I understand that he made an effort to lower his voice but Tygue doesn't. I just can't believe you'd go to New York now.
I didn't say I would.
No, but you will.
How the hell do you know? She wanted to throw her coffee at him, as he sat there glaring at her, angry and self-righteous. She hated him.
I know you'll go because you've already been suckered into that whole horseshit game of success. The shows, the interviews, the money, the best sellers, all of it. I can see it happening to you, Kate. And I'll tell you something, I'm goddamn sorry I had anything to do with it. I'm sorry they put you on the show.
What does that have to do with it? Look at the money I've made in the last four months. It comes to over a quarter of a million dollars. Me, I made that, all by myself, with one lousy book, with or without your lousy show. Tygue will go to college because of that, he'll go to a good school before college. He'll have everything he needs.
Except his mother.
Fuck you.
You know something? I don't give a damn what you do. I just don't want to have to sit here and watch when you tell him you're going to New York.
Then don't. I'll tell him while you're out.
You're going, aren't you? He pushed and he pushed and he pushed '
Yes! It was a long angry wail that seemed to fill the whole house. They were both startled, mostly Kate. She hadn't even been sure she was going. At least, she liked to think that. Actually she had known all along. As soon as Weinberg had told her how important it was for her next book. She wanted that one to do even better than the first. It told her a cold hard empty thing about herself as she sat in the kitchen alone, after Nick had quietly left the room. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was starting to happen to her. The success trip. But not at Tygue's expense ' no ' not Tygue.
She tried to explain it all to him that afternoon, but Tygue didn't want to talk. She tried to make him understand about Tom, about the books, about her work, about what had happened to Tom, about ' but he was only seven. He didn't understand very much. And all he could think about was his father. She gave him an album of Tom's old clippings from the golden years of success. Tygue left to devour those in his room. And Kate called Tillie.
Tillie would come to stay in the guest room for the week she was gone. It would ease the burden on Nick, whom Kate barely saw before she left. He came home late both nights, when she was already asleep. And he was out all day. She tried to explain what she felt to Felicia, but she was unsympathetic too. No one understood. Even Tillie seemed cool when she arrived, but perhaps she was only intimidated by the city. Kate was grateful she had come. And Tygue seemed thrilled to see her. In fact, Kate felt suddenly shut out: Tygue was happier to see Tillie than he was to be with her.
Want me to take you to the airport? Nick looked at her coolly.
I can grab a cab. I want to leave Tillie my car here at the house. But it's no big deal.
Don't be a martyr. I'll drive you.
I couldn't stand the speeches. There was a chill between them that had never been there before, and it terrified her, but she wouldn't let that show.
I've made all the speeches I'm going to make. Except for one. You look tired, Kate. Try not to overdo it in New York.
It's been a rough couple of days. For everyone. She looked over at him and something softened in his eyes.
Just don't forget that I love you, Cinderella. It was the first time she had seen him soften like that in several days. What time's your plane? He smiled a slow smile and she told him what time she had to leave. They both looked at each other with regret. Damn. She slipped into her dress. He zipped her up instead of down, and five minutes later they left. It was a quiet trip out to the airport and she was sorry they hadn't had time to make love. It would have done them both good. A reminder of what they had. A peaceful bond before being cannonballed into the madness of New York. But when he kissed her, she knew how much he cared. She waved to him as she boarded the plane, and felt as though she had never been as lonely in her life. She drank a great deal too much wine before reaching New York, but it took the edge off her loneliness, and she slept the last two hours. It was a hell of a way to get to New York. Tired and rumpled and hungover. A honeymoon this wasn't. It was for real. And she was alone in the big city. She knew it as she stood on the sidewalk fighting for a cab. The limo they'd sent for her hadn't shown up, and she couldn't find one of her bags. It was a perfect beginning. But things got better after that.
In desperation, she shared a cab into the city with a very nice-looking, well-dressed man, an architect from Chicago, somewhere in his late forties. And he was staying at the Regency too.
How convenient. Do you always stay there? He made no effort to discover her name, and made pleasant conversation all the way into the city. She looked over at him casually. His hair was gray, his face well-chiseled and fine-featured but worn. His body looked taut and young though. He was attractive, but in a very quiet way. He looked nothing like the healthy, athletic men of California. He looked cosmopolitan and a little pale, but interestingly so.
I stayed there the last time I was in town.
I manage to get here about once a month. He glanced at her casually and smiled. They chatted about the buildings, the view, San Francisco, and inadvertently she let slip that she was a writer.
What a marvelous profession. You must love it He looked at her with frank envy and she laughed. He made it sound even better than it was.
I enjoy it a lot. And then, somehow, he drew her out and she found herself telling him about her next book.
You know, it has a feeling, not a similar plot pattern, but just a family resemblance in terms of mood, to a marvelous book I just read, A Final Season. She began to laugh.
Have you read it too? He looked amused as she grinned.
What the hell? Why not admit it to him? Well, not recently. But I wrote it. It took a moment to register and then he looked at her in amazement.
Did you? But it's a wonderful book! He looked stunned.
Then I'll send you a copy of the next one! She said it teasingly but he immediately whipped out his card and handed it to her with a smile. I'll expect you to keep that promise, Miss Harper. And now he knew her name. She put the card away just as they reached the hotel.
Chapter 31
It was a far cry from her trip to New York with Nick. Gone were the limousines, the hansom cab rides, the secret adventures, the lunches at Lut+?ce and dinners at Caravelle. And gone the buffer of his loving. This time she was confronted with New York in all its bold brassy reality, pushing, shoving, fighting for cabs, fighting stiff winds as newspapers and litter swirled around her feet. And the bookings her publisher had made were almost inhuman. She had three radio shows to do the first day, no time for lunch, and at four that afternoon she taped a television talk show, where the host had paired her with a sportswriter who was openly condescending. She was numb with exhaustion and anger when she reached the hotel at six, and it was the wrong time to call Nick or Tygue. Nick would be setting up the show, and Tygue would still be in school. She called room service and asked for a glass of white wine, and then sat back quietly to wait until she could call Nick. Even the room was less pretty this time. It was more elaborate, in white and gold, but smaller and colder, and the bed looked sad and empty. She smiled as she remembered the love-making of their last trip.
She sat back on the couch with her glass of wine and tucked her long legs under her. She was three thousand miles from home, alone in a strange hotel, and she couldn't talk to anyone she knew. She felt unloved and suddenly frightened, and she desperately wanted to go home. This was it. The wild fabulous high rise of fame. But it was a lonely, empty building and no one else seemed to live there. She longed to be back in the house hidden in the hedges on Green Street. If he even wanted her back. Maybe it was almost over. It felt as though they had just begun, and she and Tygue had only just moved to San Francisco the month before, but maybe it would all be too much for Nick. Maybe
her career would be too great a conflict for him, with his own work, or maybe he just couldn't accept her. Kate started to call room service for a second glass of wine, and then with a frown she put down the phone. This was ridiculous. She was in New York. She was a star. She grinned to herself at the word. All right, so she wasn't a star, but she was successful. She could go anywhere she liked for dinner. She didn't have to sit in her room. It was absurd. She reached into her handbag and pulled out the sheet of paper where she'd written a list of restaurants Felicia had given her. The first on the list was someplace called Gino's. Licia had told her she could go there alone, and that it was crawling with models, ad men, and writers, a smattering of European society types, and beautiful people. It's a good show. You'll love it. And it was only two blocks from her hotel. She could walk.
She ran a comb through her hair, washed her face, and put on fresh makeup. She was ready. The black dress she had worn all day would do fine. Felicia said it wasn't dressy. By New York standards, anyway, that meant blue jeans, Guccis, and mink, or your latest Dior. As she picked up the long red wool coat off the back of a chair where she'd flung it, she remembered the grueling heat of only two months before. She looked down at the black lizard shoes, and then around the room again ' so empty. God, it was so empty. It was going to feel good to get out. Even the view didn't delight her this time. The whole city looked very tall and frightening and dark. And it was chilly and even windier when she stepped outside. She turned up the collar of her coat and turned east toward Lexington Avenue. She had rejected the doorman's offer of a cab, and walked rapidly away. She had already picked up the pace of New Yorkers. Run, dash, fly, bump into someone on street, grunt, shove, and run past. She laughed to herself as she thought of it. She had only been in town for a day and she already felt corroded by the pace. Her mind wandered back to Nick as she walked, and she was annoyed at herself. And at him. What right did he have to make her feel guilty about her success? She had worked hard for it. She deserved it And she wasn't short-changing Tygue, or Nick, for that matter. All right, so the timing wasn't perfect for a trip, but Christ, she'd only be gone for a week. And she had a right to this ' she had a right to it ' the words kept echoing in her head as she turned south on Lexington Avenue, her high heels beating an even staccato against the subway grill beneath as she avoided fleets of pedestrians clattering by. She was almost thirty years old now, and she had a right to this ' right to this' . She almost missed the restaurant, and looked up in surprise as two men bumped into her. They were just leaving Gino's. They didn't even say sorry, they merely looked her over, seemed to approve, and walked on, stepping off the curb to grab a cab from two other men. Standard New York. In California, the men would have been knocking each other cold for something like that. In New York, the two men who'd lost their cab simply hailed another, and grabbed it, just before the woman who'd flagged it first from the curb. Kate smiled to herself as she slipped inside Gino's double, yellow, swinging doors. It would take years to develop a style like that on the streets of New York, or maybe it happened vary quickly. Maybe one got that way without noticing it. It still seemed funny to her.
Signora? A dapper Italian in a gray pin-striped suit came to her side with a smile. Table for one?
She nodded with a smile. She could hardly hear him in the din as she looked around with amusement. The walls were a hideous coral color, covered with zebras chasing each other diagonally up and down the walls. Plastic plants flourished in several locations, and (he lighting was dark. The bar was jammed seven deep, and the tables were covered with white cloths and well populated by le tout New York. Just what Felicia had promised. Models still wearing the day's makeup and the latest Calvin Klein, ad men looking suave, married, and unfaithful, actresses and society matrons of some note, and a certain uniform look to the men. There were two kinds: European and American. The Americans all looked very Madison Avenue, in striped suits, horn rims, white shirts, and ties. The Europeans had them beat by a mile better tailors, better shirts, softer colors, more scandalous eyes, and their trousers were all the right length. The laughter of women darted in and out of the conversations of men, like chimes in an orchestra, and thickly woven into the background was a constant caw and clatter provided by the waiters. They made as much noise as possible with their trays, all but destroyed the crockery as they sent it sailing into the hands of the busboys, and shouted to each other as loudly as they could from as far away as they could manage in the crowd. The kitchen itself would have produced lightning and thunder, and for lack of that they did the best they could with the materials at hand. They managed very nicely with metal pots and heavy utensils. And all of it combined to produce Gino's, a rich tapestry of sounds and sights, and the luscious smells of Italian cuisine.
Well have a table for you in a montent. The maitre d' in the gray pin-stripe suit looked her over in a manner worthy of Rome and waved her graciously to the bar. A drink while you're waiting? His accent was perfection, his eyes were a caress. She had to force herself not to laugh. Gino's was a heady experience. It catapulted her instantly from her earlier mood of gloom to a feeling of fiesta.
With only the slightest hesitation she walked to the bar, ordered a gin and tonic, and heard the man just in front of her order Campari. Obviously an Italian. She could tell by the way he said Campari soda and then carried on a few sentences of conversation in Italian with the bartender. Kate looked him over from just behind him, where she stood. He smelled of a rich European men's cologne ' something French ' she couldn't remember it, but it was familiar. She had tried it out once at I. Magnin's, thinking of buying it for Nick. But it wasn't Nick, it was too rich, too sophisticated. Nick's lemons and spice suited him better. But not this man. The collar she saw was a warm Wedgwood blue, the back of his suit looked like a blazer, and it too had an Italian flair to it, from what she could see. The hair was gray, the neck slightly lined ' forty-five maybe ' forty-eight ' and then suddenly he turned to face her and she felt herself blush and then gasp in surprise.
Oh, it's you! It was the man from the cab she'd taken from the airport. The architect from Chicago. I thought you were Italian. And then she was even more embarrassed to have admitted considering the matter at all, and laughed again as he smiled at her.
I lived in Rome for seven years. I'm afraid I'm addicted to scungili. antipasto, Campari, and all things Italian.
His front view was even more impressive than the rear view had been, and she realized now that he was much better-looking than she had first thought him. She hadn't paid much attention to him in the cab.
How is New York treating you, Miss Harper? He smiled at her over his drink and made room for her at the bar.
All right, for New York. I worked my tail off today.
Writing?
Nothing as easy as that. Doing publicity
I am impressed. But he looked more amused than impressed, and his eyes somehow embarrassed her. It was as though he saw too much through the black dress, yet he said nothing inappropriate. It was just a feeling she got. There was something raw and sexy beneath the well-tailored clothes and the businesslike manner. Will I see you on TV?
Not unless you stay in your hotel room and watch daytime television. She smiled at him again.
I'm afraid not. I've been doing my New York number too. We started with breakfast conferences at seven today. They work like madmen in this town. And then together, they looked out at the room. They do everything like madmen. Even eat. She laughed with him and for a few minutes they just watched the scene. Then she felt his eyes on her again, and she turned toward him. She said nothing. They only looked at each other, and he smiled and held up his drink.
To you, Miss Harper, for a book that meant a great deal to me. How did you ever get those insights into what makes men tick? The crawl for success, and the heartbreak if you stop just shy of the top or get there, and fall off. He looked into his glass and then back at her, and she was surprised at the seriousness she saw in his face. The book really had mea
nt something to him, and suddenly she was glad. He understood. It was as though he understood Tom
You handled it very well. Even from a man's point of view. I would think it would be difficult for a woman to really understand what it's like. All the macho nonsense about making it, and then the heart break of it when you don't.
I'm not so sure it's all that different for women. But I watched my husband go through it, she said, looking into her drink. But she was very aware of this man's gentle voice, like a soft summer breeze in the winter storm of the noise around them.
He must be very proud of you now.
She looked up at him unexpectedly and shook her head. No. He's dead. She didn't say it to shock him. She just said it, but he was stunned nonetheless. And then she was the one who apologized. I didn't mean to say it that way.
I'm sorry for you. But now I understand the book better than I did. That makes a lot of sense. Did he make it, in the commercial sense of the word, before he died? It seemed to matter to this man a lot. And Kate had decided to be honest with him. He was a stranger, and she had had two drinks. The wine at the hotel, and now the gin. She was feeling unusually honest, and cut off from everyone she knew. Here, no one knew her. She could say anything that popped into her head.
Yes, he made it. And he blew it. That's what killed him. He had to have another chance, or else.' He got the or else
Heart attack? It was his worst fear.
More or less. And then she realized what she was doing to this man, and looked up quickly. No. Not a heart attack. Something else. His soul died. The rest just sort of went with it. But no, it wasn't a heart attack. He looked only slightly relieved.
I wonder what the answer is. To refuse to play the game? To refuse to run the race for success? But it's so damn tempting, isn't it? He looked at her with that warm, sexy smile, and she smiled back.
Yes, it is. I'm beginning to understand that better now myself. You always end up having to choose, having to make decisions about what matters, hurting somebody. Somehow one shouldn't have to make those choices.
Season of Passion Page 29
