They’d finished work for the day, and now they sat having tea in his workroom, a combination study and bedroom of sorts, where there were books and papers strewn everywhere and a kind of couch he slept on. The room was always somewhat dim, but today it had been made cheery by a fire the houseman had made.
“I have to talk to you, Jamie,” he said suddenly, his tone serious. He was hardly ever serious; that was one of his endearing charms. One sensed, as Jamie did, a deep sense of loss and longing in the man, but even so, he was unfailingly cheerful and charming.
Now, his sudden mood-change surprised her.
“Look,” he said, “it’s about a character I’d like to bring into my book.”
For some reason she felt relieved. It was as if she felt that, at some time or another, David just might imagine himself to be in love with her. He was, she felt certain, going through a very vulnerable time of his life, just finding his way back from a near breakdown. But he only wanted to talk about his work.
“You’re the writer,” she said, pouring more tea for him. “I’m the typist. By the way, I finished that chapter today, and you also told me to remind you to phone your agent. Sugar?”
He leaned forward in the armchair. “Jamie,” he said, “I want to introduce the character of your Cousin Kurt in my book.” When she only stared at him, shock coming into her hazel-brown eyes, he went on quickly: “Not as himself, of course. I mean, not using his real name. But I need a tragic figure to—”
She stood up, nearly spilling her tea. “You need a tragic figure! You need a—a character to put in your book and you want to write about it Kurt? David,” she said, her voice beginning to sound angry, “you can’t do that.”
“Okay,” he said quietly, “sit down, Jamie—please sit down. Now, just give me a moment to explain, will you? Have your tea like a nice—”
“I’m not a little girl,” she reminded him. “And I’m not going to sit by and let you exploit—”
“Now wait a minute!” His voice sounded just as angry as hers. “I’m a writer, not a butcher, remember? I have no intention of exploiting, as you say, your young cousin. I only wanted to—to use him as a kind of tragic figure, the one pure, good element in a place where evil reigns supreme.”
She looked into his eyes. He meant what he said; she’d been foolish to jump to that terrible, accusing conclusion.
“I’m sorry, David,” she said finally.
“Then it’s all right for me to introduce a young boy around Kurt’s age who is killed on a dangerous run?” He reached out, taking her hand warmly in his own. “You know I’d never deliberately hurt you, Jamie. You also know I’m very, very fond of you and that having you under my roof is sheer sunshine to me. I heard myself sing in the shower yesterday and it shocked me so I nearly slipped on the soap. I haven’t done that since before Margo got sick—it was glorious, feeling happy once again. So please don’t think,” he said seriously, “that I’d want to reopen a wound for you. I know you’re among the happy living again, though; I can sense it. In fact, your own strength somehow helped me—that, and the fact that when you spoke of your cousin, it was almost as if my book were being written for me.” He smiled at her. “So only say the word and I’ll find another way to resolve my book. Honestly.”
They talked about it for a while, sitting together by the fire like comfortable friends, and finally it was decided that, by writing about Kurt, in a sense it was making him and his dream immortal. It was a problem that had been resolved, and once the shock of reading about a young man destined to die on the slopes of an infamous mountain had passed, Jamie once again began to enjoy her job.
She often sat late in his study, retyping his notes or reading one of his earlier books. Tonight, she had curled up in one of the armchairs by the dying fire, a copy of one of his most acclaimed novels in her lap.
“Hello,” David said from the doorway. He was dressed to go out “Still up? Still reading? You ought to be out enjoying yourself.”
She flashed him a dimpled smile. “I am enjoying myself. I love this book.” She held up the book; its title, The Way of the Wild Ones, was printed in bold black letters across the face of the book’s jacket.
“One of these times,” he told her, “instead of just reading about them, I’ll see that you meet them.” He leaned against the doorway, regarding her. “I should have done so right away—they’d love you, Jamie.”
“Love me?” She shook her head. “There are lots of young girls in Aspen much prettier than—”
“Oh, you’re quite pretty enough. Beautiful, actually, when the light catches your face. You’ve a softness about you, a lovely, sweet, dreamy quality that sets a man’s soul to rest ” His eyes were tender. “It’s a very precious quality, you know. Very few women have it. You do, and my wife did, and yes, my mother, although she had the true poet’s tough soul. She was a realist—you, Jamie dear, are not.”
“I’m not sure I like what you’re saying,” she told him. Sometimes, like now, for instance, he made her feel—slightly uncomfortable. It was almost as if she were about to open some magical door and there was David, standing squarely in front of it, barring her way.
“I’ve marked some of the loveliest passages,” she told him, changing the subject. “The one about Aspen in the very early morning—that’s very beautiful. It was in this book, chapter—”
“I know where it is, of course,” he said. “But you know all about the early mornings around here. One day I expect you’ll start beating me down to the kitchen.”
He waved at her and left, leaving her to sit pondering that passage in one of the novels. It had been pure and simple, the feelings that came to one on the slopes very early in the morning, before “the earth people” were yet awake. David’s hero had told of experiencing feelings that brought him close to God and “nearly at peace with the world, such as he knew it was.”
The following morning, a full hour and a half before time to fix David’s breakfast, Jamie left the house, dressed warmly in ski clothes, carrying with her the skis she hadn’t put on since Kurt’s death.
The morning outside, clothed in darkness still, in disguise, as David had said, was very still and cold. Jamie sat on the bench for a moment, adjusting her boots, then she headed for Ajax.
Her plan was to ski only on its safe, lower slopes, those that were close to the Lodge, located at the foot of the mountain. But this early the Lodge was closed and she wasn’t too sure of the trails. Nonetheless, she sat outside the Lodge and put on her skis, then stood up and headed toward the nearest trail. She was a good skier, a girl born and reared in snow country, but she was not an expert nor did she ever want to be. But there was a certain feeling she enjoyed having, not the sensation of speed but of beauty, skiing down a slope, the snow and whiteness spread out before her.
She felt that this morning, coming down the gentle slope on the full side of the mountain. When she’d reached the open space near the Lodge, Jamie turned and for the moment surveyed the growing morning in all its enthralling beauty.
David had been quite right—it was lovely. Then, suddenly, like some bright, avenging angel, a figure appeared on the horizon. The sunrise was behind him like some kind of blinding spotlight, coloring the snow, softening it, so that his quick descent seemed more like a ballet than a feat of skill and courage, for he was, she realized, coming down one of the highest, most dangerous runs. It seemed, as she watched, that he sometimes floated in the air, suspended for a few heartbeats like some lovely snowbird. She watched, enchanted.
Then he was down, coming closer, going very fast. He took a wide circle, slowed, then began to coast toward her swiftly.
He was very tall, tall as a Nordic prince; the eyes that looked down at her were of a pure china blue. His face was tanned and handsome; it was a face that was somehow familiar.
Of course—he’s the one who wants to ski down the run that killed Kurt!
“You surprised me,” he said, still looking down at her. “I didn�
��t expect to find anyone on the slopes this early.”
“Neither did I. But it was beautiful,” she told him candidly, “watching you come down.”
They reached the benches at the side of the Lodge. A light had gone on inside; the cook apparently had arrived. The young man bent to help her take off her skis.
He looked up at her as he did so, his eyes startlingly blue. “Have I seen you on the high slopes?”
“Not me. I’m not that good. Besides, I don’t believe in risking one’s neck.” Then, because she knew he’d find out anyway, since her job with David had given her a certain notoriety, she decided to tell him. “I’m Kurt Carnot’s cousin. Perhaps you knew him?”
He looked startled. “Of course—I met him two years ago up in Vermont. Say—I’m terribly sorry about the accident.”
“Thank you.” She picked up her skis. “Well, have a nice day.”
“Hey,” he said, “wait a minute!” He had caught up with her. “Don’t run away, please?”
“I’m not running. I have to go to work.”
His eyes were admiring. She felt a sudden surge of something, some kind of just-born feeling. Sheer animal attraction, but all the same, it was there between them, like a beating, excited heart.
“Have breakfast with me,” he said, his eyes still on her face. “Please. I’d like to have a chance to talk to you. It isn’t often a beautiful girl waits for me at such an early hour.”
If they knew about this, they’d all be here, Jamie thought.
For a time, they were the only ones in the Lodge’s dining room. As they settled themselves into a corner, choosing a table by a window, Jamie found herself wondering when Thorne would tell her who he was. Then she realized that he seemed to understand that she would know. Apparently, there were posters all over Aspen bearing his face and the announcement that he would try the treacherous Silverlode Run.
Surprisingly, they did not talk of that run. Instead, Thorne spoke of other places, other runs, other mountains, avoiding Ajax altogether. Finally, over second cups of coffee, as early morning skiers began to filter into the dining room, he looked down at his coffee cup; his voice was candid.
“You’re David Saunders’ new girl, aren’t you?”
Jamie felt her mouth drop open. “I’m—what?”
He shrugged his shoulders, wide in the bright ski sweater.
“I understand he’s working on a book and that he’s got the pretty cousin of Kurt Carnot working for him.” His eyes met hers. “Working for him and living in his house.”
Quick heat flushed Jamie’s face. “I’m afraid,” she said quietly, “you’re jumping to conclusions.”
“Then you aren’t his girl?”
“Of course not. I—”
He looked at his watch. “I’ve a business meeting in fifteen minutes. See you tomorrow, same time, same ski run. Okay?”
Without thinking, Jamie found herself agreeing.
The shuttle bus had begun running and she hopped aboard. There was a feeling inside her—excitement mingled with something close to joy. Was it possible that in so short a time, Thorne could make her feel like this?
She came down like a pinched balloon. It was light by the time she pushed open the front door of David’s leased Victorian, and the first thing she saw was himself, sitting gloomily behind his desk in the study, with the door wide open, so he could see her as soon as she walked in.
“I ought to fire you,” he said, and at first she thought he meant it. Her eyes flew to the mantel clock—ten-past seven!
She sank into a chair, shaking her head. “I—honestly don’t know how this happened. I mean—I meant to get back to fix your breakfast and—”
“Hang the breakfast; it isn’t that. It’s only that I promised I’d send in that chapter today and I doubt if we can get it to the post office now for the noon delivery out of here.”
Jamie took a deep breath. She felt horribly guilty. How could she have forgotten the time this way?
They got back to work, finally, Jamie busily trying to get the typing done by noon, David softly dictating into the machine across the room. Usually, this time was spent by Jamie in reading, but this morning there was extra work to get out, and since she’d begun late, by noon her shoulders ached from the hurried typing.
“I’m a slave driver,” David told her, handing her a sandwich. “Here, eat this. I’m afraid I’ve been terribly hard on you today.”
“Not at all,” she said. The sandwich and noontime tea tasted delicious; usually the housekeeper sent in a lunch tray, but until today, Jamie hadn’t enjoyed the food so much. It was almost as if meeting Thorne had revitalized something in her, brightened life up to a point where everything seemed beautiful, everything was fun, food was delicious and the whole day shone with bright promise.
“I must say that whatever you did this morning suits you,” David told her, stacking pages neatly on his desk. “You’ve a positive glow about you.”
She smiled. “It was all your idea, really. I read how lovely it is on the slopes in the early morning and I decided to see for myself.”
“And?”
“And,” she said, her cheeks flushing, “you were right. Absolutely.”
Later that afternoon, David came over to her desk. He leaned over her, read the page she was working on and pulled up a chair, close to hers.
“I’ve decided it’s time I turn you loose on the vultures, Jamie.” He sipped his first drink of the day. “They’ve been very, very curious, you know. For one thing—most of them never thought I’d be able to work again. And secondly, to have me back at work, writing about them and doing it so busily and efficiently that they probably know it’s good, what I’m doing—well, they naturally want to meet my inspiration.”
“I’m not your inspiration,” Jamie said softly. “Kurt is, remember?”
“Nonetheless, they all want to meet you. Why don’t we—”
The shrill ringing of the front door bell stopped their conversation. David winced, then got slowly and reluctantly out of his chair. Jamie heard the heavy front door being opened by the housekeeper, then, it seemed to her, there was a sudden change in the atmosphere, a different feeling.
The serenity was gone. Definitely.
The young woman was the first to rush into the study. She was talking as she came, and when she saw Jamie, she was suddenly silent.
“Hello,” Jamie said, beginning to gather up the typed notes and the carbon of the manuscript. “I was—just leaving.”
“Oh, don’t run off now,” the young woman said, coming closer, “we’ve all been dying to meet you.” She sank into one of the easy chairs by the fireplace. “Any female who could get David to go back to work must have something very—special.”
Jamie felt sudden anger begin in her, but she tried hard not to show it. Had there been some implied insult, some hidden meaning in the woman’s remark? The eyes that met her quick glance were certainly not friendly; they were cold, the color of silver ice.
David saved the moment; he came in carrying his drink, not trying to hide the fact that he’d been interrupted at his work.
“But this is a special occasion,” the man behind him was saying. “The exhibition needs you there, Dave. You’re the naughty little boy who writes horrible things about us. We need you.”
There was a sudden silence. David had begun to look vastly annoyed; his face had turned a dark uncomfortable color.
“May I present my secretary, Miss Jamie Eden.” He put a casual arm around Jamie’s slender, sweatered shoulder. “This is my good friend, Miss Rhonda Miles, and this—this is my beloved physician and fellow ice-fisherman, Mel Goodman.”
The doctor was balding, about forty, and, except for his bright, intelligent eyes, a clown. The woman in the armchair was red-haired, hard-eyed and beautiful. She was also extremely hostile, or at least so it seemed to Jamie.
“We were just beginning to get a lot of work done,” David told them, not bothering about whether or n
ot he was being rude. “I thought I made it very clear at your last boring bash, Rhonda dear, that I do not like to be phoned or visited before the very late afternoon.”
The red-haired girl pouted. She had that very special look about her, a look that was almost some kind of stamp or mark. It was, Jamie realized, the look of the Very Rich. It could, perhaps, be imitated and very likely was in many instances, but the look was certainly there on this girl. It consisted of expensive but country-chic clothes, blue jeans and a little-boy-look sweater, and hauntingly breezy perfume and carefully tended, tousled, flaming hair. That was the look of Rhonda Miles. But there was more to her than the look, as Jamie was fast discovering.
She was cunning. In thirty or so seconds, she had made David promise to come to her party, and she’d even managed to get him to smile as he promised.
Only after they’d left, driving off in a bright green Porsche, did David return to his former mood.
“I must be out of my mind,” he said. “Now why in blazes did I let that witch talk me into going tonight?”
“Apparently the lady has powers to charm.” She slid a fresh piece of paper into the new machine David had surprised her with a few days before. “She didn’t seem to have a very hard time convincing you.”
“She bewitches people, that one. Honestly, she can put some sort of voodoo on people and before they know it, they’re caught.”
“Caught?”
“Never mind,” he told her. “Anyway, I’ll have to call and tell her—” He let his breath out slowly. “Wait a minute! This just might be the perfect moment!”
Jamie just looked at him, unprepared for what he was about to announce.
“This is it,” David said excitedly. “This is the night I’m going to let them all have a look at you at last. You’re going to meet them all, little girl, the wild ones, the spoiled ones, the evil ones, the miserable ones. I’m going to turn you loose on the Beautiful People!”
THREE
Precious Moments Page 3
