by Patricia Kay
She jumped up, avoiding his eyes. "It doesn't pay to get too relaxed, though. That leads to fat bodies and lazy minds! Come on." She grabbed at his hand. "Let's go throw that Frisbee."
The bad moment passed, but then, late in the day, after they were both sated with chicken and potato salad, and both were mellow from wine and sun and fresh air, Alex said, "Ronnie, have you ever been in love?"
They were both laying on the quilt, on their backs, looking up through the dark leaves at the filtered sunlight.
"Once."
"What happened?"
"Oh, we were both awfully young. He wanted to get married. I wanted to go to college. He was upset because he couldn't understand why. We broke up, and he joined the army. The last I heard he was stationed in Hawaii." Once, Tony's desertion had hurt, but now Ronnie felt as if she were telling the story about someone else. "He's probably married to some beautiful island girl by now."
"You don't sound unhappy about it," Alex said.
She turned her head to look at him. He was chewing on a blade of grass, and his sharp, clear profile looked like a dark paper cutout in the brilliant light.
"I'm not," she said. "It was a long time ago."
"How long does it take to get over someone you loved?"
Something in his voice told Ronnie this wasn't an idle question. She knew he was divorced. He'd mentioned it casually, once, but he'd never volunteered any other information, and she hadn't wanted to pry. "It took me about a year," she admitted. "Even then, I'd still think about him a lot, but it wasn't painful like it was at first."
"I think falling in love is not all it's cracked up to be. It takes too much emotional energy. Energy that would be better used someplace else."
He'd been hurt. Ronnie knew it. He didn't have to tell her. His words gave him away. Maybe he'd never admit it, but his ex-wife, or someone, had hurt him deeply, and he still wasn't over it. That should tell you something, Valentine. Don't kid yourself into thinking that he's going to fall in love with you, because he's telling you, in plain English, that he's not. He doesn't want that kind of relationship, that kind of commitment.
But she couldn't resist saying, "You must have been in love once, too. After all, you were married."
"I thought I was."
The words were clipped, and they didn't invite further comment. Still Ronnie pressed. "What happened?" He'd asked her, hadn't he?
"Nothing that doesn't happen a hundred times a day. I realized I'd mistaken good old-fashioned male hormones for something else." He rolled over and stood up in one graceful, economical motion. "I think we should start back, don't you?" All the way home Ronnie kept remembering the way Alex had refused to talk about his ex-wife. The only conclusion she could draw from that afternoon's conversation was that he was still in love with her. If it had really been a case of male hormones, or lust, or whatever name he wanted to call it, he wouldn't have minded talking about her. In fact, he would have laughed about it. People didn't have that hard, flat edge to their voices—they didn't avoid your eyes—when they were over something like that. That was it. Alex wouldn't, couldn't, talk about his ex-wife because what had happened still hurt him. And if it still hurt him, that meant he still loved her.
After the picnic, Ronnie tried to keep her feelings under control. She knew she was falling in love with Alex, but she tried to keep the knowledge buried, as if by keeping it repressed it wouldn't really be true. But sometimes, lying in her bed at night, she couldn't ignore the feelings any longer. It was times like those when she'd indulge herself and allow herself to dream. And the dream was always the same. She and Alex would become lovers.
Then some miracle would happen—something that would keep him in Juliette forever. But she knew this would never happen. No. What was far more likely was that Ronnie would be more in love with Alex than ever, and he'd still leave—taking her heart with him and leaving her nothing but memories.
But at least I'd have the memories, she argued with herself. Then she'd think: maybe he doesn't feel the same way I do. Maybe it was all her imagination— this tension—this hunger she sensed between them. This uncertainty about his feelings and her own fear of the future kept her from trying to change their relationship.
She told herself it would be too hard to see him leave if they became lovers—this way would be easier. But each day the awareness grew, the tension built, the electricity intensified, until Ronnie felt like a rubber band stretched almost to its limit, and she wondered how much longer she could stand the status quo. The rubber band was sure to snap; the only question remaining was, when?
One evening toward the end of July, as Ronnie climbed out of her car, she saw Sam walking toward her. The day was very hot, and Ronnie felt sweaty and dirty and tired. She couldn't wait to get upstairs and take a shower and have a cool drink, and she was anxious to see Alex. She knew he'd been working on Act III today, and she was excited to hear what he'd done. But Sam had a purposeful look on his round, flushed face, and Ronnie sighed inwardly. What now?
"Hi, Ronnie," he said. "I haven't seen much of you lately."
"Hi, Sam," she answered brightly. "I'm sorry. I've been really busy the past few weeks."
Sam's dark eyes slanted toward the carriage house. "I've noticed."
Ronnie tensed. "Yes, well..."she said.
"I ... I've missed you," Sam said, turning toward her. "I've missed our games."
Sam and she had played weekly gin rummy games for years. Ronnie felt a guilty twinge as she realized she hadn't visited Sam in over a month. And he'd been so good to her for so many years. It's a wonder he's still speaking to me, she thought. In a spurt of contrition, she said, "Why don't you come upstairs with me? I'll fix us a cool drink, and if you don't mind giving me a few minutes to take a shower, then we can talk."
Sam smiled his agreement, and Ronnie led the way to her apartment.
Twenty minutes later, feeling cool and refreshed after her shower and dressed in white shorts and a blue and white cotton shirt, Ronnie wriggled her bare feet and took a long swallow of her wine spritzer. "Ahhh," she said with a contented sigh, "that tastes good."
Sam leaned forward across the kitchen table and said, "Ronnie, there's something I've got to talk to you about."
"So talk."
"Promise you won't get mad."
Ronnie glanced up. Sam had his motherly look again. Ever since the death of her mother, Sam, who had always been more than a cousin, had seemed to think he had to fill that role. And Tom Valentine, Ronnie's father, had indulgently allowed Sam to do it. She sighed. "I promise I won't get mad," she said. Let's get it over with, whatever it is, she thought.
Sam wet his lips and twisted his hands together, both certain giveaways that the matter he was about to introduce made him nervous about Ronnie's reaction. Ronnie braced herself. Somehow she was sure Sam wanted to talk about Alex.
"I know it's probably none of my business..." he began. Ronnie smothered a smile.
"But," he continued, "I couldn't love you more if you were my own sister or daughter, Ronnie. You know that."
She did know it. That's why she put up with these periodic lectures.
"And I'm really concerned about the time you're spending with our neighbor."
"You mean Alex?" Ronnie asked innocently. Sam continued to twist his hands together. Suddenly feeling sorry for him, Ronnie said, "Quit wringing your hands, Sam. Relax. Just spit it out. I won't bite you or anything." She grinned, but Sam didn't smile.
"Ronnie, I know it's easy for a young girl like you to be dazzled by somebody like Alex Summerfield. He's handsome, rich, and successful, and he's paying a lot of attention to you. But, Ronnie, he's not your kind. He's going to use you while he's here, but at the end of August he's going to leave. And you'll probably never hear from him again."
"I know that, Sam," Ronnie said gently, touched by the quaver in his voice. She reached across the table and patted his hands. "We're just friends. There's nothing for you to worry about."
&nb
sp; "I wish I could believe that."
Ronnie smiled softly. "It's true. I realized from the very beginning that the only relationship Alex and I could ever have would be one of friendship, and that's exactly what it is—a friendship."
"Men like him won't be content to leave it that way," Sam said, a stubborn glint in his eye.
"You don't know Alex like I do."
"I know all I want to know."
"Sam, that's not fair. You're judging him on appearances. He's nothing like you imagine. He's sweet and warm and caring and sensitive."
"Huh!" Sam snorted. "He's got you snowed, hasn't he?"
Ronnie clenched her teeth. She'd put up with a lot from Sam, but enough was enough. "Okay. You've expressed your concern, and I appreciate it, but I'm twenty-nine years old, Sam. Old enough to pick my own friends and decide who I want to spend my time with."
"I'm sorry, Ronnie. I can't help it. I don't want to see you get hurt."
"I won't get hurt. I told you. My eyes are wide open."
"Why'd his wife desert him if he's so wonderful?"
"What?" Ronnie said in disbelief.
"There must be something wrong with him. They were only married a year when she left him," Sam mumbled.
"Who told you that?"
"I read it somewhere."
Sam was a devotee of the tabloid newspapers sold at the grocery store checkout counter, and this fact had in the past amused Ronnie. Now it didn't seem quite so funny. "Those articles you read are mostly garbage, and you know it," she said.
"Her name was Margo McKenna, and she's gorgeous. I saw a picture of her. She has red hair and brown eyes, and she looks like a movie star."
Ronnie didn't want to hear the rest, but like a child who watches a scary movie, she couldn't stop herself—or him. Alex had steadfastly refused to talk about his ex-wife. The only time he'd even mentioned her was that day by the river. Until this moment, Ronnie hadn't even known her name.
Sam was still talking. "And she left him and went to Europe, and no one knows what happened. She wouldn't talk about it, and he wouldn't talk about it." He took a breath. "There's something fishy about the whole thing."
Ronnie's patience snapped. She jumped up. "That's enough, Sam. I refuse to listen to another word. Alex is my friend, and I won't listen to this gossip."
"I knew you'd be mad." Sam stood, too. "I'm sorry if I've upset you, Ronnie, but I had to tell you. I just wish you'd think about what I said."
And Ronnie did think about it. Especially when, a few days later, she met Bernie Maxwell for the first time. When she came home from work that day, she saw a big blue Cadillac Seville parked in front of the carriage house.
Alex and she were supposed to go out for dinner that evening, and Ronnie hoped his company hadn't changed his plans. She thought about knocking on Alex's door before she went up to shower and change, then decided against it. Another hot day had left her feeling sticky and miserable, and she didn't want to meet anyone until she felt better. And looked better, she added.
At seven o'clock, dressed in a pale yellow sundress and matching yellow sandals, she walked over to Alex's and knocked. A few minutes later Alex opened the door.
The familiar tightening in his gut gripped Alex as he greeted Ronnie. Each day it became harder to resist her charm and appeal. She looked so fresh and pretty and delectable standing there in her sunny dress and lightly tanned shoulders and arms, with her hair shining in a just-washed look and her enormous eyes full of curiosity and happiness. Lately he'd begun to wonder why he even tried to keep their relationship from developing into a more intimate one. Lord knows, that's what he wanted, and he hoped that's what Ronnie wanted, too. His awareness of her grew stronger every day. She seemed to fill his thoughts even when she wasn't there physically, but the strange thing was, thinking of her didn't prevent him from writing. Just the opposite. His writing had never been better. All the reasons he'd had for not getting involved with Ronnie had seemed to evaporate, but still he held back. He knew now that his initial instinct about her was true. She wasn't a girl who would love lightly. Ronnie would give her all, and she would expect him to do the same.
But when she smiled up at him, as she did now, his heart did flip-flops, and he felt like a young kid, like anything was possible.
"Hi," he said softly, putting his arm around her shoulders and drawing her inside.
"Hi." There was an attractive pink flush on her cheeks, and she smelled like soap and roses and sunshine.
"How was your day?" he asked.
"Great," she said. "How was yours?"
"Terrific." He squeezed her shoulders, then dropped his hand. Touching her was dangerous, and the feel of her warm skin, firm and smooth, sent that charge of energy between them, crackling and vital and almost irresistible. "Guess what? Bernie's here."
"Your agent?"
"Um hum. Come on in. I want you to meet him."
Bernie Maxwell looked up as Alex and Ronnie entered the living room. Alex introduced them and watched as they appraised each other. He wondered what Bernie was thinking. The older man put his ever-present cigar into the ashtray Alex had found earlier and extended his tanned hand to Ronnie. His dark eyes gleamed.
"Nice to meetcha," he said. "Alex told me you live in the big house."
"Yes," Ronnie said. "Upstairs."
"Can't believe you're the sheriff of this burg. Too pretty and too young."
Ronnie smiled, and Alex chuckled. Bernie didn't have much finesse. When he thought something, he said it. "You'd better watch it, Bernie," he cautioned. "I almost blew my chances of being Ronnie's friend when I said something similar to that the first time I met her."
"Oh? You one of those women's libbers?" Bernie asked.
"No. Not really. But I do get sick of people thinking my appearance has something to do with my abilities."
By now the three of them were seated, and Alex pointed to his bottle of beer in a silent question to Ronnie.
"I'll just have my usual," she said.
Alex saw the faintly imperceptible lift of Bernie's eyebrows and the look he shot Alex's way. Alex wished he could say, "Don't worry, Bernie. Everything's under control." But he didn't. He got up and poured Ronnie a glass of white wine instead.
Throughout the evening Alex watched Bernie sizing up Ronnie. They went to the Fireside Inn, a pleasant steak house about halfway between Juliette and Lake George.
"So you're a cop," Bernie said after they'd given their order to the waiter.
Ronnie smiled. "Yes, I am. So you'd better behave yourself while you're on my turf."
Alex felt a surge of pride at how well she handled herself. Bernie could be intimidating. He was hard nosed, blunt to the point of rudeness, and he wasn't particularly worried about whether he hurt a person's feelings. Especially if he thought that person might be a threat to him or to one of his clients.
"So how'd you two meet?"
Alex fought to control his grin. Talk about obvious.
Ronnie chuckled. "Alex was speeding, and I stopped him and gave him a ticket."
"No kidding." Bernie removed a cigar from his lapel pocket. "Mind if I smoke this?"
Ronnie shook her head. "No."
"I'm surprised he's still speakin' to you," Bernie added.
Now Alex gave vent to his amusement. "She gave me a pretty hard time," he admitted.
Ronnie's eyes sparkled, and she laughed, too. "He was obnoxious when I stopped him."
"Oh, come on," Alex said. "I wasn't that bad."
"Yes, you were."
"Well," Bernie said, "it doesn't seem to have made a difference. The two of you seem to be pretty good friends."
Oh, oh, thought Alex. Here it comes.
But Ronnie didn't get flustered by Bernie's obvious probing.
"We are," she said simply, giving Alex a warm smile—a smile that slid over him like thick honey. She really looked beautiful tonight. She was good-looking enough to give any woman a run for her money. Alex would have been proud to
be seen with her anywhere.
The conversation remained casual while they ate their Caesar salads, a house specialty, and remained that way almost through the main course. Then, when Bernie had popped the last piece of his prime rib into his mouth and chewed lustily for a few minutes, he said, "How much work have you gotten done in the past eight weeks, Alex?"
"Act II is completely finished, and now I'm working on Act III."
"Havin' any problems with it?"
"Nothing I can't handle."
"I thought you'd of called me more often. I was getting worried."
Alex wouldn't have stood for that kind of questioning from many people, but Bernie had stood by him for a long time now, and Alex owed him something. So he counted to ten before answering. "No need to worry. Everything's going fine." Then before he thought, he said, "Ronnie's been helping me.”
"And he's right, Mr. Maxwell. His work is wonderful."
"The name's Bernie," Bernie said as he relit his cigar and leaned back in his chair. "You know somethin' about writing then?"
"No, but—"
"She's been a great help to me," Alex interjected smoothly. Damn Bernie. He'd put up with a lot from him, but Bernie had no right to question Ronnie. "She's got good sense when it comes to plotting. She's already given me two or three great suggestions."
"Izzat so?" Bernie signaled for the waiter. "I'd like some coffee, and put a slug of brandy in it."
The waiter nodded. "Coffee for you, ma'am? You, sir? How about dessert? We make a really good German chocolate cake."
Alex and Ronnie gave him their orders, and the waiter left. By the time their dessert and coffee came, Alex managed to change the subject, and for the rest of the evening, Bernie regaled them with stories about the latest disasters on Broadway.
When they reached the house, Alex invited Ronnie in for a drink.
"No, I don't think so. Not tonight. You and Bernie probably have a lot to talk about, and you haven't had any time alone," she said.
He didn't push, because he knew Bernie was planning to go back to the city the next day, and they did have a lot to discuss. He took her hand and squeezed it. "See you tomorrow?"
