Season of Passion (36 page)

It was a far cry from her trip to New York with Nick. Gone were the limousines, the hansom cab rides, the secret adventures, the lunches at Lut+?ce and dinners at Caravelle. And gone the buffer of his loving. This time she was confronted with New York in all its bold brassy reality, pushing, shoving, fighting for cabs, fighting stiff winds as newspapers and litter swirled around her feet. And the bookings her publisher had made were almost inhuman. She had three radio shows to do the first day, no time for lunch, and at four that afternoon she taped a television talk show, where the host had paired her with a sportswriter who was openly condescending. She was numb with exhaustion and anger when she reached the hotel at six, and it was the wrong time to call Nick or Tygue. Nick would be setting up the show, and Tygue would still be in school. She called room service and asked for a glass of white wine, and then sat back quietly to wait until she could call Nick. Even the room was less pretty this time. It was more elaborate, in white and gold, but smaller and colder, and the bed looked sad and empty. She smiled as she remembered the love-making of their last trip.

She sat back on the couch with her glass of wine and tucked her long legs under her. She was three thousand miles from home, alone in a strange hotel, and she couldn't talk to anyone she knew. She felt unloved and suddenly frightened, and she desperately wanted to go home. This was it. The wild fabulous high rise of fame. But it was a lonely, empty building and no one else seemed to live there. She longed to be back in the house hidden in the hedges on Green Street. If he even wanted her back. Maybe it was almost over. It felt as though they had just begun, and she and Tygue had only just moved to San Francisco the month before, but maybe it would all be too much for Nick. Maybe her career would be too great a conflict for him, with his own work, or maybe he just couldn't accept her. Kate started to call room service for a second glass of wine, and then with a frown she put down the phone. This was ridiculous. She was in New York. She was a star. She grinned to herself at the word. All right, so she wasn't a star, but she was successful. She could go anywhere she liked for dinner. She didn't have to sit in her room. It was absurd. She reached into her handbag and pulled out the sheet of paper where she'd written a list of restaurants Felicia had given her. The first on the list was someplace called Gino's. Licia had told her she could go there alone, and that it was crawling with models, ad men, and writers, a smattering of European society types, and beautiful people. It's a good show. You'll love it. And it was only two blocks from her hotel. She could walk.

She ran a comb through her hair, washed her face, and put on fresh makeup. She was ready. The black dress she had worn all day would do fine. Felicia said it wasn't dressy. By New York standards, anyway, that meant blue jeans, Guccis, and mink, or your latest Dior. As she picked up the long red wool coat off the back of a chair where she'd flung it, she remembered the grueling heat of only two months before. She looked down at the black lizard shoes, and then around the room again ' so empty. God, it was so empty. It was going to feel good to get out. Even the view didn't delight her this time. The whole city looked very tall and frightening and dark. And it was chilly and even windier when she stepped outside. She turned up the collar of her coat and turned east toward Lexington Avenue. She had rejected the doorman's offer of a cab, and walked rapidly away. She had already picked up the pace of New Yorkers. Run, dash, fly, bump into someone on street, grunt, shove, and run past. She laughed to herself as she thought of it. She had only been in town for a day and she already felt corroded by the pace. Her mind wandered back to Nick as she walked, and she was annoyed at herself. And at him. What right did he have to make her feel guilty about her success? She had worked hard for it. She deserved it And she wasn't short-changing Tygue, or Nick, for that matter. All right, so the timing wasn't perfect for a trip, but Christ, she'd only be gone for a week. And she had a right to this ' she had a right to it ' the words kept echoing in her head as she turned south on Lexington Avenue, her high heels beating an even staccato against the subway grill beneath as she avoided fleets of pedestrians clattering by. She was almost thirty years old now, and she had a right to this ' right to this' . She almost missed the restaurant, and looked up in surprise as two men bumped into her. They were just leaving Gino's. They didn't even say sorry, they merely looked her over, seemed to approve, and walked on, stepping off the curb to grab a cab from two other men. Standard New York. In California, the men would have been knocking each other cold for something like that. In New York, the two men who'd lost their cab simply hailed another, and grabbed it, just before the woman who'd flagged it first from the curb. Kate smiled to herself as she slipped inside Gino's double, yellow, swinging doors. It would take years to develop a style like that on the streets of New York, or maybe it happened vary quickly. Maybe one got that way without noticing it. It still seemed funny to her.

Signora? A dapper Italian in a gray pin-striped suit came to her side with a smile. Table for one?

She nodded with a smile. She could hardly hear him in the din as she looked around with amusement. The walls were a hideous coral color, covered with zebras chasing each other diagonally up and down the walls. Plastic plants flourished in several locations, and (he lighting was dark. The bar was jammed seven deep, and the tables were covered with white cloths and well populated by le tout New York. Just what Felicia had promised. Models still wearing the day's makeup and the latest Calvin Klein, ad men looking suave, married, and unfaithful, actresses and society matrons of some note, and a certain uniform look to the men. There were two kinds: European and American. The Americans all looked very Madison Avenue, in striped suits, horn rims, white shirts, and ties. The Europeans had them beat by a mile better tailors, better shirts, softer colors, more scandalous eyes, and their trousers were all the right length. The laughter of women darted in and out of the conversations of men, like chimes in an orchestra, and thickly woven into the background was a constant caw and clatter provided by the waiters. They made as much noise as possible with their trays, all but destroyed the crockery as they sent it sailing into the hands of the busboys, and shouted to each other as loudly as they could from as far away as they could manage in the crowd. The kitchen itself would have produced lightning and thunder, and for lack of that they did the best they could with the materials at hand. They managed very nicely with metal pots and heavy utensils. And all of it combined to produce Gino's, a rich tapestry of sounds and sights, and the luscious smells of Italian cuisine.

Well have a table for you in a montent. The maitre d' in the gray pin-stripe suit looked her over in a manner worthy of Rome and waved her graciously to the bar. A drink while you're waiting? His accent was perfection, his eyes were a caress. She had to force herself not to laugh. Gino's was a heady experience. It catapulted her instantly from her earlier mood of gloom to a feeling of fiesta.

With only the slightest hesitation she walked to the bar, ordered a gin and tonic, and heard the man just in front of her order Campari. Obviously an Italian. She could tell by the way he said Campari soda and then carried on a few sentences of conversation in Italian with the bartender. Kate looked him over from just behind him, where she stood. He smelled of a rich European men's cologne ' something French ' she couldn't remember it, but it was familiar. She had tried it out once at I. Magnin's, thinking of buying it for Nick. But it wasn't Nick, it was too rich, too sophisticated. Nick's lemons and spice suited him better. But not this man. The collar she saw was a warm Wedgwood blue, the back of his suit looked like a blazer, and it too had an Italian flair to it, from what she could see. The hair was gray, the neck slightly lined ' forty-five maybe ' forty-eight ' and then suddenly he turned to face her and she felt herself blush and then gasp in surprise.

Oh, it's you! It was the man from the cab she'd taken from the airport. The architect from Chicago. I thought you were Italian. And then she was even more embarrassed to have admitted considering the matter at all, and laughed again as he smiled at her.

I lived in Rome for seven years. I'm afraid I'm addicted to scungili. antipasto, Campari, and all things Italian.

His front view was even more impressive than the rear view had been, and she realized now that he was much better-looking than she had first thought him. She hadn't paid much attention to him in the cab.

How is New York treating you, Miss Harper? He smiled at her over his drink and made room for her at the bar.

All right, for New York. I worked my tail off today.

Writing?

Nothing as easy as that. Doing publicity

I am impressed. But he looked more amused than impressed, and his eyes somehow embarrassed her. It was as though he saw too much through the black dress, yet he said nothing inappropriate. It was just a feeling she got. There was something raw and sexy beneath the well-tailored clothes and the businesslike manner. Will I see you on TV?

Not unless you stay in your hotel room and watch daytime television. She smiled at him again.

I'm afraid not. I've been doing my New York number too. We started with breakfast conferences at seven today. They work like madmen in this town. And then together, they looked out at the room. They do everything like madmen. Even eat. She laughed with him and for a few minutes they just watched the scene. Then she felt his eyes on her again, and she turned toward him. She said nothing. They only looked at each other, and he smiled and held up his drink.

To you, Miss Harper, for a book that meant a great deal to me. How did you ever get those insights into what makes men tick? The crawl for success, and the heartbreak if you stop just shy of the top or get there, and fall off. He looked into his glass and then back at her, and she was surprised at the seriousness she saw in his face. The book really had meant something to him, and suddenly she was glad. He understood. It was as though he understood Tom

You handled it very well. Even from a man's point of view. I would think it would be difficult for a woman to really understand what it's like. All the macho nonsense about making it, and then the heart break of it when you don't.

I'm not so sure it's all that different for women. But I watched my husband go through it, she said, looking into her drink. But she was very aware of this man's gentle voice, like a soft summer breeze in the winter storm of the noise around them.

He must be very proud of you now.

She looked up at him unexpectedly and shook her head. No. He's dead. She didn't say it to shock him. She just said it, but he was stunned nonetheless. And then she was the one who apologized. I didn't mean to say it that way.

I'm sorry for you. But now I understand the book better than I did. That makes a lot of sense. Did he make it, in the commercial sense of the word, before he died? It seemed to matter to this man a lot. And Kate had decided to be honest with him. He was a stranger, and she had had two drinks. The wine at the hotel, and now the gin. She was feeling unusually honest, and cut off from everyone she knew. Here, no one knew her. She could say anything that popped into her head.

Yes, he made it. And he blew it. That's what killed him. He had to have another chance, or else.' He got the or else

Heart attack? It was his worst fear.

More or less. And then she realized what she was doing to this man, and looked up quickly. No. Not a heart attack. Something else. His soul died. The rest just sort of went with it. But no, it wasn't a heart attack. He looked only slightly relieved.

I wonder what the answer is. To refuse to play the game? To refuse to run the race for success? But it's so damn tempting, isn't it? He looked at her with that warm, sexy smile, and she smiled back.

Yes, it is. I'm beginning to understand that better now myself. You always end up having to choose, having to make decisions about what matters, hurting somebody. Somehow one shouldn't have to make those choices.

Ah, Miss Harper, but one does. He smiled ruefully.

Do you? She was shocked at her own question, but she liked talking to him. He was worldly and bright and very good-looking, and he wanted to talk about the things that were bothering her now.

Yes, I have to make those choices. I have a wife who says she needs me in Chicago. For dinner parties, or something like that. A son who thinks I'm a capitalist asshole, and a daughter with cerebral palsy. They need me. Probably very much. But if I don't run after the almighty dollar, then my wife can't give her dinner parties, and my son can't sit on his lazy ass and espouse his saintly causes, and my daughter ' well, she needs it most of all. He grew very quiet and looked into his drink, and then back at Kate again. The bitch of it is that my reasons for running all sound good and righteous and proper, but the truth of it is, that isn't even why I do it anymore.

I know. She understood. Only too well You do it because you enjoy it. Because you have to. Because now it's part of you, and ' She said the last words very softly, as though to herself. ' because you have a right to it. To the good stuff. To the excitement, the success ' She looked up at him again and he held her eyes for a long time with a small ironical smile.

That's why I loved your book. Because you knew.

And then she smiled too. The funny thing is that when I wrote the book, I knew all about it Or I thought I did. But I knew it from seeing it, not feeling it. I knew it from where your wife sits. Now I know it differently. Now I'm confronted by the same things myself.

Welcome to die land of the successful failures, Miss Harper.

Do you consider yourself a failure?

Depends on how you look at it. I suspect that to them, my family, I probably am. I don't know. To the business community, I'm certainly not a failure. Far from it. He had won several major international awards in the past five years. But he didn't tell Kate that, he merely smiled die small ironical smile. One pays a very high price, just like all the songs say.