by Susan Wiggs
Chapter Seven
It was nearing quitting time when Madeleine finally screwed up enough courage to go down to the city room. She ducked into the ladies’ room and stood there alone for a long time, staring at herself in the mirror.
She looked the same as she always had. Every hair in place. Subtle makeup, a faint sheen of gloss on her lips. Small, trim figure. Suit by Armani, soft angora sweater, understated pearls.
And, as always, something was missing.
That was why she loved the photo of her and John. She had been more when she was with him, and it was plain on her face. She’d had “soul,” or “fire,” or whatever it could be termed.
The only thing that heated her now was her temper as she moved through the city room. Many of the staff had already left for the day. Derek and Brad and Jack sat around drinking sodas and chatting.
As she approached them, her gaze wandered to their feet. Their feet, God help her. She was obsessed. She was losing it, checking to see if any of them had size-twelve feet.
And one of them did.
“Is this something new?” Jack Riley asked, following her gaze. “A foot fetish?”
She glared at him. Yes, he had big feet. But the man never wore anything but the disreputable high-tops that were probably Salvation Army rejects.
“All finished?” she asked, pointedly ignoring his comment.
A phone rang. Derek dived for it, clutching it like a lifeline. Brad seized the moment to slink out.
Without even glancing at the toxic-waste zone of his desk, Jack snatched up a pair of files. He shoved the first one at her. “Here’s your goddamned sewage scandal. Art and all.”
Derek hung up the phone and escaped.
“And this—” Jack slapped another file onto the first “—is the Santiago story. With art and a sidebar.”
“But I didn’t authorize—”
“Believe me, I know that, sweetheart.” His voice was harsh with venom. “Listen to me, and listen good. The story runs, every word of it. Page one of the city section. Pictures and all.”
“And if I kill the story?” she demanded.
He bent and grabbed a gym bag from under the desk. “Then I quit, Princess.”
Whistling, he strode to the elevator bank.
* * *
Madeleine didn’t know how long she stood there. She felt stung raw by his attack. He seemed to enjoy needling her. Today his scorn had a sharp edge. Keen as the bite of arctic air.
Shaken, she glanced over the sewage story. The man was good—she gave him that. He got people to say things they shouldn’t. To reveal things better kept secret. And he managed to make sewage sound fascinating.
Then, reluctantly, she looked at the youth-center story. From the very first word, she was caught. For five years, the privately funded center had been a haven for troubled or runaway teens.
Now, suddenly, it had lost its funding. Well, why hadn’t Riley explained all this? Of course, she would run the story. Who did he think she was, Ebenezer Scrooge? She started to scan for details.
“Miss?” A voice interrupted her before she had read three more words.
Now what? She looked up to see a compact, dapper man coming toward her.
“Yes?” she asked, smiling vaguely.
Lifting his hat, he gave the slightest of bows, evoking images of bygone courtliness. The tip of his cane lightly thumped the floor. “You’re Madeleine Langston, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Harry Fodgother.” He set down his hat and a large parcel. He held out his hand. “Gentlemen’s clothier.”
Madeleine shook his hand. “How do you do? Have we met before?”
“Not in person.” He flashed her a charming smile, looking like a cherub with a bald spot. “I’ve seen your picture, though. That was a nice one in Saturday’s paper.”
Lord. Had the whole world seen it?
“Did you like the tux?” he asked, sparing nothing for false modesty. “I did the tux.”
“It was very ni—” Her grip tightened on the folders she held. “You did the tux.”
“I did indeed. Quite a piece of work if I do say so myself.”
“Who is he?” she demanded.
He cocked his head to one side. “Who’s who?”
“John the Tux.” She blushed. “I—I’m just so curious about him.”
“Then you should ask him.”
“He sort of … disappeared before I could ask him much about himself.” Like his address, his line of work, she thought in self-disgust. Like his phone number.
“He was just passing through town,” Harry said, not unsympathetically. “The tux was ready-to-wear. I made a few alterations.”
Clearly he was not going to divulge anything more. Tailor-client privilege, she supposed.
“Say,” Harry said, veering off the subject, showing no further sympathy for her lovesick yearning, “I’m delivering something for Jack Riley.” He gestured at the big parcel. “He around?”
Her eyes widened. What business would Jack Riley have with a “gentlemen’s clothier”? She smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid he just left.”
Harry frowned. “Drat it! He needs these items right away.”
She studied his parcel. “Could it be some sort of emergency?”
“That depends.” Fodgother lifted the lid of the big oblong box. “He needs this for a Christmas party.”
Madeleine found herself looking at the most beautiful, luxuriant Santa Claus suit she had ever seen. “Perhaps, I could help,” she said without thinking.
Harry raised an eyebrow. “You’re a lovely lady, miss, but I don’t think you’d ever pass for the Fat Man.”
“I meant, maybe I could take it to Ja—Mr. Riley.”
“You’re just the person to do it,” Harry declared. He put the lid back on the box and scribbled a Brooklyn address on the parcel. “That’s awfully nice of you, Miss Langston. You won’t be sorry. Trust me.”
* * *
Jack shared a table in the rec room with Sister Doyle. While kids played pool or chess or did homework, Jack and the director combed through the center’s finances, looking for a ray of hope.
They found none. Santiago Youth Center was deep in debt and had zero cash reserves.
“So we’ve got three, maybe four days before we’re flat broke,” Jack explained to Sister Doyle. “Unless Miz Butter-Wouldn’t-Melt-in-My-Mouth prints my story and we get a big surge in donations.”
“What makes you think she wouldn’t print the story, dear?” Sister Doyle asked.
“‘We’re a Manhattan newspaper.’” He mimicked Madeleine’s snooty East Coast accent.
“Did you explain why it needed to run?”
“Oh, sure. Tell her she needs to run a story about the greed of her own board of trustees? Cute.” Jack took a sip of the hot tea Sister Doyle was always making.
He couldn’t believe how much it hurt to learn what Madeleine was really like. She drove him crazy. He wanted to think of her as a fragile woman with sad eyes and an amazingly bold touch. But common sense told him she was too rich and spoiled to be amused by any one man for long. “How’s Maria, by the way?”
“Very well, under the circumstances.” Sister Doyle glanced at the girl, who sat with an afghan in her lap and paged through an illustrated child-care manual. “I just don’t understand José. I always considered him a responsible young man, one of our success stories. But he just up and left her.”
“Where’ll she and the kid go?” he asked in frustration.
“If the center closes and José never shows up, that’s anyone’s guess.”
Jack slammed the ledger shut, removed his glasses and wearily rubbed his eyes. “Hang in there, Sister. We’ll figure something out. It’ll probably involve me groveling on my knees to Madeleine Langston, but I’ll do what has to be done.”
He ambled over to join a pair of boys whose geometry study had degenerated into dueling practice with pencils. With good-humored ease, J
ack settled down with them and got them back on track. He had always loved the moment when a kid’s interest was engaged. That “aha” look was beyond price.
And now his work here would soon be over.
Suddenly Marco, at the pool table, gave a low whistle.
“¡Ay, mujer!” Raul said. Both boys stared at the door.
Looking like one of the snowflakes in The Nutcracker, Madeleine Langston drifted in. She wore a white faux fur and soft boots and white gloves. The cold wind had nipped a coral hue into her cheeks and lips. Her blue eyes scanned the room. Jack had never seen anything more beautiful. Why did she have to have such a cold heart? Beauty was wasted on her.
She looked a bit uncomfortable and a lot out of place in the rec room of the center. Jack pushed up from the table and crossed the room to her.
“Hi,” he said.
Silence. She stared at him. His nerves rattled like sleigh bells. Had she seen through him at last? Did she know the truth about Friday night?
“Hello.” She seemed far less self-assured than she did at the paper. “Uh, I brought you something.” She handed him a big box. “It’s from a friend of yours. Harry Fodgother.”
Jack sucked in his breath. Had Harry fessed up? No way. If he had, she wouldn’t be speaking to him.
“The Santa suit.” Jack took the box and set it down. “Thanks.”
“He—Harry said you needed it tonight.”
“He did?” Jack cracked a smile. The crafty little guy. Must be looking for a way to throw Madeleine at him. That damned photo. It was like magic. It convinced even the world’s biggest skeptics that they were two people in love.
“I guess he got mixed up. I don’t need it until Christmas Eve. But thanks for bringing it over.”
“You’re welcome. So you’re going to play Santa?”
“I talked Derek into it. He’ll be great.”
“Uh-huh.” Her gaze darted around the room. “So this is the Santiago Youth Center.”
“Yep. Want to take a look around?”
She hesitated, and that moment of hesitation seared Jack with anger. “I realize it’s a lot neater and cleaner to stay in your office and write the occasional check rather than actually work with these kids,” he muttered in her ear. “But for their sakes, act as if you care.”
“You’re a bastard, Jack Riley,” she whispered through gritted teeth.
And then, miraculously, she was all smiles as she greeted Sister Doyle and the kids. At first she was a little stiff with them, but she insisted on having Marco teach her to shoot pool and before long was laughing and failing miserably to sink a single ball. Her skill at chess was undisputed, though, and she finished off André, their best player, in record time.
Amazing. The woman was amazing. The kids were nuts for her. Jack watched her as she spoke in an animated way across the chessboard. The fuzzy white sweater she wore, decked with a single strand of pearls, made her look as soft and sweet as an angel. He couldn’t figure her out. Her personae ranged from Marilyn Monroe to Joan Crawford to Doris Day. He expected her to start singing “Que sera sera” any minute now.
After a while, she excused herself and went to sit with Maria. Jack pretended not to listen in, but he craned his neck to hear their conversation. What could Madeleine find to talk about with a girl from the barrio?
“I guess you’re getting ready for a big event,” Madeleine said.
Maria gestured at the book in her lap. “Guess so. There’s so much to do. I don’t know how I’ll ever do it all. You got kids?”
“No. But I want babies one day.” Madeleine laughed at herself. “I need to work on getting a date first. I’m not too swift in that department.”
Maria smoothed the afghan over her stomach. “I’m way too swift. At least, I was. Madre de Dios.” Her voice shook.
Madeleine took her hand. “Honey, there’s not a mother in the world who doesn’t have those thoughts, believe me. I won’t kid you—this is going to be the hardest challenge of your life. But if you hang in there and work at it and love your child with all your heart, you’ll make it.”
“That’s what Sister Doyle keeps telling me.”
“Sister Doyle is right. Are you—” Madeleine broke off, clearly groping for words. “Are you by yourself?”
“Yeah.” Maria sniffed. “I really love José, and I thought he loved me and the baby, but he’s gone now. Jack said he’d look for him, but I’m not holding my breath.” She flipped through the pages of her book. “So it’s just me and my giant stomach. I’ve been staying here, but that’ll change day after Christmas.”
Madeleine nodded. “I heard about that.”
Jack felt a bitter surge of satisfaction. So, she had read his piece, at least.
“After that, I don’t know,” Maria said glumly. “Guess I need a miracle.”
Madeleine laughed softly. “Miracles happen. Here.” She handed the girl a business card. “That’s the number of my cellular phone. You can call me anytime, day or night. Okay?”
“Thanks,” Maria said, tucking the card into her book.
Madeleine grew serious as Jack held her coat for her later and helped her put it on. “I can’t believe you’d let this place close,” she said. They were out in the dim hallway.
His acid laugh echoed off the tile walls. “Lady, it’s not up to me. You’re the one who cut off the funding.” He stalked down the narrow stairs in front of her and yanked open the door to the street. A blast of winter air and snow flurries slapped him in the face.
Madeleine stood unmoving. She seemed heedless of the cold air and blowing snow. “What did you say?” she demanded.
“The funding,” he repeated, speaking slowly. “Hey, call me small-minded, but I just had a little-bitty problem with the decision of your board of trustees.”
Madeleine Langston did a most unexpected thing. She plopped down on the second-to-last step. “Wait a minute, Riley,” she said. “You’re losing me, here. What does my board of trustees have to do with your youth center?”
He thought for a long time. Was it possible she didn’t know? “They yanked the funding. I figured you were in on the decision. Didn’t you read the article?”
“Harry interrupted me before I finished. I’d already decided to run it, though.” She looked more confused—and more beautiful—than ever. “Riley, let’s go,” she said, rising and stepping outside.
He followed her to the most amazing car he had ever seen. Low-slung, bright red and aggressively Italian, it had already attracted a small flock of neighborhood kids.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
She hit a remote button on her key chain, unlocking the doors, and tossed him the set of keys. “Your place,” she said. “You’ve got some explaining to do.”
“Just my luck,” he muttered, feeling the engine purr to life. His pleasure was almost sexual. “My one chance to drive a Maserati and we only get to go twelve blocks.”
“Well, you’ll cover it in record time,” she said simply.
And he did, falling in love with the car like a teenager, worshiping the way the Maserati handled, reluctantly angling it into a parking space in front of his walk-up.
“It’ll be safe here,” he said. In just the few minutes it had taken them to drive here, the snow had come down thicker. “Mr. Costello doesn’t miss a thing.”
He waved at a portly older man who sat in the window of the ground-floor apartment. Mr. Costello pointed his TV remote control at the car and nodded approvingly.
“And now, Miz Langston,” Jack said, holding open the door, “I guess we’ll get down to business.”
Chapter Eight
Madeleine had been trying all evening to cling to her anger at Jack Riley, but the more time she spent with him, the harder it was.
Oh, he was the same exasperating smart-aleck she had always known him to be. But tonight she’d learned something important about him.
Jack Riley had a heart as big as Manhattan.
She would ne
ver forget her first glimpse of him at the youth center. He’d been working with two boys on their math, gently encouraging, keeping them on task when too many adults would have given up in despair.
“Here we are,” he said, pushing open the door to a second-story apartment. “Home, sweet home. Come see how the other half lives.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, annoyed.
He flipped on a light. “Oh, I don’t know. Something just tells me you live in nicer digs than I do.”
She shrugged out of her coat and looked around. The place was small and old, cluttered and unaccountably homey feeling. One wall had floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with books. A workspace, even more disgraceful than his desk at the paper, held a computer, a stereo and mountains of files. The screen saver floating across the computer monitor was X-rated.
“Charming,” she remarked.
“I never said I wasn’t a sexist pig.” He walked over to the tiny kitchen, separated from the living area by a counter with two stools. “What can I get you? Tea? Coffee? I make great—” He broke off. “How about tea?”
“Fine,” she said.
He banged around in the kitchen, hollering as he put on water. “Make yourself at home.”
“Thanks.” She wandered slowly around the room. The personal items intrigued her. There was a picture of Jack as a young boy sitting on the tailgate of a pickup truck. He had one arm around a laughing mongrel dog and his long, bare legs dangled almost to the ground.
Good Lord, she thought. Jack Riley had been a beautiful boy.
There was a picture of his parents, looking very loving and salt-of-the-earth against a backdrop of rolling hills. And a photo of a dark-haired girl; it was a cheap studio portrait, but she exuded a fresh-faced beauty that even the yellowing photo paper couldn’t dim.
Feeling an unaccountable stab of discomfort, Madeleine moved on to the next framed item—a diploma from the University of Texas. He had graduated magna cum laude.
“You never said you were from Texas,” she called out.
“Never said I wasn’t,” he called back.
