Authors: Katherine Stone
He didn’t sound like a stranger. He sounded like the man she loved. The father of a beloved little boy who died. Another woman’s husband. Another woman’s lover. They were all part of the loving voice that spoke to her. They always had been.
“That was it,” she said. “That was my whole prepared speech.”
“Will you open the floor to questions?” he asked lightly, his confidence kindled by the warmth of her voice and the fact after five months of agonizing silence she had decided to call.
“Sure,” she said. Ask me the tough questions, Eric. I think I can answer them, she thought, her heart pounding. The emptiness and the aching were quickly retreating and in their place was a familiar joy. A joy she had only known since Eric. Because of Eric.
“May I see you?”
May
I kiss you and hold you and love you?
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Now. Whenever.”
Always
.
“The rehearsal dinner is this evening,” Eric said. “But I can miss it. They will understand.”
“You need to be there.”
“I need to be with you more.”
“Maybe I could . . .”
“Come with me? Could you? Would you?”
“Yes,” she said softly. “I could and I would.”
It meant that she knew what he knew. They were already together. The love was there, confident and strong. They didn’t have to search for it, or to spend long private hours trying to recapture what they had. They would talk, to plan their life together, but they did not have to find the love. It was there. It always had been.
“I love you, Leslie
, so much.”
“Oh, Eric, I love you so much, too.”
New York City
July 1985
“So it's true.”
“Charles,” Brooke whispered with surprise. What was Charles Sinclair doing here? Why would he leave the luxurious air-conditioned offices of Sinclair Publishing and journey through the midday heat, humidity, and humanity of downtown Manhattan to the district attorney’s office? “Why are you here?”
“I had to see for myself if Brooke Chandler, attorney extraordinaire, had really forsaken Perkins, Crane and Marks—not to mention Sinclair Publishing—for . . .” Charles paused. His dark brown eyes calmly surveyed her tiny office. The walls wore peeling yellow-gray paint and the linoleum floor was a spider web of cracks. A portable fan noisily recirculated the stifling summer heat.
What is he thinking? Brooke wondered.
It was impossible to tell. Whatever Charles really thought of her stuffy, dingy office was artfully concealed beneath layers of impeccable manners and aristocratic politeness. At least that was what Brooke chose to believe. But there were other ways to interpret the behavior of the handsome and fashionable editor-in-chief of Sinclair Publishing Company. The polite, pleasant veneer
could
be masking worst form of arrogant contempt—indifference.
Charles’s critics proclaimed that the blue blood flowing through his veins, carrying with it a heritage of wealth and power and privilege, was as cold as ice. Witness, they argued, the never-ending series of love affairs started by Charles and, when he became bored, ended by him as well.
“The glamour of the DA's office?” Brooke finally finished Charles’s sentence. “I haven't forsaken Sinclair Publishing. I could still do work for you, assuming . . .”
“We would want you? Of course we would. Or did you mean assuming you have time? Because”—Charles smiled wryly at the stacks of depositions, police records and court documents cluttering her office—”you won't.”
“I could make time,” she answered swiftly.
She had always planned to work in the district attorney’s office after graduation from law school. But during school she clerked for Perkins, Crane, and Marks, the prestigious Manhattan law firm retained by Sinclair Publishing Company. Brooke met Charles and almost changed her plans because of him,
almost
accepted the position that would lead to partnership at Perkins, Crane, and Marks. Because then she would see Charles, work with Charles, be with Charles.
But to what end? her logical mind eventually demanded. There was nothing personal between them. There never would be. Brooke Chandler was not Charles Sinclair's type. She was not one of New York's most beautiful, talented, and glamorous women.
It would be easier to stay with the plan to work in the DA's office, she decided. Easier not to see him.
But now Charles was here, and she was telling him she would find time to do legal work for Sinclair Publishing.
“It would keep me sane. A nice clean advertising contract, once in a while, to offset the felonies.” Brooke smiled, tilted her head, and added quietly, “I meant, assuming I pass the bar.”
“You probably have quite a track record of failing examinations,” Charles teased. It had come up once—John Perkins was reciting the accomplishments of his star law clerk—that she graduated summa cum laude from Harvard and was first in her class at Columbia Law School.
Brooke shrugged, her blue eyes frowning for an uncertain moment. She admitted, awkwardly, as if compelled to confess, “I'm a worrier.”
“It's probably why you are so good,” Charles observed. Then, surprised by the rush of pink that filled her cheeks, he added, “That's a compliment.”
“Oh, Brooke, you're back from court. Andrew —” Jean Fletcher, a second-year law student who was clerking at the DA's office, burst into Brooke's office. “Oh! Sorry. I didn't realize you weren’t alone.”
Jean stopped abruptly and stared with unconcealed amazement at Charles.
“You were saying something about Andrew?” Brooke asked after making introductions.
“Yes.” Jean forced her attention away from Charles. “He wants to schedule a strategy meeting about the Norris case for two o’clock today.”
“That’s fine with me, Jean.” Then, explaining to Charles, she added, “Andrew is Andrew Parker, the deputy DA.”
“I've heard of him. A brilliant litigator by all accounts.”
“He is,” she concurred.
“Oh, Brooke, I almost forgot,” Jean interjected. “I was working in your office while you were in court and answered a call on your direct line. It was your sister. She said she told them yes after all.”
“
Yes
?”
“That's what she said.” Jean waited a moment, but Brooke was lost in thought. Jean shrugged, cast a final appreciative glance at Charles, and withdrew.
“You have a sister.” Charles finally broke the silence that followed Jean's departure.
“Oh. Yes.” Brooke frowned slightly. More than a sister, Charles. A
twin
. It was important personal information she might have shared with him . . . except there was nothing personal between them. “Melanie. She's a model. Apparently she just agreed to sign with Drake Modeling Agency.”
“Agreed to? Did she actually consider turning them down?” Drake Modeling Agency handled only top models, only a few, only the very best.
“I thought she
would
turn them down,” Brooke murmured.
“No one says no to Adam Drake,” Charles said.
Charles knew Adam well. Drake models appeared frequently in all three of Sinclair Publishing's magazines. Because Drake models were the best. Just as the magazines—
Images
,
Fashion
, and
Spinnaker
—were the best. Charles Sinclair and Adam Drake were alike, handsome and powerful and wealthy. Both were accustomed to saying no. But neither was accustomed to hearing it.
“You don't know Melanie.” But Charles
will
know her, Brooke realized.
Melanie would make Charles’s spectacular magazines even more magnificent. Brooke could easily imagine the high-gloss photographs of Melanie in designer gowns and glittering jewels that would appear in
Fashion
. And the natural shots—Melanie's golden hair wind-tossed and her long tanned legs stretched over the varnished decks of a sleek sailboat—perfect for
Spinnaker
. And the romantic watercolors that visually enhanced the remarkable literature that filled the pages of
Images
.
Photographs of Melanie would appear in Charles’s magazines. And Melanie would dazzle and sparkle at the fabulous parties Brooke read about. Melanie would mingle—because she would belong—with the powerbrokers and celebrities of fashion and publishing and theater and art. People like Charles.
Melanie was Charles’s type. Melanie was like the beautiful women with whom Charles had affairs.
Except Melanie was more beautiful. And Melanie was
Melanie
. No one said no to Melanie.
“She wasn't sure she wanted to leave California,” Brooke continued, trying unsuccessfully to shake the inevitable image of Charles and Melanie together.
“Then why did she contact Drake?” Charles asked. He knew how irritated Adam Drake would be by a fickle model. It surprised Charles that Adam hadn't simply cancelled further negotiations at the first sign of hesitation.
“She didn't. They contacted her.”
“Oh.” Charles wondered if Adam had ever done that before. “Is she an older or younger sister?”
“Younger,” Brooke answered carefully. Another confession. “Twenty minutes younger. We are twins . . . too.”
“I didn't know that,” Charles replied distantly, frowning briefly. Then, smiling, he asked, “Are you identical?”
Brooke stared at him for a long bewildered moment. An aristocrat with impeccable manners would not ask such a question. It was worse than indifferent, worse than ice-cold. It was cruel.
He couldn't have asked that seriously, could he? No. And yet, he was greeting her obvious bewilderment with surprise and concern.
“No,” she answered at last. “We’re not identical.”
Of course we’re not
. “She's blonde, like Jason.” Charles’s golden twin.
“Oh.” Charles nodded. Then he glanced at his watch and added, “I had better be going.”
“Thanks for stopping by.” Why did you stop by? she wondered. Will you ever stop by again?
“Don't work too hard, Brooke.” Charles cast a parting glance at the stacks of work in her office, smiled at her and left.
Jean appeared in the doorway seconds later.
“That was Charles Sinclair.”
“I know that, Jean. I introduced you.”
“How do you know him, Brooke?”
“I don't really know him. I did some work for his company.”
“He just happened to be in the neighborhood?” Jean pressed. “He just happened to wander all the way from Park Avenue in this sweltering heat?”
“Charles wanders. He works out ideas for the magazines by pacing around Manhattan.”
“But you don't know him . . .”
“No,” Brooke repeated firmly. It was not information she had learned from Charles. John Perkins had told her. John described it as a restless prowling, like an animal, driven to search, compelled to keep moving.
“But Charles is the creative genius behind
Images
, isn't he? It’s his vision—his fantasy—isn't it?”
“I think Charles and Jason create
Images
together.” Brooke smiled. “You are going to make a good lawyer, Jean.”
“It’s hard to imagine
Images
as a joint effort. Especially between Charles and Jason Sinclair. They seem so different. Of course, they are twins. One mind, one heart. Or don't you buy that? You should know.”
Brooke shrugged, suddenly uneasy. There was a time when she and Melanie communicated in perfect, wordless harmony. There was a time when they knew, instinctively, the other's thoughts and dreams. But that was years and years ago. As they grew older, the differences became more important than the closeness.
“Well,” Jean continued quickly, sensing Brooke's discomfort, “end of cross-examination. I'll see you at two in Andrew's office.”
After Jean left, Brooke sat at her desk and tried to concentrate on the legal brief she was writing. But it was impossible. The memory of Charles’s surprising visit combined with the startling news that Melanie was moving to New York wouldn’t allow it.
Eventually, and with a sigh, Brooke permitted the swirling thoughts and emotions to surface. She had to face them. She had to face the facts.
Charles was a midday mirage. He would never be a part of her life. She would never really know him.
But Melanie would.
Melanie . . . who was moving to New York.
Fine. Brooke had her own identity now. She was happy with who she was. She was doing what she wanted to do. Melanie was not a threat. That was all ancient history.
Good, she told herself calmly, I can handle it.
Then the emotions took over.
Why was Melanie
really
making the move? She had everything in California. Wasn't it enough? Of course not. Having everything had never been enough for Melanie.
A continent away, Melanie grabbed her car keys and dashed out of her Westwood apartment into the warmth of the California sun.
She drove her light blue Mercedes Sports Coupe west along San Vicente Boulevard to the ocean. The traffic heading east toward the maze of freeways was heavy. Those drivers were going inland to smog and stagnation. She was going to the beach.
Melanie hummed to the music on the radio, her fingers tapping rhythmically to the beat, and smiled as the fresh ocean breeze tangled her long golden hair.
Will I miss this? she wondered. The California lifestyle with its easy sunny freedom and the year-round songs of summer was all she had ever known. The shimmering sunshine and limitless blue ocean still, always, filled her with joy. Her body was sleek and healthy and golden, and her spirit was light and free.
Melanie was like what Southern California used to be, before the crowds and smog and too fast pace—and the glitter that was false. Before all that there had been real glitter, the natural glitter of a golden sun smiling on the endless pristine seascape. Melanie flourished in Southern California. This was
her
lush green land,
her
vibrant exciting town,
her
sapphire-blue ocean,
her
snow-white beach. Life was easy. She was in control and unafraid.
What would it be like to live on the East Coast? Would she fit in? Would she feel comfortable? Brooke had moved to the East Coast right after high school and never returned. She had lived in Boston, attending Harvard University, for four years. Then she had moved to New York City for law school.
If Brooke can do it, so can I, Melanie told herself with bravado.
She knew it wasn't true.
She could not do what Brooke could do. Brooke earned her many successes through hard work. If Brooke put her bright, logical, disciplined mind to something—anything—she could achieve it.
Melanie's successes were handed to her. All she had to do was perform, to be exactly what everyone expected her be: dazzlingly beautiful, endlessly charming, relentlessly sexy, impeccably fashionable.