"No big deal. We can sup on peanut butter and Oreos." She answered with a choking sound and a hand clasped to her throat. Then she laughed and they kissed and they made their way to the bathtub where they splashed each other generously before sharing his one purple towel. With no monogram. From Korvette's.
She was thinking, as she dried herself, that SoHo had come too late for her. Maybe at twenty it would have seemed real, perhaps then she might have believed it. Now it was fun . . . special . . . lovely . . . Mark's, but not hers. Other places belonged to her, all those places didn't even want, but inadvertently owned.
"Do you dig what you do, Kezia?" She paused for a long moment before answering, and then shrugged.
"Maybe yes, maybe no, maybe I don't even know."
"Maybe you ought to figure it out."
"Yeah. Maybe I should figure it out before noon tomorrow." She had remembered the luncheon engagement with Whit.
"Is there some big deal tomorrow?" He looked puzzled, and she shook her head as they shared a handful of cookies and the last of the wine.
"Nope. No big deal tomorrow."
"You made it sound like there was."
"Nope. As a matter of fact, my love, I've just decided that when you reach my age very little is a 'big deal.'" Not even you, or your lovemaking, or your sweet delicious young body, or my own bloody life. . . .
"May I quote you, Methuselah?"
"Absolutely. They've been quoting me for years." And then in the clear autumn night, she laughed.
"What's so funny?"
"Everything. Absolutely everything."
"I think you're drunk." The idea amused him, and for a moment she wished that she were.
"Only a little drunk on life maybe . . . your kind of life."
"Why my kind of life? Can't this be your kind of life too? What's so different about your life and my life for christ-sake?"
Oh Jesus. This wasn't the time.
"The fact that I'm running for state senator, of course!"
He pulled her around to face him as she tried to laugh him off.
"Kezia, why can't you be straight with me? Sometimes you give me the feeling that I don't even know who you are." His grip on her arm troubled her, almost as much as the question in his eyes. But she only shrugged with an evasive smile. "Well, I'll tell you, Cinderella, whoever you are, I think you're gassed."
They both laughed as she followed him into the bedroom, and she wiped two silent, unseen tears from her cheeks. He was a nice boy, but he didn't know her. How could he? She wouldn't let him know her.
He was only a boy.
"Miss Saint Martin, how nice to see you!**
"Thank you, Bill. Is Mr. Hayworth here yet?"
"No, but we have the table waiting. May I show yon far
"No, thank you. I'll wait at the fireplace."
The "21" Club was crammed with lunch-hungry bodies. Business executives, high-fashion models, well-known actors, producers, the gods of the publishing world, and a handful of dowagers. The Scions of Meccas. The restaurant was alive with success. The fireplace was a peaceful corner where Kezia could wait before entering the whirling currents with Whit "21" was fun but she wasn't quite in the mood.
She hadn't wanted to come to lunch. It was strange the way it was all getting a little bit harder. Maybe she was getting too old for a double life. Her thoughts turned to Edward. Maybe she'd see him at "21"
for lunch, but he was more likely to be found at Lutece or the Mistral. His luncheon leanings were usually French.
"How do you suppose the children would feel about it if we took them to Palm Beach? I don't want them to feel I'm pushing out their father." The wisp of conversation made Kezia turn her head. Well, well, Marina Walters and Hal-pern Medley. Things were certainly progressing. Item One for tomorrow's news. They hadn't see her discreetly folded fa one of the large red leather chairs. The advantage of being small. And quiet.
And then she saw Whit, elegant and youthful and tanned, fa a dark gray suit and Wedgewood blue shut.
She waved at him and he walked over to her chair.
"You're looking awfully well today, Mr. Hayworth." She held out a hand to him from her comfortable seat, and he kissed her wrist lightly, then clasped her fingers loosely in his.
"I feel a lot better than I did with a Jeroboam of champagne under my belt the other night. How did you weather that?"
"Very nicely, thank you. I slept all day," she lied. "And you?" She smiled at him and they began to thread their way toward the dining room.
"Don't make me jealous. Your sleep-ins are an outrage!"
"Ah, Mr. Hayworth! Miss Saint Martin . . ." The head-waiter led them to Whitney's customary table, and Kezia settled fa and looked around. Same old faces, same old crowd. Even the models looked familiar. Warren Beatty sat at a corner table, and Babe Paley had just walked by.
"What did you do last night, Kezia?" Her smile was one he could not read.
"I played bridge."
"You look like you must have won."
"As a matter of fact, I did. I've been on a winning streak since I got home."
Tm glad for you. Me, Fve been losing at backgammon consistently for the past four weeks. Bitching rotten luck." But he didn't look overly worried, as he patted her hand gently and signaled to the waiter.
Two Bloody Marys and a double steak tartare. The usual. "Darling, do you want wine?" She shook her head. The Bloody Marys would be fine.
It was a quick lunch; he had to be back fa the office at two. Now that the summer was over, it was business as usual: new wills, new trusts, new babies, new divorces, new season. It was almost like a whole new year. Like children returning to school, socialites marked the years by "the season," and the season had just begun.
"Will you be fa town this weekend, Kezia?" He seemed distracted as he hailed her a cab.
"No. Remember? I have that weekend thing with Edward."
"Oh, that's right Good. Then I won't feel like such a meanie. I'm going to Quogue with some business associates. But I'll call you on Monday. Will you be all right?" The question amused her.
"Ill be fine." She slid gracefully into the cab, and smiled op into his eyes. Business associates, darling?
"Thanks for the lunch."
"See you Monday." He waved again as the cab pulled away, and she sighed comfortably from the back seat. Finite. She was off the hook till Monday. But suddenly, there was nothing but lies.
The weekend was perfect. Bright sunny skies, a light breeze, little pollution and a low pollen count, and she and Mark had painted the bedroom a bright cornflower blue. "In honor of your eyes," he told her as she worked diligently around the window. It was a bitch of a job, but when they had finished, they were both immensely pleased.
"How about a picnic to celebrate?" He was in high spirits and so was she.
She ran down to Fiorella's for provisions, while he called around to borrow a car. A friend of George's offered his van.
"Where are we going, sire?"
"Treasure Island. My own treasure island." And he began to sing snatches of absurd songs about islands, interspersed with a great many cackles and guffaws.
"Mark Wooly, you're a madman."
"That's cool, Cinderella. As long as you dig it." There was no malice in the "Cinderella." They were too happy and it was too fine a day. And Mark had never been malicious.
He took her to a little island in the East River, a nameless gem near Randall's Island. They looped off the highway, and through litter and a bumpy little road that seemed to go nowhere, crossed a small bridge, and suddenly. . . . magic! A lighthouse and a crumbling castle all their own.
"It looks like the fall of the House of Usher."
"Yes, and it's all mine. And now if s yours, too. Nobody ever comes here." New York gazed somberly at them from across the river, the United Nations, the Chrysler Building and the Empire State looking sleek and polite, as the happy pair lay on the grass and opened a bottle of Fiorella's best Chianti.
Tugboats and ferries floated past, and they waved to captains and crewmen and laughed at the sky.
"What a beautiful day!"
"Yeah, it really is." He put his head in her lap and she leaned down and kissed him.
"Want some more wine, Mr. Wooly?"
"No, just a slice of the sky."
"At your service,
six."
Clouds were gathering, and it was four in the afternoon when the first lightning flashed past the clouds.
"I think you're going to get that slice of the sky you ordered. In about five minutes. See how good I am to you? Your wish is my command."
"Baby, you're terrific." He sprang to his feet and flung out his arms, and in five minutes it was pouring rain and lightning flashed and thunder roared, and they ran around the island together hand in hand, laughing and soaked to the skin.
When they got home, they showered together, and the hot water felt prickly on their chilled bodies. They walked naked into the new blue bedroom, and lay peacefully in each others' arms.
She left him at six the next morning. He slept like a child, his head on his arms, his hair hiding his eyes, his lips soft to her touch.
"Goodbye, my beloved, sleep tight." She kissed him gently on one temple, and whispered into his hah-.
It would be noon before he awoke, and she would be far from him by then. In a different world, chasing dragons, making choices.
"Good morning, Miss Saint Martin. Ill tell Mr. Simpson you're here."
"Thanks, Pat. How*ve you been?"
"Busy, crazy. Seems like everyone has a new idea for a book after the summer. Or a new manuscript, or a royalty check that got lost."
"Yeah, I know what you mean." Kezia smiled ruefully, thinking of her own plans for a book.
The secretary took a quick look at her desk, gathered up some papers, and disappeared behind a heavy oak door, The literary agency of Simpson, Wells, and Jones did not look very different from Edward's law firm, or Whit's office, or the brokerage house that had the bulk of her account. This was serious business. Long shelves of books, wood paneling, bronze door handles, and a thick carpet the color of Burgundy wine. Sober. Impressive. Prestigious. She was represented by a highly reputable firm. It was why she had felt comfortable sharing her secret with Jack Simpson. He knew who she was, and only he and Edward knew of her numerous aliases. And Simpson's staff, of course, but they were unfailingly discreet. The secret had remained well guarded.
"Mr. Simpson will see you now, Miss Saint Martin."
"Thank you, Pat."
He was waiting for her on his feet behind the desk, a kindly man close to Edward's age, balding and gray at the temples, with a broad fatherly smile, and comforting hands. They shook hands as they always did. And she settled into the chair across from him, stirring the tea Pat had provided. It was peppermint tea today. Sometimes it was English Breakfast, and in the afternoon it was always Earl Grey. Jack Simpson's office was a haven for her, a place to relax and unwind. A place for excitement about the work she had done. She was always happy there.
"I have another commission for you, my dear."