Rhapsody (35 page)

Misha nodded. "I promise," he vowed. He
pulled her to him and kissed her tenderly.

Serena pulled back and wrapped her hair in
the towel again. Then she got under the covers next to him. She
stared straight ahead. "You know what you read in the magazine
article," she said. "That I was born in Florida."

"Yes," Misha said.

"Well, I was," she said. "Only it isn't the
Florida that most people know. It was in a tiny, dilapidated
cracker shack near the Gulf coast. Way out in the boonies near
Crystal River."

Misha listened, watching her beautiful face,
and saw the faraway look in her eyes. He was afraid that if he
interrupted her to ask questions, she wouldn't continue.

"My father, if you could call him that," she
said harshly, "was a fishing guide. When he wasn't too drunk. My
mother was what some people would call a housewife. When she wasn't
too drunk." She paused and looked down, studying her fingernails,
as if the rest of her story lay hidden in them.

"I had two older brothers who I don't
remember much about," she finally continued. "At least not until I
was about ten years old." Her voice became hushed, and her eyes
dimmed with sadness. "That's about the time they started messing
around with me."

Misha gently put a hand on her arm, but she
brushed it away.

"When it wasn't them, it was my father," she
said. "And when I told my mother, she beat the shit out of me for
leading them on. For tempting them, as she put it." She turned and
glanced at Misha. "So there was no way I could win." She paused
again, and looked away.

Misha wanted to reach out and touch her, to
hold her, to give her comfort, but he was afraid she would push him
away again.

"Anyway, I started running away from home
when I was about twelve," she went on. "Then finally, when I was
fifteen, I ran away for good. And I haven't been back to that
hellhole since," she said with vehemence.

She turned and looked at Misha again. "I
became a rock band groupie, hanging out with the guys, traveling
all over the country with them, doing gigs. They gave me food and
shelter and booze and drugs." She looked away again. "And I gave
them anything they wanted. And I do mean anything."

She was quiet for a while, studying her
fingernails again. She seemed reluctant to finish her story, but
finally took a deep breath and went on. "I started taking pictures
of the band and the groupies. Onstage, while the band was
performing, and backstage while they were gearing up. Then at the
parties in hotel rooms, motel rooms. It was an accident really.
Just something to pass the time. Have fun."

She looked over at him again and shrugged.
"Anyway, you know the rest. Magazine editors saw some of my
pictures when they were interviewing the band, and my career got
started. They were snapshots really. The early ones, I mean. Candid
shots that were hard to come by, but I got them. I had the access.
When I realized what I had, I used that as a stepping-stone,
learning as I went along. Then I met Coral Randolph, my agent, and
the rest, as they say, is history."

"You've come a long way," Misha ventured.

"Yes," she said. "I've come a long, long way.
And I've never looked back. And I never will, either."

"I'm glad you've told me, Serena," Misha
said, taking her hand in his.

"So there you have it," she said, extracting
her hand. "I don't want to talk about it anymore, Misha. Can you
understand that?" She looked into his eyes.

"Yes," he said. "I do now. I won't ask you
about it again."

"Don't," she said. She got back out of bed
and padded toward the bathroom, toweling her hair again. "Not
ever."

Misha watched her disappear into the
bathroom, his mind swirling with what she had told him. No wonder
there were no family photographs sprinkled about the apartment, he
thought sadly. No wonder she never mentioned her past. It dawned on
him that Serena was probably afraid of true intimacy and that she
most likely didn't trust anyone. Not surprising, considering her
childhood.

He wondered if he could ever penetrate that
beautiful, polished exterior.
The sex is so fantastic
, he
thought.
But will it ever go beyond that? Will she allow it
to?

He supposed that her own terrible experiences
explained why she had no desire to meet his parents. He had been so
anxious to show her off to them, but she had resisted so far,
making any number of transparent excuses. Could it also explain why
she never wanted to spend the night at his place? She had made
jokes about his richly decorated and lived-in apartment, calling it
an Aladdin's den of treasures. Was she intimidated by its being
more of a real home, a place where he lived with many of the things
he loved? Or was she afraid of him in his own lair, on his own
turf?

He didn't know the answer to any of these
questions, but there were a few things he did know now. Serena, for
all her beauty and talent and accomplishments, was somehow damaged.
That he knew with a certainty. At her core, he decided, was an
insecurity and a fear that seemed to color her every action. But
most frightening of all, he thought, was a certain poverty of
spirit.

Serena was a fighter and a survivor, that was
clear, but could she ever really learn to give of herself without
fear? And to accept what's offered her on trust?

Will she ever let me really love her?
he wondered.

Serena was in Kenya, photographing models
cavorting about in couture gowns at a wildlife preserve.

Misha was in Tokyo, playing for a packed
house.

Serena was on an
estancia
outside
Buenos Aires, taking pictures of muscle-bound male models,
strutting about the stables, dressed in the latest
"macho-man-meets-nancy-boy" looks from London designers.

Misha was climbing pyramids in Teotihuacan
after his performance thrilled critics and audience alike in Mexico
City.

Serena was somewhere in the Indian Ocean on
one of the Maldive Islands, taking an extended vacation with Coral
and Sal/Sally—"Sorry, ladies only, Misha!"—after a particularly
grueling and trouble-fraught fashion shoot in the wilds of
Rajasthan.

They really were like ships passing in the
night.

Misha, back in New York, was lonely and a
little angry with Serena. He was utterly bored with the beautiful
models who wanted to go club crawling every night, more often than
not high on drugs.

He decided to call Vera to see if she would
like to go antiquing upstate over the weekend. She was thrilled at
the chance, and they sped off together in his little silver- blue
BMW sports car, the top down, their hair blowing in the wind. Up
the Taconic State Parkway they went, searching for treasures in
off-the-beaten-track places.

In Hudson, they found two magnificent lead
garden urns, a matched pair. Just the thing to place on pedestals,
one in each of Vera's parlor windows. Down the street they found a
massive four-poster Italian Renaissance bed, beautifully carved and
canopied. Precisely the piece Misha had been searching for to
replace the bed in his apartment.

They dined at the Charleston Restaurant,
enjoying its excellent cuisine, then spent the night at a romantic
little bed and breakfast in the nearby Berkshires.

Returning to New York, they glowed with the
happiness of their new acquisitions, which would soon be sent to
them. Though they weren't necessarily bargains, they'd had fun
searching for them. More important, they relished their rediscovery
of each other's company.

Sunday night Vera insisted on cooking in
rather than going out, as so many weekenders did on returning to
the city. At Misha's apartment, in his large, well- equipped
kitchen, she threw together a delicious pasta with artichoke
hearts, scallions, and cayenne pepper, while he made a salad of
arugula and tomatoes with an olive oil and balsamic
vinaigrette.

They drank wine and talked and talked and
talked. Vera occasionally got up to move one of his treasures here
or there for greater effect, making suggestions about re-hanging
some of his pictures, helping him decide how to place the new bed
in his bedroom. They discussed which of the ancient fabrics they
both collected would make the best hangings for it, Vera telling
him about her old crewel work that she might be willing to part
with.

It was very late before they finally ascended
the stairs to his bedroom for the last time that night, hand in
hand, smiles of contentment on their faces. They were already
pleasantly tired by their mutual enjoyment of the weekend and the
pure delight they took in each other, but invigorated at the same
time. It was a night of sweet and leisurely lovemaking, ending in
heavy, reenergizing sleep.

Misha's private telephone line began a
persistent, shrill ring early Monday morning. He rolled over and
turned the offensive instrument off, noticing that Vera had already
gotten up and gone off to work.

Later, after coffee, juice, and toast, he
listened to his messages. All from Serena, as he suspected they
would be. He knew that she was due back in New York this morning.
He decided he would call her back, although he was still miffed
that she hadn't found the time to fit him into her hectic schedule.
He knew from his own experience that with some effort—and
desire—she could have done so.

He picked up the receiver and dialed her
number.

After three rings her telephone was answered.
"Yeah?" It was the gruff John Wayne voice.

"Sal ...Sally?" Misha asked.

"Who wants to know?"

"It's Misha Levin," he said. "I was calling
for Serena."

"Hold on."

He heard the receiver bang loudly against
something, as if Sal had deliberately let it drop. After a moment
Serena's voice came on the line.

"Hi!" she said cheerfully. "I tried to get
you earlier but didn't get an answer."

"I had the phones off," he said. "I was
sleeping late." The enthusiasm in her voice mollified his anger to
some extent, but he still wasn't ready to forgive her.

"Aha!" she said. "What've you been up
to?"

"This and that," he said, unwilling to be
forthcoming. "A guy has to amuse himself when he's been left in the
lurch. You know?"

"Are you pissed?" Serena asked.

"I guess you could put it that way," he
allowed.

"Misha," she said firmly, "we've been seeing
each other for months, and I would think that by now you would've
gotten used to my crazy schedule. You know how it is. I can't drop
everything like some bored little housewifey and run every time you
say run."

"I know that," he said heatedly, "and you
know very well that I hardly expect that."

"Look," Serena said mildly, "I've got the day
free. Why don't you come on down here and we'll talk? Okay?"

"Would you like to come up here?" he asked,
knowing that she would say no. "There'd be fewer distractions."

"No," she said, as predicted. "Better here.
I'm expecting some important telephone calls."

"Of course," he said with a tinge of sarcasm.
"The all-important telephone calls. That all-important umbilical
cord. You could bring your cell phone up here, you know."

"That won't work," she said. "There may be
some deliveries, and there won't be anybody here but me." She
sighed. "Look, Misha," she added, "I just can't help it. Please
come on down here."

"Give me about an hour," he said, unable to
resist her allure, the seemingly magnetic pull that she held for
him.

He hung up the receiver, staring off into
space. "Damn!" he exclaimed. And he thought,
How much longer can
I go on like this, her running hot for me one minute, then cutting
me off completely?

The elevator bobbed to a halt on Serena's
floor, and Misha got out. John Wayne stood there, legs spread wide
in a particularly butch pose, waiting for the elevator.

"Hi, Sal," he said brightly.

She eyed him with suspicion, then nodded,
grudgingly, he thought. She got into the elevator with a swagger
and slammed the button with a fist.

He rang the second intercom—there was one in
the lobby as well as one at the loft's door, for added security—and
Serena buzzed him in. He stepped into the mammoth loft, and Serena
called to him.

"Misha," she cried. "Back here. In the
studio."

He headed off to the right, toward the vast
space that adjoined her living quarters. It contained her
photographic studio, complete with bathrooms, changing rooms,
wardrobes, storage facilities, and dark room. She was standing,
almost hidden, by huge trunks filled with lighting equipment,
cameras, and countless accessories, as well as several rolling
racks of clothing and boxes piled high with shoes, boots, hats, and
who knew what else.

She looked up at him and smiled widely, her
raven hair framing her lightly tanned face. "Hi," she said.

At that moment, she looked, he thought, like
a Madonna. Exquisite and innocent. Pure and—

Then he saw what she was wearing.

"What in the world?" he gasped. Then he
laughed lightly.

Serena grinned. "I'm trying on clothes for a
photo shoot," she said. "A magazine in London is doing a big
feature article about
me!
Imagine! And they sent down tons
of outfits to try. I have approval—with their input— as to what to
wear in the photo spread."

She did a pirouette, then stood looking at
him. "What do you think?" she asked.

Misha was momentarily at a loss as to what to
say. "Well, I think it makes you look like a hooker," he blurted.
"A hooker with a specialty," he added with amusement.

Serena laughed. "You don't think black
leather hot pants with skull studs all over them are mo/? How about
the matching bustier? Oh, wait," she said, looking in the mirror.
"It doesn't match. It's studded with crossed bones."