Touchstone

by Sharon Sala

  He looked embarrassed. “You’re welcome,” he muttered. “Now run along. Oh, I’m sorry, but I’ll need the uniform and shoes tonight.”

  She nodded. “I’ll go change and bring them right back.”

  “Just put them in my office,” he said.

  “I will.”

  “Good night, then,” he said, and then surprised both himself and her by adding, “I’m sure you’ll feel better after a good night’s rest.”

  Grateful for the reprieve, she left. The moment she got into her apartment, she wanted to run to the phone and call Houston, just to hear the sound of his voice. But as she reached for the phone she remembered the last conversation they’d had, then closed her eyes, thinking of the pain in his voice and then the anger with which their conversation had ended.

  Her shoulders slumped as she turned away. She couldn’t call Houston—ever again.

  She began to undress. The last thing she did was to take down her hair. When the pins came out and the heavy length of it fell across her shoulders, she sighed with relief. As badly as she hated to get dressed again, she still had to return the uniform. The old clothes she’d had on earlier would suffice. She reached for her jeans. A short while later she was on her way back downstairs.

  The kitchen was almost empty. Everyone, including the staff, seemed to be caught up in the revelry going on outside the big swinging doors. It was easy to slip into Joe’s office and just as simple to slip out. Her mind was on a hot, soaking bath and the fact that tomorrow was her day off, when an elegantly dressed woman suddenly burst through the doors into the kitchen. Her hair was awry and she was holding her shoes in one hand and a handful of her skirt in the other. A little embarrassed at being caught in her old, faded clothes, Rachel smiled self-consciously, then turned to walk away when the woman suddenly called out.

  “Wait! Don’t go!”

  Rachel stopped. “Yes, ma’am. Is there something I can do for you?”

  Maris Binder was staring and she knew it, but so help her God, she just couldn’t stop. The change in hairstyle had almost fooled her, but when the young woman had started to walk away, she’d known it was her. Those long, long legs, that elegant, slender body . . . it was all she could do not to scream for joy. Jules Farrier was going to kiss the ground that she walked on, or she’d know the reason why.

  “What’s your name?” Maris asked.

  Rachel saw no reason not to answer, although she thought the woman’s behavior quite odd.

  “Rachel Austin.”

  “Who represents you?”

  Rachel frowned. “I’m sorry?”

  Maris couldn’t stand it any longer. She had to get closer, to see for herself if that skin was as smooth as it looked and if those large, slanted eyes were really that green.

  “Your agent. Who’s your agent?”

  Rachel grinned. “I’m sorry, but I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

  Maris paused. “Who do you work for?”

  “Oh,” Rachel said, suddenly understanding the question. “I work for Mr. Feldman.”

  Maris frowned. “Feldman . . . Feldman . . . who’s he with?”

  Rachel was beginning to think the woman had had too much to drink. She wasn’t making a lot of sense.

  “He manages this restaurant. You know—the one you’re in now. The Crystal Room.”

  Maris’s eyes rounded. “You work for Maury Feldman? Doing what?”

  “Waiting tables, ma’am.” And then she added, “Would you like me to call you a cab?”

  Maris laughed. “You think I’m drunk!” She dropped her shoes and grabbed Rachel by the arms. “Lord, maybe I am!” She began bouncing up and down like a child with a new toy. “Has anyone ever told you how stunning you are?”

  “Yes.”

  It was the lack of artifice in Rachel’s voice that sold Maris completely. “Of course they have,” Maris chattered. “And you’d have to be blind not to see it yourself. Have you ever modeled?”

  Rachel began to tense. “No, ma’am. I haven’t had much luck in that department. It takes a lot of money for pictures and portfolios, and I’m still working toward that.”

  Maris barely heard what Rachel was saying. She was already planning her presentation to Jules Farrier.

  “Everything is closed tomorrow,” Maris said. “But I want you in my office first thing the day after. We’ll set up a photo shoot. I want to see if the camera loves you as much as I do.”

  Rachel took a couple of steps backward. “Look, lady, I don’t know what you’re playing at, but in spite of my drawl, I’m not stupid.”

  Maris sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m doing this all wrong. My name is Maris Binder. I’m an ad executive with Bartalow and Sons. We’re hosting the party tonight. Please. Please, you have to let my photographer shoot you. If you’re interested in modeling, this could be your break.” Then she laughed. “And if you’re not interested in modeling, I don’t want to hear about it, because I am going to make your face as famous as that crazy clown and those goddamned golden arches.”

  Five

  “So where’s Wonder Woman?” Andrew snapped.

  Maris glanced nervously at her watch. It was five minutes after nine. “She’ll be here.”

  Andrew got up from his chair and walked to the windows overlooking downtown Manhattan. It had taken his father years to build Bartalow and Sons into the prestigious agency it was today. But his father’s problems had been nothing compared to what Andrew coped with on a daily basis. Fads and fashions changed as rapidly as the newspaper headlines. The race to one-up the competition was ongoing, and landing the Farrier account had been a major coup for them. However, both he and Maris knew how much was riding on keeping it. All he could do was hope that Maris was on target about this new find of hers.

  Then his secretary buzzed him. He walked to his desk and picked up the phone.

  “Yes?” His eyes narrowed as he glanced at Maris. “Send her in.”

  Maris’s shoulders sagged visibly. It was obvious that she, too, had been sweating the woman’s arrival. Andrew grinned at her, then turned his full attention to the door. He’d been in this business long enough to know that first impressions were usually the best. But when the door opened, even Andrew was not prepared for the woman who walked through.

  His practiced eye saw the scene as a series of swift images seen through the eye of a photographer’s camera in the process of a shoot.

  Black hair, bone straight.

  Flash.

  A long length of leg encased in denim so old it was almost white.

  Flash.

  A white shirt with the tail out and the three top buttons undone.

  Flash.

  And then he focused on her face and forgot to breathe. For a man accustomed to pretty women, it was hard to describe what he was thinking. Beautiful was not a strong enough word. She was pagan and puritan all at the same time, and he had the most compelling urge to see her naked, just to know if that smooth brown skin was the same all over.

  “My God.”

  He didn’t know that he’d spoken aloud until he heard Maris say, “I told you so.”

  He grunted, then took a deep breath, trying to remember the social graces.

  “Miss Austin, I’m Andrew Bartalow. Please have a seat.”

  Unconsciously Rachel tilted her chin. Last night had been hell. Torn between loneliness for Houston and the excitement of a possible modeling job, she moved toward the chair in a daze. She’d traded shifts with one of the other waitresses just to get this time off and hadn’t told a soul why. All the way here she’d been halfway expecting to be turned away at the front desk. She was too accustomed to disappointments to count on anything, especially a stranger’s word. So she sat without speaking, waiting for one of them to make the first move.

  Maris was all but dancing with excitement. “What did I tell you?” she crowed. “Was I right, or was I right?”

  A tight smile broke the seriousness of Andrew Bartalow’s face. �
��Maris, sit down before you self-destruct.”

  His gruff manner startled Rachel, and she gave him a nervous glance. Was he angry, or was that just his way?

  Andrew circled his desk and then came to sit on the edge, directly in front of Rachel’s chair. He folded his arms, studying her face as one might a great piece of art. When he finally spoke, it was as if Rachel were an inanimate object.

  “Her bone structure is amazing,” he said to Maris. “And that fabulous slant to those clear green eyes. What’s her ethnicity? Latin? Italian?”

  Rachel stared in disbelief. All her life she’d been ignored or looked down upon, and by God, she hadn’t given up the last thing she held dear just to have that same experience repeated. She leaned back in the chair and crossed her legs, giving both of them a cool look of disdain.

  “I know this might seem a bit outrageous to you people,” Rachel drawled. “But if you want a real quick answer to those questions, why don’t you try asking me?”

  Andrew looked taken aback.

  Maris grinned. “So she does have a tongue.”

  Rachel’s expression never changed. “Manners, too, although they may be a bit out of place here.”

  She suddenly stood, and Andrew Bartalow found himself looking up to meet her gaze. He stood as well and found himself still an inch or two lacking in height.

  “I’m sorry if we offended you, Miss Austin. It’s just that we’re so used to discussing projects in this manner that I didn’t take into consideration the fact that we were looking at the real thing, rather than a photo.”

  “I’m not a thing, Mr. Bartalow, I’m a person. One, I might add, who came here at your request. Pardon my Texas drawl, but if y’all are willing to start over, so am I.”

  Maris giggled. “ ‘Y’all’? Isn’t that great, Andrew? ‘Y’all.’ ”

  Rachel gritted her teeth and started to turn.

  Instinctively Andrew reached for her arm. To his surprise, it was like gripping a piece of satin-covered steel. So she was strong in body as well as spirit. He liked that. In fact, he liked everything about her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said abruptly, and it was obvious to Rachel that apologizing was not part of his nature. “Now please, Miss Austin, have a seat.”

  Rachel sat. “As for answering your question, as they say in my part of the world, I’m a half-breed. My father was white. My mother was Cherokee.”

  Maris clapped her hands. “Ooh, Native American. That’s very in fashion.”

  And what happens, I wonder, when I go out of style? But Rachel didn’t voice her question. She’d come to this crazy rodeo. Now, as her daddy used to say, it was time to ride.

  But Andrew was already through with conversation. “Miss Austin—Rachel—we’d like to take some pictures of you.”

  Rachel’s heart skipped a beat. Just like that. As green as she was about this business, she knew she’d just been offered a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

  “Fine with me. When?”

  “Now.” He waved to Maris. “Miss Binder will be with you all the way.” Then he glanced at Maris. “I want those pictures on my desk before the day is out.”

  “Yes, of course,” Maris said. Then she motioned for Rachel to follow. “Come with me, Rachel.” Her smile was wide as they started out the door. “When you were little, did you like to play dress-up?”

  Rachel didn’t bother to answer. She’d already figured out that neither one of these people was interested in anything she had to say, only in how she looked. And then she sighed, reminding herself that this was why she’d come.

  Three days later, and halfway across the world, Jules Farrier opened the FedEx package from Bartalow and Sons with trepidation. The package had come the day before, as he’d been leaving, and he had forgotten about it until he’d seen it just now. When the stack of eight-by-ten glossies fell out on his desk, he began to shuffle through them, his eyes widening in disbelief.

  “By damn, they’ve done it,” he muttered, then started to grin. Well aware that it was almost midnight in New York City, he dialed Maris Binder’s home number.

  She answered on the second ring, and he could hear music and laughter going on in the background.

  “Don’t you people ever sleep?” he growled.

  Maris recognized the voice. She’d been waiting for this call.

  “You got the pictures, I take it?”

  Jules glanced back at the one on top. The woman was wearing a long, low-cut knit dress that molded to every curve of her body. The sides were slit all the way to her thighs, and the lack of sleeves and collar revealed even more bare skin. Her hair was billowing off her shoulders and away from her face and she was looking straight into the camera with a proud, defiant stare. Even in black and white, she was absolutely magnificent.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Rachel Austin. Isn’t she fabulous? She’s half Cherokee Indian.”

  He ran a finger down the front of the picture, as if he could feel the tautness of her body beneath the dress.

  “Sign her.”

  “It’s already done. In fact, she’s here at my apartment, along with some of the crew from the office.”

  “Let me talk to her.”

  Maris hesitated, then relented. “Sure, why not? But don’t overwhelm her, Jules. She’s not like the women you’re used to.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong with her? What do you mean?”

  Maris chuckled. “All I’m saying is, she put Andrew in his place within two minutes of their meeting. And even though I think she wanted this job pretty badly, she would have walked rather than take his cavalier treatment.”

  Jules stared down at the picture. So she’s as passionate as she is beautiful. Good. “I will be on my best behavior,” he said. “Now be a dear and put her on.”

  Maris turned to her guests. “Harold, turn loose of Rachel’s arm. Mr. Farrier wants to speak with her.”

  Rachel had been ambivalent about attending Maris Binder ’s party but hadn’t been able to come up with a good enough reason to say no. Still uncomfortable with the abruptness of the people in this city, she found herself constantly struggling to fit in. And while she was heartily glad to be rid of Harold Chun’s attentions, she didn’t know what to say to the man who would be in charge of her future. Maris spoke of him in hushed tones, as if he were some god.

  “Come on, dear,” Maris urged, holding out the receiver. “Mr. Farrier just wants to say hello.”

  The distance from Harold to the phone seemed endless as Rachel walked across the room. She took the receiver out of Maris’s hand.

  “This is Rachel Austin.”

  Jules shuddered. Her voice was hot whiskey laced with wild honey; low and slow, with a recognizable Texas drawl.

  “Jules Farrier here,” he said briskly, trying to regain control of himself and the conversation. “I’m quite pleased with your pictures, Miss Austin.”

  “Please call me Rachel.”

  Her words raked across his mind like pure silk against bare skin. Jules closed his eyes and swallowed a groan, then reached behind himself for a chair and slowly sank into its depths. When he opened his eyes, his hands were shaking.

  “Rachel it is. I’ll be back in the city within a few days. We’ll have dinner.”

  The fact that he didn’t ask, but simply stated, was not lost on Rachel. Then she reminded herself that she would be working for this man.

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  Jules splayed his hand across the flat of the picture, then leaned back in his chair. “Call me Jules. Now put Maris back on the phone.”

  Rachel handed Maris the phone. “He wants to talk to you.”

  “Yes?” Maris said.

  “I’ll be there in three days . . . no, make that two. This is January. I want her face on a billboard in Times Square by the first of March. I’m launching the new perfume during the Easter holidays.”

  Maris gasped. “That’s impossible. There’s not enough time between now and th
en to work up the strategies, let alone book the space!”

  Jules kept staring at the face in the picture and knew that he would take this woman to bed or die trying.

  “Jules, are you there?”

  Maris’s voice yanked him out of his musings. “Yes, I’m here. Just do as I say. I’ll see you in two days. Good night.”

  The line went dead in Maris’s ear. She hung up the phone, then picked up her glass of wine and lifted it to the group.

  “It’s a go!”

  A loud cheer erupted. They all knew the pressure Maris had been under.

  “Now all we have to do is perform a small miracle.” She looked at Rachel and grinned. “But since we already have Farrier’s Virgin Mary, another miracle shouldn’t be all that hard to come up with.”

  Spring came slow to west Texas. Even though it was the first of April, the wind held a bite and the nights were still bitter. Winter had been hard for Houston, both personally and financially. But in a way, losing Rachel had softened the hardship of no money. After her, there was nothing left to hurt him.

  Sundays, his only full day off, were always hardest. And even though so much time had passed, he still caught himself reaching for the phone to call her. Sometimes it made him angry, but of late he’d laughed at himself for the gesture. He supposed he was moving on. He wanted to hate her, but the emotion was as foreign as taking his own life.

  On this particular Sunday he felt edgy. If he’d been ten years younger, he would have solved the problem by getting drunk and starting a fight. But he wasn’t in the mood to spend money he didn’t have getting drunk, and then more money to bail himself out of jail for the fight that was bound to ensue. So he’d settled for an extra pot of coffee and thawing out a steak for dinner that night.

  Just as he was finishing the breakfast dishes, Taco began to bark. He tossed the dish towel aside and strode to the window. When he saw the low-slung red car pulling up to the house, he started to grin. It was Kenny Monday.

  After spending last Christmas with each other out of necessity, their relationship had blossomed to that of real friends. Houston stepped out on the porch as Kenny got out of the car.