Page 5
“A bunch of anorexics, alcoholics, drug addicts, and serial marriers. People who havent spent ten minutes with a kid in years. And theyre telling you how to parent. Its like-”
The phone rang.
“Damn. ” Ruby raced into the living room and yanked the cord out of the wall. She couldnt be bothered for the next twenty-four hours. Nothing mattered except getting ready for the show.
Like all big cities, San Francisco looked beautiful at night. Multicolored lights glittered throughout downtown, creating a neon sculpture garden tucked along the black bay.
Dean Sloan glanced at the wall of windows that framed the panoramic view. Unfortunately, he couldnt leave his seat. He was-as always-trapped by the flypaper of good manners.
Scattered through the ornately gilded ballroom of this Russian Hill mansion were a dozen or so tables, each one draped in shimmering gold fabric and topped by a layer of opalescent silk. The china at each place setting was white with platinum trim. Four or five couples sat at each table, making idle conversation. The women were expensively, beautifully gowned and the men wore tuxedos. The partys hostess, a local socialite, had hand-chosen the guest list from among the wealthiest of San Franciscos families. Tonights charity was the opera, and it would benefit mightily, although Dean wondered how many of the guests actually cared about music. What they really cared about was being seen, and even more important, being seen doing the right thing.
His date, a pale, exquisite woman named Sarah Brightman-Edgington, slid a hand along his thigh, and Dean knew that hed been silent too long. With practiced ease, he turned to her, giving her the smile so well documented by the local society media.
“That was a lovely sentiment, dont you think?” she said softly, taking a small sip of champagne.
Dean had no idea what she was talking about, but a quick look around the room enlightened him. An elderly, well-preserved woman in a deceptively simple blue dress was standing alongside the ebony Steinway. No doubt shed been waxing poetic about the opera and thanking her guests in advance for their unselfish contributions. There was nothing the wealthy liked quite so much as pretending to be generous.
It was, he knew, the official beginning of the end of the evening. There would be dancing yet, some serious schmoozing and even more serious gossiping, but soon it would be polite to leave.
There was a smattering of quiet applause, then the sound of chairs being scooted back.
Dean took hold of Sarahs hand. Together they slipped into the whispering crowd. The band was playing something soft and romantic, a song that was almost familiar.
On the dance floor, he pulled Sarah close, slid his hand down the bare expanse of her back, felt her shiver at his touch.
The crowd eddied and swirled around them. Overhead, thousands of tiny lights twinkled like stars. There was a faint, sweet smell of roses in the air.
Or maybe that was the scent of money . . .
He gazed down at Sarahs upturned face, noticing for the first time how lovely her gray eyes were. Without thinking about it, he bent slightly and kissed her, tasting the champagne shed drunk. He could tell by this kiss where the night could go. She would want him. If he cared to, he could take her hand, lead her out of this crush, and take her to his bed. She would offer no objections. After that, he would call her, and would probably sleep together a few times. Then, somehow, he would forget her. Last year; a local magazine had named him San Franciscos most ineligible bachelor because of his reputation for nanosecond affairs. It was true; hed certainly slept with dozens of the cities" most gorgeous women.
But what the reporter hadnt known, hadnt even imagined, was how tired Dean was of it all. He wasnt even twenty-nine years old and already he felt aged. Money. Power. Disposable women who seemed to hear his family name and become as malleable as wet clay. For more than a year now, Dean had felt that something was wrong with his life. Missing.
At first, hed assumed it was a business problem, and hed rededicated himself to work, logging upwards of eighty hours a week at Harcourt and Sons. But all hed managed to do was make more money, and the ache in his gut had steadily sharpened.
Hed tried to speak to his father about it. As usual, that had proven pointless. Edward Sloan was now-and always had been-a charming, frivolous playboy who jumped at his wifes every command. It was Mother who held all of the ambition, and shed never been one to care overly about things like fulfillment or satisfaction. Her comment had been as hed expected: I ran this company for thirty years; now its your turn. No whining will be allowed.
He supposed that shed earned that right. Under his mothers iron fist, the family business, begun by her grandfather and expanded by her father, had become a hundred-million-dollar enterprise. That had always been enough for her. All she ever wanted. But that same success felt vaguely hollow to Dean.
Hed even tried to talk to his friends about it, and though theyd wanted to help, it was clear that none of them understood his feelings. It wasnt so surprising, after all. Although they were all from the same background, Dean had grown up in a slightly different world than his peers.
Lopez Island. Summer Island.
Hed spent ten perfect years in the San Juan Islands.
There, he and his brother, Eric, had been-for a short time-ordinary boys. Those remote islands had formed and defined Dean somehow, provided a place where he felt whole.
Of course, Ruby had been there. And before she went crazy and ruined everything, shed taught him how love felt.
Then shed shown him how easily it was broken.
Dean sighed, wishing he hadnt thought about Ruby now, when he had a beautiful, willing woman in his arms . . .
Suddenly he was tired. He simply didnt have the energy to spend tonight with another woman he didnt care about.
“Im not feeling well,” he said, wondering briefly whether it was a lie, or not quite one.
She smiled up at him, revealing a set of perfect white teeth. Her hand moved up his arm, curled possessively around the back of his neck. They were always possessive, he thought tiredly. Or perhaps that was merely his sense of it.
“Me, too,” she purred. “My place is just around the corner. ”
He reached up and took her hand, kissing the back of her knuckles gently “No, Im really not feeling well, and Ive got a crack-of-dawn conference call coming from Tokyo. I think Ill take you home, if you dont mind. ”
She pouted prettily, and he wondered if that was one of the things they taught wealthy young girls at schools like Miss Porters. If not, it had been passed down from one generation to another as carefully as the secret of fire.
“Ill call you tomorrow,” he said, although he didnt mean it. There were only two choices available to a man at a time like this: hurt her by not saying it, or hurt her by not doing it. One-lying now-easier.
Once hed made his decision, Dean couldnt get out of the room fast enough. He maneuvered through the crowd like a Tour-de-France cyclist, saying good night to the few people who really mattered, getting Sarahs wrap (fur in June???), and hurried out to stand beneath the portico.
Sarah made idle chitchat as they stood there together, and he listened politely, answered at what he assumed were the appropriate places.
Finally, he heard his car drive up. The black Aston-Martin roared up the driveway and screeched to a halt. A uniformed valet jumped out of the drivers seat and rushed around to open Sarahs door, then helped her into her seat.
Dean nodded at the man as he walked past. “Thanks, Ramon,” he said, getting into his car. He slammed the door shut and drove off, hitting the gas too hard.
It was a full minute before Sarah asked, “How did you know his name was Ramon?”
“I asked him when we arrived. ”
“Oh. ”
Dean glanced at her, saw her perfect profile cameoed against the blackened window glass. “What? Is there something wrong with knowing his name?”
A frown darted across he
r face. She lifted a hand, pointedly. “Heres my house. ”
Dean pulled up the circular driveway and parked beneath an antique street lamp.
She turned to him, frowning slightly. “Youre not what I expected. The girls . . . they talk about you. ”
He ran a hand through his too-long blond hair. “I hope its a good thing, not being what you expected. ”
“I she said quietly. ”I wont see you again, will I?"
“Sarah, I-”
“Will I?” she interrupted forcibly.
Dean took a deep breath, released it. “Its not you. Its me. Im restless lately. It doesnt make for good company. ”
She laughed; it was a practiced, silvery sound that only held traces of mirth. “Youre young and rich and sheltered. Of course youre restless. Poor people are driven and hungry. Rich people are restless and bored. Ive been bored since grade school, for Gods sake. ”
It was such a sad thing to say. Dean didnt know how to respond. He got out of the car and went around to her door, helping her out. Slipping a hand along the small of her back, he walked her to the door of her fathers hilltop mansion. Quietly, he said, “Youre too beautiful to be bored. ”
She looked sadly up at him. “So are you. ”
Dean kissed her good night, then returned to his car and raced home.
In less than fifteen minutes, he was standing in his living room, staring out at the night-clad city, sipping warmed brandy from a bowl-size snifter. On the walls all around him were framed photographs-his hobby. Once, the sight of them had pleased him. Now, all he saw when he looked at his photographs was how wrong his life had gone.
Behind him, the phone rang. He waited a few rings for Hester, his housekeeper, to answer it. Then he remembered that Hester had gone to see her kids tonight. He strode to the latte-colored suede sofa, collapsed onto the down-filled cushion, and answered the phone. “Dean Sloan. ” It was, he knew, an impersonal greeting, but he didnt care.
“Dino? Is that you?”
“Uh. . . Eric? How in the hell are you?" Dean was stunned. He hadnt heard from his brother in what. . . a year? Eighteen months?
“Are you sitting down?”
“That doesnt sound good. ”
“It isnt. Im dying. ”
Dean felt as if hed been punched in the gut. A cold chill moved through him. “AIDS?” he whispered.
Eric laughed. “We do get other diseases, you know. My personal favorite is cancer. ”
“Well get you the best treatment. I can make some calls right now. Mark Foster is still on the board at-”
“Ive had the best treatments. Ive seen the best specialists, and they,” Eric said softly, “have seen me. ” He took a deep breath. “I dont have much time left. ”
Dean couldnt seem to draw a decent breath. “Youre thirty years old,” he said helplessly, as if age were relevant.
"I should have told you when I was first diagnosed, but . . . I kept thinking Id tell you when it was over, and wed laugh about it .
“Is there any chance well someday laugh about it?”
It took Eric a moment to answer. “No. ”
“What can I do?”
“Im going back to the island. Lotties already there, waiting for me. ”
“The island,” Dean repeated slowly. A strange sense of inevitability drifted into the room. It was as if Dean had always known that someday theyd end up back there, where everything had begun. Where everything had gone so wrong. Maybe a part of him had even been waiting for it.
Summer Island Page 5
