Between Here and Gone

by Barbara Ferrer

  Blindly, I pushed my arms through the sleeves as he held the sweater open, resisting the urge to burrow into the sudden comfort. I hadn’t realized how chilly the occasional breeze had become since the sun had sunk below the horizon, only a few purple and rose-hued streaks lingering in the distance, waving goodnight.

  “No comment?” he asked as he carefully untwisted the collar and smoothed it—the gesture at odds with the slight mocking edge to his words.

  “Too many and not a single one fit for public.”

  His hands stilled on my shoulders, yet I had the most uncanny sensation if I turned my face up to look, the smile would have finally reached his eyes. Before I could test my theory, however, a waiter appeared, charming smile and pad at the ready to take our drink orders.

  “Drinks for you and the young lady, sir?”

  “Natalie?” Jack deferred to me as he resumed his seat.

  “An Old Fashioned. Please.” I’d originally planned for nothing stronger than wine, but that was before Jack Roemer appeared out of nowhere.

  “Martini, extra dry, three olives.”

  And of all the insignificant, absurd things in the world—

  “You—”

  One heavy brow rose. “I’m sorry?”

  “I can’t believe it took me so long to make the connection. It was you.”

  “If you say so, Natalie—or … will you be using Natalia now?”

  That question—hearing him, of all people, say my real name so easily, as if he’d been granted the right—slipped through my bloodstream like quicksilver, a brief flash of anger suffusing my body with heat.

  As I replayed that scene again—then once more, just to make absolutely certain—our drinks appeared. “Thank you,” Jack murmured as the waiter set them in front of us and handed us menus, reciting the evening’s specials before departing, leaving us in the care of the low hanging branches and the heavy moon that was beginning its rise.

  The brush of Jack’s arm against mine as he nudged my glass closer was little more than incidental, but it was enough to deliver me out of my own head. I took a deep breath and returned his silent toast before taking a sip of my drink with a nonchalance I wasn’t quite feeling.

  “You were at the restaurant—the day Greg invited me to the party. Inspecting me, like some cut of beef.”

  “Ah—that.”

  “Yes, that.”

  Jack shrugged. “The other gentleman, and I use the term loosely, was another ghostwriter under consideration for the project. Clearly unsuitable. The fact that you happened to be there was just—”

  “Don’t.”

  At least he had the good grace to nod—acknowledge that I’d guessed correctly. “All right—it was a logical case of killing two birds with one stone. I wanted a closer look at you and—” He paused, studying me over the rim of his glass. “If I may be frank?”

  “You’re asking permission now?” I made no effort to keep the venom from my voice.

  Lowering his glass to the table, he stared down at the drink as if it were a mirror. Grimacing, as if not enjoying what he saw, he finally said, “I was honestly hoping to find something obviously objectionable about you. Anything I could use to buy more time.” He laughed down into whatever he saw reflected back from the transparent surface. “The joke then, was of course on me. The more I learned about you, the more perfect you were.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re tough. Won’t let her run you off. And you have a unique insight into the kind of life Ava comes from. You know our world. It’s a valuable asset.”

  He offered the compliments and simple platitudes so smoothly. Too smoothly. Enough to confirm my suspicions that there was far more to it than that. I knew it. I took another sip, welcoming the harsh burn of the liquor. “More games. From the very beginning of this … farce, I’ve been nothing more than a pawn, moved to and fro at your whims without any regard for what it might do to me.” The fury began building again, slower and fueled by whisky.

  “I know. And I’m sorry.”

  Sorry?

  Men like Jack Roemer never apologized. For anything. Which begged even more questions and suspicions. And for what seemed like the hundredth time, I questioned the wisdom of having taken on this project. But now, I was well and truly in with no way of gracefully extricating myself. And truthfully, did I really want to? How could I consider giving up before I’d even begun? Especially when the only viable alternative was returning to New York and Mercier’s. I couldn’t. Not yet. And not simply because of pride. Or Remy.

  Much as I hated to admit it, my curiosity—the thirst for adventure that had once fueled dreams of travel and education—had been reawakened. Perhaps in a more subdued fashion than what had existed in that giddy, hopeful girl, but undeniably there. Insistent enough to overcome memories of painful experience and very legitimate reservations.

  “I hope you like steak.”

  I stirred from my contemplation of the bright red maraschino submerged amidst the dregs of my drink. “I beg your pardon?”

  “The waiter was rather patiently waiting for you to tell him what you wanted for dinner, but you were off in another world. So I ordered for both of us—Chateaubriand and Caesar salad for two. Lobster bisque to start. A nice vintage Bordeaux.”

  “I don’t understand you, Jack.”

  “How so?” After a subtle gesture requesting a fresh round of drinks, he settled himself in his chair, leaning back with the air unique to powerful men—the same air Greg Barnes possessed. Relaxed, yet fully aware of his surroundings. With his austere features and tawny hair combed close, following the elegant slope of his head, he took on the aura of a jungle cat, surveying his realm, those exotic eyes not missing a single detail. For the Jack Roemers of the world, the entire world was their realm.

  “You give me seemingly kind advice on how to prevent a hangover all the while aware you’re about to turn my world upside down. You give the go ahead that I should be given this project, yet you clearly hate me—”

  “Not you,” he broke in sharply. “Not at all. The situation, however…” He stared up into the branches extending over the table. A leafy canopy providing a sense of privacy. “I don’t think I’m speaking too far out of turn if I say that Ava’s …”

  “Mercurial?” I guessed when he faltered, recalling how Greg and Constance had described her.

  “Mercurial. Capricious. Either one works, really.” His fingers toyed along the rim of his martini glass. “You’re very astute.”

  “I’ve spent the better part of the last several years doing little more than observing people. I suppose that’s also a trait that will be useful.”

  “It is a large part of what makes you so perfect for this. Maybe even more so than your upbringing.”

  “But Jack—why offer me, or anyone else for that matter, the job at all? Surely as her attorney and the administrator of her estate you have some power to put a stop to all of this.”

  God knows—if the job had never been offered, none of the past two months’ insanity would have ever occurred.

  Yet if it hadn’t …

  If not forced into the light, my past would most assuredly have remained in the veils and curtains and half-truths in which I’d kept it so firmly shrouded. Had Jack not forced me to confront my past, I would have remained blissfully unaware of the changes to my family’s circumstances—remained trapped between scarred wood tables and an anonymous parade of entitled young men for who knows how much longer.

  “Technically, I have the legal power to put a stop to this, but again, you have to take into account all those capricious, mercurial qualities of Ava’s. I call a halt to this without her okay and she’s liable to run off to some unscrupulous bastard who’d make a sensationalistic hash of her story and put it in print faster than you can say Jack Sprat. Yes, we could eventually stop it but not before considerable damage was done. And not to the family, necessarily. Again, I don’t think I’m speaking out of turn by saying that Ava—”
He sighed. “She’s her own worst enemy. By choosing to play the game her way, regardless of how much time it wastes for everyone, I maintain more control than if I exert actual control.”

  “Damned if you do and damned if you don’t.” I stirred the slush of ice cubes and alcohol in my glass with the pastel swizzle stick. “But me?”

  A corner of his mouth twitched. “I at least trust you have a sense of integrity.”

  “How strange to hear you equate me with integrity. Especially with what you know of me.”

  He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew a cigarette case. After I declined the silent offer, he lit one with a sleek silver lighter. The fine web of lines radiating from the corners of his eyes deepened as he exhaled a steady stream of smoke, blue-gray against the oncoming night. “Most of us, at some point or another, find ourselves in situations where we do the unthinkable,” he said slowly. “From that standpoint, I understand you—better than you might ever begin to imagine.”

  Aside from a brief thinning of his mouth, his face revealed nothing more, schooled into carefully neutral lines. “This whole farce … it’s been a year—a lifetime—of frustration that I took out, rather unfairly, on you. My behavior—how cavalierly I treated your personal history—was reprehensible.”

  I waited until the waiter had placed fresh drinks in front of us. “Did Constance make you promise to apologize?”

  He regarded me steadily. “She didn’t have to.”

  I so wanted to hate him. For everything that had transpired since the moment he walked into my life, I desperately wanted to hate him. But I wasn’t entirely sure I could.

  • • •

  Past the salad and well into the chateaubriand and Bordeaux, the topics shifted subtly more toward the personal. Preferences and opinions on art and music and current events. He leaned toward Klee and O’Keeffe. I argued the merits of Seurat and Picasso. I declared Rachmaninoff ideal for rainy weekend mornings and the smoky longing of Ella for listening to in the dark and yes, I did like the Beatles a great deal. He insisted if I listened to jazz of any kind, then it was a moral imperative to broaden my horizons and include Mingus and Brubeck and Coltrane. He was currently enjoying Joan Baez and Bob Dylan—an unexpected admission, since the notion of a high-society WASP listening to folk and protest songs seemed incongruous at the very least.

  Less surprising was his interest in the well-publicized space race. But rather than the cool intellectual discourse I would have expected from him, he instead leaned forward in his chair, propping his elbows on the fine white tablecloth with the earnest abandon of a schoolboy. His voice rose and fell as he discussed the Mercury and Gemini missions in more than casual detail, a wistful smile crossing his face as he quoted Kennedy’s words on the importance of man eventually reaching the moon and what it meant to the world.

  Curiouser and curiouser. And fascinating.

  And in spite of the drama and sheer surreal nature of the circumstances that had brought me to this dimly lit patio on a mild February night, it was as normal an evening as I’d experienced in, well … years. A lovely, genuinely enjoyable evening.

  As he poured the last of the wine, Jack casually mentioned, “Just so you know, while I have a few business matters that require my attention, my schedule is otherwise clear.” Left unsaid was that he would be available for that first meeting with Ava, scheduled to take place in a few days’ time after her current modeling assignment—a Palm Springs photo shoot for Harper’s—concluded. That as promised, he’d not leave me to beard the lion in her own den comprised of one of the luxurious hotel bungalows.

  Originally the plan had been for me to conduct the interviews at her Bel Air home, but that would now be impossible since it had recently been sold. The affair with the wealthy married Italian lover from whom the house had been a gift had run its beautiful tragic course—meaning the staunch Catholic wouldn’t be divorcing his wife to become Ava’s next matrimonial conquest. As such, he’d been summarily dismissed, and memories of the house’s role as secluded love nest were simply too … something. No, it wouldn’t do at all. Information Jack conveyed with a wry grin.

  Lacking for anything else to say, I settled for, “Well, in that case, being so close will be … convenient.”

  “For Ava. As usual.” In one smooth motion, he pushed his chair back and stood. “Care to dance?”

  I stared at his outstretched hand. “Dance?”

  “Yes. Acceptable form of social interaction between a man and a woman.” He spared a glance at the couples swaying beneath the canopy of light strewn branches. “Seems like the thing to do.”

  What a volatile, maddening, undeniably fascinating man. One who, enjoyable evening notwithstanding, I wasn’t even sure I liked very much. Slowly, I placed my hand in his and allowed him to lead me to a small cleared space in front of the dais from where a small combo had provided background music throughout the evening. For this set, they’d been joined by a winsome blonde singer clearly meant to draw the patrons out onto the floor. Silky smooth vocals skated through a serviceable rendition of “Girl From Ipanema” with no real smoke or edge, but somehow, the absence of such seemed unimportant in light of what I did have—fabric, lying warm and smooth beneath my palm, the breeze rustling the leaves of the tall, regal palms and the moon hanging low, as if keeping a watchful eye. All that was missing was the roar of crashing surf.

  At my sigh, Jack pulled me fractionally closer, his hand splayed low on my back. Afraid he’d misinterpreted the longing that had been so apparent in that one long exhalation, I resisted, trying to subtly angle my body away, maintain distance. His hand tightening around mine, he lowered his head, his breath tickling the fine hairs along my temple. “It’s not quite the same, is it?”

  I wasn’t compelled to question his intuition. Releasing another sigh, I relaxed back into the sway of the slow bossa nova. “No. But it is the closest I’ve been in a long time.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  After several heartbeats I answered, “I don’t know.”

  The band segued to “Blue Gardenia,” the cool blonde managing to deliver the lyrics of love and loss and broken-heartedness with a respectable amount of pathos.

  “Such a mystery, Natalia.”

  With each step, each breath, calm drew me more closely into its embrace. A few more breaths, another verse of the song, and I was able to recognize that it came from feeling as if he was speaking to me. He used my real name not to taunt, but because that’s who he saw me as. Not the façade I’d worn for so long. Yet I still felt compelled to threaten our fragile truce—to challenge him yet again.

  “I don’t know how you can say that. You know everything. Every dirty little secret.”

  “But don’t you see?” He drew me another fraction closer, his voice floating above me. “Therein lies the real mystery.”

  Fourteen

  If I’d imagined anything more would follow along the lines of that cryptic statement, I would have been disappointed. Rather, we simply finished our dinner with coffee and dessert and more conversation, retreating to the safe topics of weather and what I might do with the next few days.

  “The usual sightseeing haunts, I suppose,” I mused out loud as I stirred sugar into my coffee. “Seeing as I have the time. Grauman’s and the stars on Hollywood Boulevard and definitely Griffith Park.”

  “I’ll take you to that.”

  I stared over the delicate china rim of my cup.

  “I love the Observatory. I go every time I’m in LA so I’d be going anyway. Unless it’s an imposition.” He paused, the sugar spoon poised above his own cup. “Would it be an imposition?”

  “No, of course not.” Which came as a bit of a surprise. It wouldn’t be an imposition. If it was anything like tonight, it would be fun. Never mind that at the evening’s outset I had considered his presence an imposition. One that had quickly disappeared. But why was he offering? His presence tonight I understood. Equal parts obligation and warning
seasoned with a dash of reassurance. But to commit himself further begged further questioning. “Are you sure, Jack? It’s lovely of you to offer, but it’s not nece—”

  “I’ll take you.”

  Any further protest died a quick death at the look on his face. Half excited boy, half powerful man who got precisely what he wanted. He would take me himself and that was that. I wasn’t quite sure whether to laugh or to find the nearest flowerpot to bash over that elegant head. Dealing with a man who inspired such contrary reactions was exhausting—even in limited doses.

  But on the appointed day, he surprised me again by remaining on his best behavior—being the charming, easygoing Jack with whom I’d shared that first fleeting encounter. Before … but no—I wouldn’t think of that. Not today. Today was for simply being two people. Sightseeing. Being normal.

  We strolled the grounds of the park as he pointed out sights from our hilltop perch and showed me how to look through the telescopes and peppered me with so many fascinating nuggets of information about the Observatory’s history and exhibits that I finally had to hold my hand up like a police officer and call halt. Both of us laughing at his unbounded—and infectious—enthusiasm. And still another surprise, that after I begged for the break, he was perfectly content to be quiet. Allowing me to just take in the beauty of the day and absorb the various sounds that seemed as if they were coming from a distance. Birds chattering back and forth, the distant hum of cars winding their way up the road to the park, a conversation taking place mere feet away. Sitting on this hillside felt like being on top of the world but in a far more natural way, a safer way, than that horrifying platform atop the Empire State Building. I shuddered, remembering how naked I’d felt, frigid winds swirling, with their taunting calls to draw me out into nothingness.

  As if sensing the change in my mood, Jack asked, “Ready to go?”