But I’d do my best.
Setting aside the towel, I turned my attention to repairing the damage—at least that of the external variety. Thankfully I’d thought to stop by the coat closet and retrieve my evening bag, so I was able to line and lipstick and powder my face into some semblance of normality. A few runs of the comb through my hair disguised the random damp strands and by some miracle, my dress had escaped unscathed from my reckless splashing. Ultimately, no one looking at me would be able to see anything amiss. Good thing most people never bothered to look beyond the surface.
I snorted lightly at my repaired reflection—if revisiting my former life, however tangentially, was enough to render me even more cynical than usual, it would no doubt be in my best interests to refrain. Another valuable lesson learned.
While I could have exited the bathroom through the door that led directly into the hallway, I instead chose to wander through the adjacent bedroom. Such a boy’s room, with its felt school and team banners tacked to the wall alongside photographs of lithe-limbed young women and boys, arms slung around bare, tanned shoulders, brilliant, carefree smiles aimed toward the waiting camera. The books competing for shelf space with trophies, a well-worn ball cap carelessly tossed over one gold, upthrust arm. What would it be like, I wondered idly, to take Constance’s invitation and lie down on that neatly made bed with the plaid coverlet and plump pillows and the blanket folded at the foot? To sink into the darkness of this spacious room that was easily half as large as my current apartment and not wake up until sunlight streamed through the windows that looked out over the expanse of Central Park.
“Plenty of water—” said a smooth Gregory Peck-like baritone behind me, “—and two aspirin right before bedtime.”
I spun, banging my shoulder against the doorframe, clutching for it at the same time as a large hand grasped my elbow. After the shock and disorientation passed, I recognized him as another guest, one who’d been seated farther down, beside Greg. Although there was something else, something terribly familiar, that I couldn’t quite place. But now was not the time to try to figure such a thing out, not with him still standing before me, clearly waiting—
“I beg your pardon?” I finally stammered, easing back a step so I could look up at him.
“Plenty of water and two aspirin right before bedtime are the best cure for any potential hangovers. Most useful thing I ever learned at Farraday.” A smile, fleeting and again, teasing the edges of memory with its familiarity, crossed his face. “Definitely came in handy during subsequent collegiate bacchanals.”
“I—thank you?” I groaned inwardly at the wholly ridiculous response, but at a loss as to what else I could possibly say. Luckily, it seemed as if nothing more was required.
“You’re welcome. And I apologize for having startled you. But I saw you leave the table looking unwell and when I asked Constance if you were all right, she expressed her concern that you weren’t, despite your insistence to the contrary, so I offered to come check on you.” The fleeting smile had completely disappeared, leaving his expression somewhat somber, the austere lines completely at odds with the large, heavy-lidded hazel eyes set beneath sandy brows, varying shades of green and gold and amber vying for dominance in the soft light from the hall sconces. Faun’s eyes, I thought irrationally—or maybe entirely rationally given his advice and references to bacchanals. Eyes that studied me with an almost uncomfortable intensity.
Managing a smile, I said, “I appreciate your concern Mr—”
“Roemer.” His hand slid from my elbow to my hand, taking it in a formal grasp. “John Roemer. Although most people just call me Jack.”
“Well, then … Jack.” The harsh, clipped name felt foreign and odd on my lips, the more old-fashioned, formal John appearing to suit him better and clearly, this whole evening was taking a toll, given the fanciful imagery and assumptions with respect to a complete stranger’s name. And eyes. “I do appreciate your concern, but as you can see, I’m fine.” I pulled my hand from his grasp, breathing an internal sigh of relief as it slid free with no resistance, no motion on his part to hold on. “We should probably return to the dining room—I’d like to set Constance’s mind at ease—”
“Actually, one of the reasons I offered to check on you was because she was in the process of shooing everyone to the living room for dessert and coffee.”
“Oh. Well, then, thank you. Again.” And could I sound any more inane?
Nodding, he fell into step beside me, hands in his pockets. “Are you really all right?”
A sidelong glance revealed that maddeningly familiar half smile had returned to his face. “Truly, I’m fine—” I glanced again, trying to remain subtle, but there was simply something about him… Tall, broad-shouldered and stocky, though not in a soft, self-satisfied way. More … solid. Older than me, at least thirty and … and …who was he? I felt as if I should know, familiarity teasing me with gossamer lightness, there and gone.
“I’m telling you, this is not the time.”
“Connie—”
“Did you not see her face?”
“Of course I did. Which is precisely why it’s the time. It needs to stop. We can’t let her go back.”
“Oh Greg—so intent on saving the world. Or at the very least, helpless young women.”
“You were never helpless, Connie. And neither is she. But this situation—it’s not right. I don’t know how someone like her found herself in such circumstances, but it’s going to crush her if it’s allowed to continue. We can make it stop.”
The voices, quiet yet urgent, drifted through the cracked-open pocket doors to my left, setting all my senses on high alert. Chancing another glance at Jack Roemer, I found him studying me once again with that quietly intense gaze, as if deliberating. Then, just as I decided it best to simply continue on to the living room … perhaps better still, make my excuses, claim illness, leave all of this behind, Jack discreetly knocked on the door, then slid it open further, revealing what appeared to be an immense study, all dark paneled wood and shelves filled to the brim and beyond with books. A massive partner’s desk, papers strewn across the vast surface, occupied one end of the long room, an elaborately carved fireplace the other, the details sharp and magnified, much like the moment itself. It was before the fireplace that Connie and Greg stood, silhouetted in the glow, their bodies creating shadows that angled up the walls and crept along the ceiling, dark, flickering apparitions, bearing down on us where we stood.
My gaze darted around the room, settling on Connie and Greg, who’d turned to face us, then Jack, back to them, again to Jack, who was making a motion as if to put a hand to my back, to urge me through the doors, push me into this new unknown. Gasping, I shrank back against the opposite doorjamb, pain shooting up my hand as a nail tore, my fingers cramping as they dug into the wood, shaking my head, each breath shallower than the last. All I wanted was to leave, because this was not right. At all. But at the same time, what was left of my rational mind argued, what could possibly happen here? There was a party going on, for God’s sake—nearly two dozen people in this apartment.
Yes, a party. People who’d been drinking all evening, who might not even notice that two guests and both of their hosts had gone missing.
Yet what could possibly happen in a library? In a room meant for study. For knowledge. For learning.
With people nearby. Plenty of people.
Certainly they would hear. Someone would notice something. Hear something. They wouldn’t let anything happen. Would they?
Would they?
Would they?
Around me, the world wavered … then steadied for a brief, hopeful instant before wavering again … fading, then—
Black.
Seven
“I think she’s coming around.”
The first slow blink was just enough to bring me out of the darkness. A gradual return to awareness, surroundings sharpening, beginning with the hypnotic dance of flames, red and orange tinged wi
th nebulous black edges. When I closed my eyes again, it was the sharp snap as wood collapsed that held my attention, followed by the distinctive, smoky aroma, teasing the inside of my nostrils. Familiar, comforting sounds and scents, allowing me to imagine I was at Mercier’s, the old woodstove standing sentry. Other than blinking, I remained very still, taking in dark wood gleaming in the mellow light from the fire and the Tiffany lamps standing sentry at either end of the mantle, the antiqued brass bases appearing to wind and twist upwards as if trying to capture the brilliant blue and green dragonflies ringing the shades.
Maybe if I lay perfectly still—played dead for long enough—the soft voices rumbling nearby would leave. Then I could get up and run. Run far away and pretend that none of this had happened. Whatever “this” was.
At the same time, however, I couldn’t lie here forever. And whatever awaited me beyond the curtain of full consciousness couldn’t possibly be any worse than anything I’d faced in the past.
But I would start slowly.
Tentatively opening and closing one hand, the tips of my fingers encountered what felt like the edges of a small pillow, scratchy wool, nubby with embroidery, tucked beneath my neck. By contrast, softness lay beneath the palm of my other hand—my dress—the velvet almost obscenely lush and rich in comparison to the sharp throbbing at the tip of my ring finger.
That’s what anchored me. Allowed me to understand this really wasn’t some bizarre nightmare. That pain simply felt too real. As did the soft caress along my hair, brushing it away from my face, while what felt like a cool cloth was placed across my forehead.
“Natalie?”
It was good that Constance’s was the first face I saw. Her soft brown eyes, brimming with kindness and concern as she leaned forward from the chair set close beside the sofa I lay on, just far enough behind my head I hadn’t noticed her in the initial perusal of my surroundings.
“What happened?” The words emerged on a thin whisper. Weak. No, no, no … I needed to be strong. To regain control, at least of myself.
“Shh … just lie there for another moment.”
I struggled to an elbow, the damp cloth falling from my forehead unheeded as the world spun briefly before righting itself. “What happened?” Still lacking the weight and conviction I would prefer, but at least I didn’t sound as if I was on the verge of sliding back into nothingness.
She sighed and reached down to the floor to retrieve the washcloth. “Spectacularly poor timing, my dear, and I can’t begin to apologize enough for that.” My gaze followed her long fingers as they smoothed over the fabric, folding it back along damp creases, although her gaze never left my face. She did not, however, offer anything more. If I wanted to know, I would have to ask. At the very least, I could read that much in her troubled expression. She would give no more than I wanted. If I wanted, I could get up and leave, no further questions asked.
But no questions answered either. And therein lay my choice. That I had questions, of that there was no doubt. But did I want them answered? It would be far less troublesome to allow them to die in this quiet room.
“Timing about what, Constance?”
“Are you sure you want to know?”
I looked up at Greg who’d appeared at the opposite end of the sofa, maintaining a safe distance even as he extended his hand, a cut crystal snifter half-filled with amber liquid.
Struggling to a fully seated position, I took a moment to consider. It couldn’t have been stated any more baldly—that whatever I wanted to know had the potential to upset me further. Silently, I held out my hand, trembling only slightly, wincing as I noted the ragged nail edge, torn down below the quick. When Greg placed the snifter in my hand, he did so carefully, waiting until he was certain my hold was secure before withdrawing. He glanced from me to the far end of the sofa, eyebrows raised. Feeling slightly foolish at granting the man permission in his own home, I nodded, then took a sip of the brandy, wincing again as the liquor burned a trail down my throat and settled into a glow in my stomach.
“We have a proposition for you.”
The sip I’d just taken erupted into a cough as Constance snapped, “Jack, I adore you as much as if you were one of my own sons, but for the love of all that’s holy, keep still until you’re needed.”
Jerking my head in the direction Constance was glaring, I discovered Jack Roemer directly behind me, hovering almost, like those dark shadows had appeared to just before I—
“Natalie—”
My head jerked again, a puppet, my body’s movements dictated by the whims of others, this time toward Greg.
“It’s honestly not as dire and dramatic as all this might lead you to believe.”
No? But I remained silent, taking another small, measured sip of brandy.
“Jack’s right that we do have a proposition for you—a project that’s had me at wit’s end for well over a year. Involving my goddaughter—” He selected a framed photograph from the nearby end table that he offered much in the same way as he’d offered the brandy, steady and careful.
I took the photograph, studying the black and white image of a hauntingly beautiful woman, the elegant head with its heavy chignon turned in a three-quarters profile pose, an obvious attempt at Grace Kelly iciness. However, the sidelong glance from beneath delicately arched brows and thick lashes was so full of inherent heat and sensuality, it rendered the image a study of vivid contrasts.
“Ava began as a model before moving to Los Angeles at the invitation of a producer to become an actress. She’s enjoyed a reasonable amount of success but not as much more than the ubiquitous beautiful girl or second or third ingénue. She has, however, cultivated quite the notorious reputation.” His eyes narrowed on my face as I glanced from the photograph to him. “None of this rings a bell, does it?”
“Should it?”
“Ava is a fairly well-known debutante from a very old money New York family.” Constance took up the mantle of explanation. “She’s always been a bit of a wild child—an unrepentant attention-seeker. Modeling, acting, impulsive marriages and divorces—scandalous affairs or wild dances on a table at the Cocoanut Grove.” She lifted a resigned shoulder. “The type of attention doesn’t matter much so long as Hedda or Army notices and favors her with a mention in their columns. Which of course, leaves her well-bred family practically breathing fire in their disapproval.” One eyebrow rose. “They’re of the ilk to value discretion above all else while discretion isn’t even in Ava’s repertoire.”
My head was throbbing with too much liquor combined with the sudden onslaught of information. Confusing information, but at the same time, like so much else this evening, familiar. I’d known of girls just like this back in Havana. Girls from good families who were nevertheless the object of many whispers—called “fast” by the boys and “trouble” by the nuns and “whores” by the tías. The epitome of what we were not supposed to be. I forced the little voice whispering I had no room to judge because I’d become just that, to the back of my mind. For one thing, it was not a status to which I’d ever aspired and for another, those girls—much like this Ava—had at least appeared to be having fun, even if it wasn’t my idea of fun.
“All right,” I said carefully.
Greg leaned forward, matching my pose on the edge of the sofa. “Ava’s going to be turning thirty in the coming year and as such, has decided the time is ripe for her to write an autobiography. Especially since word’s come out that Liz Taylor’s working on hers.”
Dumbfounded, I blurted, “But … Elizabeth Taylor is the most famous woman in the world.”
“You say that as if it should matter,” Jack commented drily from the position he’d assumed leaning against the mantle. “At least to Ava.” He smiled, but beneath the humor, I sensed a thread of something darker.
“I agree that on the surface it’s blatantly ridiculous,” Constance added, “but truth is, Ava, even in her limited fashion, carries a good deal of notoriety. Perhaps not to the extent of Liz Ta
ylor, but then again, who does? However, Ava’s still managed to maintain a regular presence in the gossip columns with her various shenanigans. Couple that with her roots in a venerable old New York family filled with high-powered businessmen and politicians and philanthropists and that has fiercely guarded its privacy throughout its existence and it adds up to irresistible fodder for most any publisher—especially the ones lacking a certain measure of ethics.” She spared the photograph another glance and sighed.
“But while she may be vain and reckless and rather more full of herself than she has any right to be, there is still something rather … fragile, I suppose, that invites protection. Which is why we’ve put such effort into finding the right person to—”
“Indulge her whims?”
Constance’s mouth briefly tightened. “Yes, Jack. It is in all likelihood a momentary whim. And for all we know, tomorrow she may change her mind about the whole thing and find something else on which to focus. However, until she does, you cannot argue that we are in the best position to do preemptive damage control.”
As Jack expelled an impatient breath and turned to pour himself another drink, Greg settled himself more comfortably on the sofa and met my gaze. “Look, I’ll cut to the chase. Would you be interested in submitting a writing proposal in consideration for becoming Ava’s ghostwriter?”
A log snapped and a shower of sparks, much like fireworks, fanned behind the wrought iron grate, brilliant shades of red and orange and gold briefly illuminating the sitting area, throwing everything beyond it into even deeper shadow.
“What? Why? I mean, why me, of all people?” The words followed, each faster than the one that came before, in my mind appearing almost as if they were running, tumbling after each other in a merry chase, much in the way as this whole thing was beginning to feel.
“Because I’ve gone through more than half a dozen of the best ghostwriters in the business and all of them, for whatever reasons, have failed to meet with Ava’s approval. Or she’s run them off with her impossible behavior. Or, as with the last one, seduced him and suddenly, he was far less interested in writing.” He snorted. “So I’ve decided to take a different approach—try a female ghostwriter. It at least eliminates the danger of seduction.”
Between Here and Gone Page 8
