Seidel, Kathleen Gilles (20 page)

He spoke. "I am enormously curious about you."

"Where do you want me to start?"

He did not care. Anything. Everything. He wanted to know it all. "The Peace Corps." The carefully stacked lumber he was using for a brain had crashed when he'd heard that. "Were you serious? Were you really a Peace Corps volunteer?"

She nodded, her hair swinging gently. "I joined after college."

College. More lumber crashed. That sounded so normal, so middle-class, so surprising. What was wrong with him? Why was he surprised that she had gone to college? She might be rich, but she wasn't from another planet. That's what most young women in this country did, they went to college. Even those whose lumber was less well stacked than his went; those whose earrings were brighter than their minds went. Why should Jill be any different just because she had money? He felt his hands relax their grip. "What country did you go to? What did they have you do?"

"I was in the Central African Republic, and I taught the locals how to build, stock, and maintain fish ponds."

"Fish?"

She nodded. "Fish. But don't ask me why. I said I was interested in animals, which is true. I meant horses, but the C.A.R. did not seem to need a young ladies' equestrian program, so I ended up with fish. But I liked it. It was fascinating, and I did some good."

"Is that why you joined? To do some good?"

"It wasn't that simple."

"Oh?" he invited her to go on.

"My mother has a lot of problems, and I was terribly engrossed in them. I didn't understand it at the time, but the only way I could stop trying to save her was to run off and try to save the world."

Doug was always impressed with people who could sum themselves up so neatly. "Did it work?"

"No. I neither saved the world nor got rid of my need to save my mother."

"What did you get out of it?"

"Self-reliance. It's one thing to be on your own; it's another to do it in a different culture. Like figuring out how to keep healthy in such a poor country when your body is used to a protein-rich American diet, things like that. I learned you had to take care of yourself before you could help others. You can't build fish hatcheries from an American hospital bed."

Self-reliance. It was interesting that she should have used that phrase.

When he had knocked on her door, he had had some stereotypes about rich kids—that they were selfish and irresponsible without much self-esteem, that they couldn't take care of themselves, that they couldn't survive without their money. Doug wasn't anywhere near as good as his father when it came to assessing people quickly, but he was all right at it, and it had taken him about twenty seconds to realize that these stereotypes did not fit this rich kid.

Had he not known that she was independently wealthy, he would have pegged her as some kind of very successful free-lancer. She seemed too relaxed to be working in a corporate setting, but she didn't seem to have any doubts about her ability to support herself. She was, as she had said, self-reliant.

He said as much to her now.

"Oh, but I have supported myself," she answered. "I put myself through college. Tuition, room and board, books, everything."

"You did?" He was surprised, but he liked being surprised. "Even I didn't do that. I had a basketball scholarship, but my folks filled in the gaps. Why did you do it? Was it late-adolescent rebellion?"

"No, my father was one hundred percent in favor of it. But I did have something to prove. My mother's never been self-supporting, and it's always caused problems for her. I needed to be sure I could do it."

"What did you do? Did you have a regular college-kid job? Did you wait tables, stuff envelopes?"

"Both of those. I even pumped gas one afternoon."

"Pumped gas? Surely not."

"I can prove it. I still get some residuals from that ad. I was a hand and foot model," she explained. "I did all those things with people taking pictures of my hands."

"A hand and foot model?"

She extended her hands out in front of her. Doug hadn't looked at them before, but they were lovely. The skin was smooth, her fingers were long and tapering, her unpolished nails filed into graceful ovals.

In a commercial for detergent, she explained, the detergent might be poured onto a dirty T-shirt and then that T-shirt dropped into a washer. That had to be done by a female hand, a lovely graceful hand with sure, steady movements.

Pictures of her face were flat and uninteresting, she said, but her hands and feet photographed beautifully. She had done countless nail polish, jewelry, and shoe ads. She also had done movie work. Some very talented actresses did not have pretty hands, and close-ups of hired hands had to be cut into their movies. Jill's left hand had been married to some of the sexiest men in Hollywood. She had sat behind a pregnant woman and rubbed lotion on her belly. She had self-examined someone else's breast for an American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists video.

"Why not your own breast?" Doug asked. "And please note how steadily my boyish blue eyes are fixed upon your face."

"Because hers was nicer, I suppose. She was a breast model, I was a hand model. The era of specialization."

"Just what Henry Ford had in mind, no doubt. Was there good money in it?"

"Very good. But I got tired of how careful you had to be. You couldn't scrounge around in your purse for your keys for fear you'd scratch yourself and be out of work for two weeks. Of course, I couldn't ride. That was the biggest sacrifice. For four years I didn't ride. And the shoots were pretty boring. You spent the whole time walking around with your hands in the air so the blood would drain. But anyway, I have supported myself and I know I could again... although not as a hand model. Two years in the Peace Corps took care of my future in that line of work."

"But surely having all that money's made some impact on you," he said. " 'The rich are different from you and me' and all that."

"People do want to believe that, don't they? Either that I am weak or pampered, or that I must live in a more sparkling world"—she sketched a rainbow in the air with her hand—"a world where all the colors are brighter and everything is dipped in glitter."

"That's pretty much what people around here think," he admitted.

"It's not so. I think that money—and by that I mean real money, not the quick ten million that a flash-in-the-pan producer or junk bond dealer makes—takes away your excuses. T can't afford to' slams the door so fast that you don't have to ask yourself whether you really want what's behind it. I think money has forced me to be honest with myself and face things about myself that other people don't have to."

Doug was still trying to wrap his mind around the notion that ten million dollars was not "real" money... although he supposed her point was about "quick" money not having the effect of money that's been around, money you can take for granted. "Like what?" he asked.

"Well, I've had to decide that I didn't want to train Kentucky Derby winners or have a coffee plantation in Kenya, because I could have done either one. With more money than you could ever need, you've got to face that your limits are within yourself. I could have twice the money I do and I still wouldn't have an imagination."

Doug tried to imagine himself in her shoes... or even in a pair of measly ten-million-dollar shoes. She had a point. Money would eliminate a lot of distractions. He wouldn't have, for example, signed the Nike contract or done as much radio work. Those had been time-consuming, not very rewarding jobs that he had done in the name of asset-formation. But would all the money in the world have given him better shooting skills? No. Would it have prevented the pickle he was in now? No. Would it get him another job at a Division I college? No. Not unless he bought the school and forced them to let him be head basketball coach.

Suddenly he remembered his manners. It was late. What a long day she had had. He pulled his legs out from under the coffee table and stood up. "I know you're still on California time, but Randy's chickens aren't. They get up powerfully early."

He put out his hand for her. It wasn't necessary. He'd been watching her legs all day, with a coach's, as well as a man's, eye. There was more than enough muscle in them to get her upright. But she put a cool, smooth hand in his, then let him do most of the work. The strength of his arm had to pulse through hers. It was nice.

He picked up the grey Confederate jacket that he had shed halfway through the movie. Swinging it over his shoulder, he thrust out an arm, holding open the screen door for her. The night was clear, and the starlight lit their path to his car. He drove a Chevy Cavalier. He wasn't very interested in cars; he didn't care what he drove as long as it was a convertible.

"Do you want me to put the top up? It's gotten a little cool."

Jill shook her head. "I love an open car."

"Then, here." As they reached the car, he opened the grey wool jacket and circled it around her, settling it on her shoulders like a cape, letting his hands rest on her for a moment longer than needed.

The house was at the end of a little gravel lane. A small stand of cedars marked the crossroads of the gravel and the county blacktop. From there it was no more than ten minutes to the Interstate cloverleaf where the Best Western was. Jill had her head tilted back against the headrest; she was looking at the stars.

The Best Western was quiet and brightly lit. The Valley was a safe place, Doug's common sense told him. The doors to the rooms fronted the parking lot. He could stay in the car and watch Jill's every self-reliant step until the door to her room closed behind her. This was, he knew, what a sensible man would do.
Good night,
he would say,
see you on Monday.
And that would be that.

But his Mama hadn't raised him to heave women out of the car, leaving them to face unescorted the perils of a bright, safe ten-yard walk. He pulled his car into a space, got out, and came around to the passenger side, although by this time Jill had gotten out of the car by herself. Together they walked toward her door. She was still wearing the jacket to his uniform. It was long on her, but not overwhelming so. She was tall.

The doors to the motel rooms were painted royal blue, each one lit by a small torch-shaped sconce. He did not hold out his hand for her room key. Phillip Wayland might have done that; Doug thought it was better if he kept his hands in his pockets. She unlocked the door herself and pushed it inward.

Behind them in the parking lot, a car door slammed. In the quiet night an ignition ground, then caught, the motor revving. Its headlights swept past in a bright arc. The light glittered against the gold braid and sparkled off the brass buttons of the coat around Jill's shoulders.

"Would you like to come in?" she asked. "Room service has pizza."

He'd been afraid she would ask that. He shook his head. "The chickens get up early."

The chickens? That was a feeble excuse. He prayed her to understand.
I
have a rule. Never after the movie. I've learned the hard way; I have to live by it.

There was nothing he wanted more than to go in that room with her. But it would ruin any chance. He knew that better than he knew anything.

"Then you'll be needing this," she said and lifted the coat off her shoulders.

Instead of handing it to him, she held it up for him to put it on. He turned, straightening his arm, catching the coarse-woven cuff of the full white shirt he had worn beneath the jacket. She lifted the jacket up his arms, settling it over his shoulders, just as he had for her. Most women could not have done this for him, but she was tall.

He turned back to face her, and saw the light from the little sconce caught in the clear lines of her brow. She straightened one edge of the unbuttoned coat, then let her hand lie flat against him, half on the coat, half where he could feel her cool fingers through the loose weave of the shirt. She rose on her toes and kissed his cheek.

His hand instantly clamped at her waist, gripping her tightly to stop the trembling. But he did nothing else, willing the message.
Yes, I like this. Yes, this is how I feel, too. I would give anything... but I can't be Phillip for you.

In a moment she stepped back, seeming to understand. "Good night," she said, her voice free from rejection's rancor.

"Good night," he answered. How he hated this. And he turned to go.

Jill pushed the door shut. It was a fire door, and the metal was cool against her palm. What a day this had been. She looked down at her feet. The white canvas of her shoes was streaked with grass stains and smudged with reddish-brown soil. She pulled down the three-quarter sleeves of her once-white shirt. Dog hair floated from the folds and dust marked the creases.

Doug Ringling was a smart man. She admired him for his caution. The movie's lure was too potent. When her thoughts had turned southward, what had she been thinking about, the hair on his chest, the muscles in his legs? That's what any normal, sexually fervored woman would have thought about. But, no, good old Aunt Jill had been thinking about the silly uniform, the way the rich soft wool would feel beneath her palms, how cool would be the tangle of fringe at his epaulettes, how crisp the ridge of the braided trim. She had imagined the pressure of his brass buttons against her breasts, the outline of his sword belt against her hips.

Jill did not expect romances to be permanent. It wasn't that the idea of permanence frightened her. Indeed, she treasured the thought that her friendships were permanent. But she had long since stopped dreaming of One True Love. She did not have a linear, conventional view of her life in which dating would lead to marriage and children. She never asked a love affair to promise a lifetime of happiness; she never spent the opening steps of love's delicious waltz assessing a man by such a weighty measure.

Nor did she ever knowingly start to dance with the wrong foot. For Doug to have dropped his sword belt at the foot of her bed this evening would have guaranteed the briefest of cotillions. They both knew that.