The Seduction - Art Bourgeau (18 page)

Felix stiffened. "Meaning, I suppose, when I
went to prison."

She waited, realizing that she'd already gone too far
perhaps.

"I think you can get all you need there from the
writeup in the
Times-Picayune
. . . Look, let's skip the coffee and dessert and get out of here."

"To where?"

"To a far far better place . . . forgive the
feeble try at lightness, but I do think things are getting a little
heavy here. We've done business, now I propose a nightcap . . ."

Should she go along? She knew what he probably had in
mind, and truth to tell she was tempted. Very. She liked this man. He
had sides to him, was intelligent and in spite of his one fall seemed
honorable and decent. He also treated her the way few women were
treated anymore these days. Nothing special, just good manners and
reasonable attention to what she had to say. Plus he genuinely was
easy on the eyes. Still . . . there was a risk that she'd never been
able to be easy with, not since that damned operation . . .

"Well, shall we go? You look like you've gone
off into some other time zone," he said. "Am I boring you?"

"What? Oh, no . . . Well, all right, but just
for one and then I really have to get back home and get some sleep .
. ." Weak, Laura, weak all around—'just for one." and "I
really have to get some sleep". . . God, after all the practice
you've had you ought to be able to do better than that. He didn't
seem to react, though, as he took her arm and proceeded to walk her
the two blocks to the Excelsior, Rittenhouse Square's newest and most
posh high-rise.

Along the way he opened up even more, and without any
prodding. "You know, I always wanted to make a project of
Angola. I could really do something there."

"Angola?"

"Sorry, I dont' mean the third world country. I
mean the Louisiana State Prison. I had an on-the-scene chance to
observe, as you know."

She looked at him, surprised that he was voluntarily
talking about the prison thing. "Maybe you ought to try to do it
right here, I mean with the Fairmount Prison."

"I don't think so. It doesn't have the same fond
memories for me."

She appreciated that he was trying to keep it light
for both their sakes, probably hers more than his, but she decided to
pursue it, for herself as much as for the article . . . "Felix,
why did your ex-partner change his story while he was in prison and
exonerate you?"

"Who knows for sure . . . but he chalks it up to
religion, to seeing the light. From Watergate to White House
officials to a New Orleans real estate operator . . . born-again
seems a common phenomenon. I'm not going to challenge it or
necessarily believe in it. I'm just glad he did tell the truth and it
sprung me, as they say."

"No grudges against him?"

"At first, you bet. But no more, or at least I
don't let it overwhelm me like I once did. The trick is to keep
going, not to waste time or energy on the past."

There was something endearing in the way he talked
straight out, no dissembling or excuses. On the other hand, how long
did she know him? People had been known to put on an act before . . .
There you go again, she thought to herself as they entered the lobby
and took the elevator to his apartment. Take Felix's advice and put
the past behind. Sure, do it. Well, for God's sake at least try. This
was, so far, a man worth taking a chance with. And what makes you so
damn precious? Ease up and enjoy it. The evening is going well;
you've managed to combine business and pleasure. So far . . .

His apartment, high-tech and located on the
twenty-first floor, had a wonderful view of the Square, but seemed
too moderne to be cozy or even very livable. She was relieved to know
it was a sublet from some woman Justin had put him on to at Lagniappe
who was in Europe for several months, and to know that it wasn't
necessarily to his tastes either.

He made drinks, and when he brought them she was
still at the window looking down at the square. "It's quite a
view," she said.

"Yes, it is."Come on, Laura, you can do
better than this. It's beginning to sound like an old Dorothy Parker
story . . . He: Well, here we are . . . She: Yes, here we are . . .
and so forth.

She let herself feel his closeness, even though they
weren't touching. There was a tingling sensation, a brief chill, and
she crossed her arms, for a change not to protect herself from her
feelings but to hold onto this special sense of closeness for as long
as possible, to keep it from slipping away.

And just as it was about to fade, when they were in
danger of losing it, he touched her and she turned to him. They came
into each other's arms and held each other, at first just standing
there, their bodies touching, and then, without coaxing or question,
she raised her face to be kissed, and the darkness of his shadow
crossed her face as he lowered his lips to hers. Whiskers and
mustache, strange lips and whiskey added to the swirl of her
emotions.

And then reality, her reality, abruptly stopped her
from what she wanted most. To go on would mean the old nightmare she
still couldn't cope with. The further they went, the closer he would
be to discovering her secret. And when he found it out, even with a
man like Felix, there would be the same look of pity that had been on
Phil's face when he, too had touched her . . . She pushed him away,
not looking at him, not seeing the surprised look on his face.

Her breath was ragged. "I can't. I'm sorry, I
want to, but I just can't . . ."

And she had gathered up her things from the sofa and
was out the door, never once daring to look at him.
 
 

CHAPTER 16

MISSY HAD had enough. Only moments earlier she had
learned that her credit had run out at Le Club, the exclusive Olde
City health club on Arch near Second. And it was not just the bounced
checks. No, it was because the word was out—her father had left her
nothing. She no longer was the right sort, no longer had the right
stuff . . . a matter of genes and an inadequate inheritance. Nothing
for it but to call in a major chit. She drove down Second Street to
Walnut and circled the block to reach Chestnut, where she parked at a
meter in front of the Philly Fish Company, then walked up Chestnut
Street toward Third and entered a loft building near the corner. She
rang for the elevator, tapping her foot impatiently while she waited
for it to arrive.

Long ago the five-story building had served the
garment industry, and the elevator was a serviceable but
old-fashioned freight elevator. When it at last arrived Missy pulled
down and pushed up the heavy doors that opened horizontally rather
than vertically as on passenger elevators. Once on board she closed
them, pulled down the picket-fence safety gate and pressed the button
for the fifth floor. When she got there she repeated the laborious
process with the doors, this time not bothering to close them when
she exited the old elevator.

The front part of the floor, the studio of Klaus
Knopfler the sculptor, was filled with half-finished statues in
stone, wood or welded metal, along with enough tools to stock an auto
repair shop.

She moved past the sculptures without seeing any of
them and began to pound on a plain door set in what looked like a
temporary wall dividing the floor into halves, the rear half being
the loft that served as Carl Laredo's living quarters. She could have
used her key, but after the way Carl had behaved at Lagniappe, and
with that Laura, he could damn well wake up with a bang . . .
although not the sort of bang he'd prefer. That would come later,
depending on his being a good boy . . .

After a few minutes a grumpy Carl, still half-asleep
and wearing nothing but a maroon satin-and-brocade robe, opened the
door. Clearly, she thought, he would have preferred to see someone
else. Laura, no doubt.

Without being invited, she moved in past him and
proceeded to the kitchen area, where she sat down at the large round
table, lit a cigarette, settled back in her chair and looked at Carl,
who was still standing.

"I finished my workout early this morning,
thought I'd have breakfast with you before the lab. How about some
coffee?"

"Sure . . . Look, about that night at Lagniappe
and Laura, well, there's nothing between us. We were just friends out
celebrating . . ."

Missy smiled. "Yes, how is Laura? Have you seen
her recently?"

Measuring coffee into the filter, he said, "Actually
I have—yesterday at lunch. She was having lunch with Cynthia
Ducroit at the Reading Terminal Market, I happened to be there and
Cynthia invited me to join them."

Missy's interest perked up at the mention of two of
the women she despised most in Philadelphia being so chummy.

"And Laura? Did she invite you, too?"

"No, she was interviewing Cynthia for an article
on Felix."

Getting better and better. "The coffee's ready,
Carl." When he brought it she patted the place next to her at
the table and asked him to tell all about his lunch with the ladies.
"You know how fascinated I am when girls get together to dish
someone . . .Did they mention me?"

"Yes, or at least Cynthia did."

"Why was that?"

"Jealousy, what else? I suspect Cynthia wants to
get back together with Felix, only you seem to be in the way."

Missy took a drag on her cigarette. "Does she
really think she can get Felix back?" she said, looking at him
over the rim of her cup as she took a sip.

"I don't think she knows but I'm pretty sure
she's going to try." Seeing her obvious discomfort at that piece
of intelligence, Carl was secretly pleased. Missy deserved a little
back, always so demanding, making him feel less than he was, so
dependent on her when it was his art and talent that really opened
the way for him. All his life, though, if he were to be honest with
himself, it had been that way . . . domineering, controlling older
women, or women who acted as though he were something to be
manipulated. Beginning with his darling sister, six years older, who
always lorded it over him, beat him up even, whenever she caught him
doing something no more venal than sneaking a cigarette in the
bathroom or behind the shrubbery that surrounded their house. One
time she'd gotten so mad at him she'd knocked him unconscious with
her hairbrush, and just for looking, for God's sake, at her and some
of her girl friends in a girls-only session in her bedroom. He was
only ten at the time; you'd have thought he was some kind of
most-wanted criminal. He never forgot that beating, and when she died
a couple of years ago, he had to admit the tears wouldn't come, even
though he tried to fake them for the sake of family and friends . . .

"Well, Carl, wherever you just went, come on
back. Now tell me how the ex-Mrs. Ducroit thinks she's going to get
Felix back."

"Probably by giving him what he wanted when they
were married."

"And that is . . . ?" Although she knew the
answer too well. "A baby."

She forced herself to sound calm. "What makes
you think that?"

Warming to it now, Carl gave a full exposition of the
lunch with Cynthia and Laura, told how Cynthia had admitted her
career-oriented head at the time wouldn't allow for children but that
she felt different now and if she got another chance she wouldn't
make the same mistake twice.

Missy felt her throat tightening, could hardly
breathe. And there was the flare-up of the pain around that scar,
that twelve-year-old scar . . . Since the last attack at the opera
with Felix, brought on by the same thing, the talk about pregnancy,
she had done her best to keep even the notion of that unwanted state
out of her mind. She had also bought a simple gold tie-clip and sent
it to Felix with a note of apology and the inscription, "Please
forgive this impetuous lady. Until next time . . . But now, with Carl
confirming what she had worried about herself, she knew she would
have to go into action, give up the demure and passive Miss Missy to
get Felix. The little lady Cynthia with her cutsie La Charcuterie on
Pine Street was going to be sorry she ever showed up in this town.
The grand opening of her store was one thing . . . the grand opening
of her legs to win back the prodigal ex was too much . . .

She took a deep breath and reminded herself of the
reason she'd come to see Carl this morning. "Carl," she
said, moving close to him, putting her hand on his thigh, "believe
it or not, I've missed you. Sure, I was annoyed that evening at
Lagniappe, but friends should stick together, right? We have so much
in common, we've shared such pleasure . . ." And now her hand
had moved upward, massaging him, squeezing, causing pain and then
releasing him for pleasure . . . a cycle that she knew he couldn't
stand and couldn't resist.

"Missy, for God's sake, stop it. It's too early
for that sort of thing. I've got to go to work, lots to do before the
opening in New York—"

Which earned him a most painful tightening around his
scrotum. "I'm glad you mentioned the move to New York, Carl. I
want to be able to be with you, share some of it with you. I assure
you Laura isn't the only one who knows people in that art world.
We'll have such fun sharing things, like before, and I won't even
interfere with your little teenie-boppers. After all, a man needs
variety, I understand all that . . . but, Carl, for me to be with
you, to help you, I'm going to need your help." All the while
her hand being busy, busy, busy.