Now and Forever

by Danielle Steel

  “Nicer. And it would have been better yet if you had been home. I got crocked at lunch at Enrico’s, and I didn’t know what to do with myself all day.”

  “I’m sure you found something.” But there was no malice in her tone, and no expression on his face.

  “Nah. Nothing much.”

  Chapter 3

  “Jessie, you are without a doubt the most beautiful woman I know.”

  “It’s entirely mutual.” She lay on her stomach, smiling up at him, the scent of their bodies heavy in the air, their hair tousled. They had not been awake very long. Only long enough to make love.

  “It can’t be mutual, silly. I’m not a beautiful woman.”

  “No, but you’re a magnificent man.”

  “And you are adorably corny. You must live with a writer.” She smiled again and he ran a finger gently up her spine.

  “You’re going to get into trouble again, darling, if you do that.” She accepted a puff on the cigarette they shared, and exhaled over his head before sitting up to kiss him again.

  “What time are we going to the beach, Jessie, my love?”

  “Who said we were going to the beach? Jesus, darling, I have to get to the shop. I’ve been gone for three weeks.”

  “So be gone for another day. You said you were going to the beach with me today.” He looked faintly like a pouting boy.

  “I did not.”

  “You most certainly did. Well, almost. I told you I’d kidnap you, and you seemed to like the idea.” She laughed, running a hand through his hair. He was impossible. A great big boy. But such a beautiful boy. She could never resist him.

  “You know something?”

  “What?” He looked pleased as he gazed down into her face. She was beautiful in the morning.

  “You’re a pain in the ass, that’s what. I have to work. How can I go to the beach?”

  “Easy. You call the girls, tell them you can’t come in till tomorrow, and off we go. Simple. How can you waste a day like this, for Chrissake?”

  “By making a living.”

  Those were the comments he didn’t like. They implied that he didn’t make a living.

  “How about if I go in this morning and cut the day short?”

  “Yeah. And leave the boutique just as the fog comes in. Jessica, you’re a party pooper. Yep. Party pooper. A–1.” But she was already on her way to make coffee, and answered him over her shoulder as she walked naked into the kitchen.

  “I promise I’ll leave the shop by one. How’s that?”

  “Better than nothing. Christ, I love your ass. And you lost weight.” She smiled and blew him a kiss.

  “One o’clock, I promise. And we can have lunch here.”

  “Does that mean what I think it does?” He was smiling again and she nodded. “Then I’ll pick you up at twelve-thirty.”

  “That’s a deal.”

  Lady J nestled on the ground floor of a well-tended Victorian house just off Union Street. The house was painted yellow with white trim, and a small brass plaque on the door was engraved with LADY J. Jessie had had a broad picture window put in, and she did the window display herself twice a month. It was simple and effective, and as she pulled the Morgan into the driveway she looked up to see what they’d done with the display while she was gone. A brown tweed skirt, a camel-colored stock shirt, amber beads, a trim knit hat, and a little fox jacket draped over a green velvet chair. It looked pretty damn good, and it was the right look for fall … though not for Indian summer. But that didn’t matter. No one bought for Indian summer. They bought for fall.

  The things she had ordered in New York flashed through her mind as she pulled her briefcase out of the car and ran up the few steps to their door. It was open; the girls had known she’d be in early.

  “Well, look who’s home! Zina! Jessie’s back!” A tiny, fine-featured Oriental girl clapped her hands and jumped to her feet, running toward Jessie with a look of delight. “You look fantastic!” The two were a striking pair. Jessie’s fair, lanky beauty was in sharp contrast to the Japanese girl’s delicate grace. Her hair was shiny and black and hung in a well-shaped slant from the nape of her neck toward the point of her chin.

  “Kat! You cut your hair!” Jessie was momentarily taken aback. Only a month before the girl’s hair had hung to her waist—when she hadn’t worn it in a tight knot high on her head. Her name was Katsuko, which meant peace.

  “I got sick of wearing it up. How do you like it?” She pirouetted swiftly on one foot and let her hair swing around her head as she smiled. She was dressed in black, as she often was, and it accented her litheness. It was her catlike grace that had given her the nickname Jessie used.

  “I love it. Very chic.” They smiled at each other and were rapidly interrupted by a war cry of glee.

  “Hallelujah! You’re home!” It was Zina. Auburn-haired, brown-eyed, sensual, and Southern. She was buxom where the other two were elegantly small-breasted, and she had a mouth that said she loved laughter and men. Her hair danced close to her head in a small halo of curls, and she had great, sexy legs. Men dissolved when she moved, and she loved to tease. “Did you see what Kat did to her hair?” She said “hair” as though it would go on forever. “I’d have cried for a year.” She smiled, letting her mouth slide over the words. She made each one a caress. “How was New York?”

  “Beautiful, wonderful, terrible, ugly, and hot. I had a ball. And wait till you see what I bought!”

  “What kind of colors?” For a girl who almost always wore white or black, Kat had a flair for hot colors. She knew how to buy them, mix them, contrast them, blend them. Everything except wear them.

  “It’s all pastel, and it’s so beautiful, you’ll die.” Jessica strutted the thick beige carpeting of Lady J. It felt good to be back in her domain. “Who did the window? It looks great.”

  “Zina.” Kat was quick to single out her friend for praise. “Isn’t that a nice touch with the green chair for contrast?”

  “It’s terrific. And I see nothing’s changed around here. You two are still as tight as Siamese twins. Did we make any money while I was gone?” She sat in her favorite beige leather chair, a deep one that allowed her plenty of room for her legs. It was the chair men usually sat in while they waited.

  “We made lots of money. For the first two weeks anyway. This week’s been slow; the weather’s been too good.” Kat was quick with the report, and the last of it reminded Jessie that she had only four hours in which to work before Ian would come to spirit her away to the beach.

  Zina handed her a cup of black coffee as she looked around. What she saw was the fall line she had bought, mostly in Europe, five months before, and against the beige and brown wools and leathers of the shop’s subtle decor it showed up well. Two walls were mirrored and there was a jungle of plants in each corner. More greenery dripped from the ceiling, highlighted by subtle lighting.

  “How’s that Danish line doing?” The Danes had gone heavy on red—skirts, sweaters, three different styles of blazers, and a marvelous wrap-around coat in a deep cherry red that, in its own way, made a woman feel as exotic and sexy as fur would have. It was a great coat. Jessie had ordered one for herself.

  “The Danish stuff is doing fine,” Zina intervened with her New Orleans drawl. “How’s Ian? We haven’t seen him in weeks.” He had turned up once to cash a check, the day after Jessie had left.

  “He’s working on the new book.” Zina smiled warmly and nodded. She liked him. Kat was never as sure. She helped with the account books, so she knew how much of Jessica’s profits he spent. But Zina had been in the shop much longer, and she had come to know Ian and appreciate him. Kat was newer, and still wore the brittle mantle of New York over her heart. She had been a sportswear buyer there until she’d tired of the pressure and decided to move to San Francisco. She had landed the job at Lady J within a week of her arrival, and she felt as lucky to be there as Jessie did having her in the shop. She knew the business. Totally.

  The t
hree women spent a half hour chatting over coffee while Katsuko showed Jessie some clippings of articles mentioning the boutique that had appeared in the papers. They had two new customers who had practically bought out the shop. And they talked easily of what Jessie had lined up for the fall. She wanted to set up a fashion show before she left for Carmel in October. Kat could get started on ideas for that.

  The shop was alive with her presence, and together they made a powerful threesome. All three had something to offer. It showed in the fact that the boutique hadn’t suffered while she’d been gone. She couldn’t afford to have it do that, and she wouldn’t have tolerated it, either. Both of the girls knew that, and they cherished their jobs. She paid well, they got marvelous clothes at a discount, and she was a reasonable woman to work for, which was rare. Kat had worked for three bitches in a row in New York, and Zina had escaped a long line of horny men who wanted her to type, take shorthand, and screw, not necessarily in that order. Jessica expected long hours and hard work, but she put in the same herself, and often more. She had made Lady J a success, and she expected them to help her maintain it. It wasn’t a difficult task. She infused fresh life into it every season, and her clientele loved it. Lady J was as solid as a rock. Just like Jessica herself, and everything around her.

  “And now, you two, I’d better dig through my mail. How bad is it?”

  “Not too bad. Zina answered the dingy stuff. The letters from Texas from women who were here in March and wonder if the little yellow turtleneck is still on sale. That kind of stuff … she answered them all.”

  “Zina, I love you.”

  “At your service.” She swept a deep curtsy and the bright green halter she wore over white trousers bobbed with the weight of her breasts. But the other two had stopped teasing her long ago. Each was content with herself, and all three had good reason to be.

  Jessie wandered into her small office three steps up in the back and looked around, pleased. Her plants were thriving, her mail was neatly divided and stacked, her bills had been paid. She saw at a glance that all was in order. Now all she had to do was sift through it. She was halfway through reading her mail when Zina appeared in the doorway, looking puzzled.

  “There’s a man here to see you, Jessie. He says it’s urgent.” She looked almost worried. He was not one of their usual customers, and he hadn’t come there to buy.

  “To see me? What about?”

  “He didn’t say. But he asked me to give you his card.” Zina extended the small rectangle of stiff white paper, and Jessie looked into her eyes.

  “Something wrong?” Zina shrugged ignorance and Jessie read the name: “William Houghton. Inspector. San Francisco Police.” She didn’t understand and looked back at Zina for clues. “Did anything happen while I was gone? Did we get robbed?” And Christ, wouldn’t it be like them not to worry her at first, but wait and tell her an hour or two later!

  “No, Jessie. Honest. Nothing happened. I don’t have any idea what this is about.” The drawl sounded childish when Zina was worried.

  “Neither do I. Why don’t your bring him in here? I’d better talk to him.”

  William Houghton appeared, following Zina with some interest. The fit of her white slacks over her trim hips was in sharp contrast to the fullness in her halter. The inspector looked hungry.

  “Inspector Houghton?” Jessie stood to her full height, and Houghton seemed impressed. The three were an interesting group; Katsuko had not missed his thorough gaze either. “I’m Jessica Clarke.”

  “I’d like to speak to you alone for a minute, if that’ll be all right.”

  “That’s fine. May I offer you a cup of coffee?” The door closed behind Zina, and he shook his head as Jessie indicated a chair near her desk and then sat back down in her own. She swiveled to face him. “What can I do for you, Inspector? Miss Nelson said it was urgent.”

  “Yes. It is. Is that your Morgan outside?” Jessie nodded, feeling queasy under the sharp look in his eyes. She was wondering if Ian had forgotten to pay his tickets again. She had had to fish him out of jail once before, for a neat little fine of two hundred dollars. In San Francisco, they didn’t fool around. You paid your tickets or they took you to jail. Do not pass Go, and do not collect two hundred dollars.

  “Yes, that’s my car. My name’s on the plates.” She smiled pleasantly and hoped that her hand didn’t shake while she lit another cigarette. It was absurd. She hadn’t done anything wrong, but there was something about the man, about the word “Police,” that produced instant guilt. Panic. Terror.

  “Were you driving it yesterday?”

  “No, I was in New York on business. I flew back last night.” As though she had to prove that she was out of town, and for a legitimate reason. This was crazy. If only Ian were here. He handled things so much better than she did.

  “Who else drives your car?” Not “does anyone else?,” but “who else?”

  “My husband does.” Something sank in the pit of her stomach when she mentioned Ian.

  “Did he drive it yesterday?” Inspector Houghton lit a cigarette of his own and looked her over, as if assessing her.

  “I don’t know for certain. He has his own car, but he was driving mine when he picked me up at the airport. I could call him and ask.” Houghton nodded and Jessica waited.

  “Who else drives the car? A brother? A friend? Boyfriend?” His eyes dug into hers on the last word, and at last she felt anger.

  “I’m a married woman, Inspector. And no one else drives the car. Just my husband and I.” She had gotten the point across, but something in Houghton’s face told her it was not a victory.

  “The car is registered to your business? You have commercial plates, and the address on the registration is this store.” Store! Boutique, you asshole, boutique! “I assume you own this place?”

  “That’s correct. Inspector, what is this about?” She exhaled lengthily and watched the smoke as she felt her hand shake slightly. Something was wrong.

  “I’d like to speak to your husband. Would you give me the address of his office, please?” He instantly took out a pen and waited, holding it poised over the back of one of his cards.

  “Is this about parking tickets? I know my husband… well, he’s forgetful.” She smiled for Houghton’s benefit, but it didn’t take.

  “No, this is not about parking tickets. Your husband’s business address?” The eyes were like ice.

  “He works at our home. It’s only six blocks from here. On Vallejo.” She wanted to offer to go with him, but she didn’t dare. She scribbled the address on one of her own cards and handed it to him.

  “Thank you. I’ll be in touch.” But what the fuck about, dammit? She wanted to know. But he stood up and reached for the door.

  “Inspector, I’d appreciate it very much if you’d tell me what this is about. I—” He looked at her oddly again, with that searching look of his that asked questions but did not answer them.

  “Mrs. Clarke, I’m not entirely sure myself. When I am, I’ll let you know.”

  “Thank you.” Thank you? Thank you for what? Shit. But he was already gone, and as she walked back into the main room of the boutique, she saw him get into an olive green sedan and drive off. There was another man at the wheel. They traveled in pairs. The antenna on the back of the car swung crazily as they drove toward Vallejo.

  “What was that all about?” Katsuko’s face was serious, and Zina looked upset.

  “I wish to hell I knew. He just asked me who drives the car and then said he wanted to talk to Ian. Goddammit, I’ll bet he hasn’t been paying his parking tickets again.” But it didn’t feel like that, and Houghton had said it wasn’t that—or was it? Jesus. Some welcome home.

  She went back to her office and dialed their home number. It was busy. And then Trish Barclay walked into the shop and Jessie got tied up with nonsense like the fur jacket in the window, which Trish bought. She was one of their better customers, and Jessie had to keep up the façade, at least for a while
. It was twenty-five minutes later when she got back to the phone to call Ian. This time there was no answer.

  It was ridiculous! He had to be there. He had been there when she’d left for the boutique. And the line had been busy when she’d called … the police had been on their way over. Christ, maybe it was serious. Maybe he had had an accident with the car and hadn’t told her. Maybe someone had been hurt. But he’d have said something. Ian wouldn’t just let something like that happen and not tell her. The phone rang endlessly, and no one answered. Maybe he was on his way over. It was a little after eleven.

  But Nick Morris needed something “fabulous” for his wife’s birthday; he’d forgotten, and he had to have at least four hundred dollars’ worth of goodies for her by noon. She was a raving bitch and she wasn’t worth it, but Jessie gave him a hand. She liked Nick, and before he left the store weighted down with their shiny brown and yellow boxes, Barbara Fuller had walked in, and Holly Jenkins, and then Joan Wilcox, and … it was noon. And she hadn’t heard from Ian. She tried the phone again and began to panic. No answer. Maybe this time he was on his way over. He had said he’d pick her up at twelve-thirty.

  At one o’clock he hadn’t shown up and she was near tears. It had been a horrible morning. People, pressures, deliveries, problems. Welcome home. And no Ian. And that asshole Houghton making her nervous with his mysterious inquiries about the car. She took refuge in her office as Zina went out to lunch. She needed to be alone for a minute. To think. To catch her breath. To get up the courage to do what she didn’t want to do. But she had to know. It would be an easy way of finding out, after all. Hell, all she had to do was call down there, ask if they had an Ian Powers Clarke, and heave a sigh of relief when they said no. Or grab her checkbook and run down there and get him out if he was in the can for parking violations again. No big deal. But it took another swallow of coffee, and yet another cigarette, before she could bring her hand to the phone.

  Information gave her the number. Hall of Justice. City Prison. This was ridiculous. She felt foolish, and grinned thinking of what Ian would say if she were calling the jail when he walked in. He’d make fun of her for a week.