"That sounds okay to me." Realizing how idle he was, he removed a head of lettuce from the fridge. "I'll make the salad."
They worked in silence, lovers side by side. Finally he broached the subject of the party. "I told my parents that we'd be staging a fight."
She turned to look at him. "And what did they say?"
"Not much. Someone usually gets drunk and causes a scene. I guess the roaring twenties theme brings out that kind of behavior in people."
She set a pot of water on to boil, then stared at it. "You don't plan on getting drunk, do you?"
"No." He couldn't help but wonder how much alcohol it would take to ease the fear of waking up alone on the morning after the party, of reaching for her and grasping nothing but air.
"I haven't found a dress yet," she said. "But I plan on going shopping tomorrow."
"Do you want me to go with you?"
She shook her head. "I can find something on my own."
He frowned into the salad bowl. "I wasn't trying to dictate your wardrobe, Gina. I was just offering you some company."
"I know. But I think it would easier if I went alone."
"Yeah, I suppose it would." He reached for a tomato and gazed at the knife in his hand. He could see his reflection, a distorted version of himself, shimmering in the blade.
"Where are the flowers?" she asked.
He diced the tomato and set down the knife. "On the dining room table."
"And the candles?"
"I placed them on the table, too. They're scented, I think. Raspberry or something."
She gave him a sweet smile, and he suspected she was trying to make the best of the time they had left.
"I didn't know you were such a romantic, Flint."
"I'm not," he teased. "I'm just in it for the sex."
"Really?" She laughed, but the humor didn't quite reach her eyes. "So am I."
"Then we make a fetching pair. Don't we, milady?"
"Yes, we do."
"Indeed." He took a steady breath, insisting he would do just fine without her. And she, in turn, would do just fine without him. They'd only spent two and a half weeks together, which amounted to nothing in the scheme of things.
Yet as he proceeded to finish the salad, to concentrate on the meal they'd planned, the day of the party loomed darkly in his mind.
Like an ominous cloud preparing for a cold, brittle rain.
* * *
Eleven
« ^ »
On Saturday afternoon Gina went home to the brownstone. She needed some time alone, a few hours of solitude before she returned to Flint's house to get ready for the party—the roaring twenties gala that would end her relationship with the man she loved.
Like a zombie, she sat on the sofa and stared straight ahead. How was she supposed to walk into the Kingman estate and pretend that her heart wasn't shattering into a million painful pieces?
She blinked and caught sight of the entertainment center—the television, the stereo, the DVD player, the nearly outdated VCR.
Shifting her gaze, she studied her film collection and thought about Flint's mother, the beautiful starlet who'd committed a selfish, dramatic act.
Damn you, Danielle. Damn you for hurting your son, for making him so wary, for tainting his views on marriage and motherhood.
Flint deserved better. He deserved a mother who'd cared about him, who'd remained by his side to watch him grow.
A knock sounded, interrupting Gina's thoughts. She took a deep, emotional breath, realizing one of her sisters must be at the door.
What if it was Maria? She wasn't sure what to say to Maria considering her suspicions about Steven Conti.
Then again, why should she say anything? Gina wasn't a saint. She'd been sleeping with Flint, knowing full well he wasn't going to make a commitment. So why condemn her sister?
She answered the summons and found Rita, not Maria, at the door. The nurse gave her a weary smile.
"Rita? What's going on? You look beat."
"I received another gift from my secret admirer. And I just needed to talk to someone about it."
"Oh, honey. Come on in," Gina said. "Could it be a birthday present?" She hadn't forgotten her sister's birthday.
Rita shook her head as she entered the apartment, and they headed for the living room, where they sat side by side on the sofa. "No. Why wouldn't there be a card?"
"Are you worried this guy could be dangerous?" Gina asked, studying the other woman's fretful expression.
"I don't know. Maybe."
"Was the gift overly personal? Or sexual?"
"No." Rita smoothed her hair. It fell to her shoulders in a rich shade of brown. "There wasn't anything disturbing about the gift. In fact, he's never given me anything that doesn't seem well-intentioned, yet I can't seem to shake this edgy feeling."
"Women's intuition?" Gina asked.
"Maybe. Or it might be just good old-fashioned fear, my imagination running amok. There are a lot of wackos out there."
Gina frowned. "Have you considered calling the police?"
Rita sighed. "I don't think it would do any good. I don't have any proof that he's a … stalker. I don't even know who he is."
"Maybe you should file a report anyway," Gina suggested, wondering if the police would take the case seriously.
"I will, if he does anything that could be interpreted as threatening. But for now I just wanted to get it off my chest."
"What are they saying at the hospital? Does anyone have any theories?"
"The other nurses are convinced he's a young, handsome intern." Rita picked up a magazine from the coffee table, then set it down, giving her idle hands something to do. "They think the gifts are romantic. And in a way, I suppose they are."
"But in another way," Gina added, "the whole thing is creepy."
"Exactly." Rita fell silent for a moment, then she gave Gina a serious study. "So, how are you coping with your corner of the world? Are you holding up okay?"
Instantly, Gina's heart clenched. She hadn't told her sister that she had fantasies about becoming the spin doctor's wife, but her eyes probably mirrored the truth. "I'm hanging in there."
"That doesn't sound very promising."
"I know, but I'm doing my best." Gina glanced at her film collection, troubled once again by Flint's mother, by the devastation she'd caused. "Rita, what do you know about suicide? About what drives a person to it?"
"Oh, my. What brought that on? Are you sure you're okay?"
"I'm sorry. I should have explained." She looked at her sister, at the concern on Rita's face. "A friend of mine is struggling with his mother's suicide. It happened when he was baby, but he just found out about it recently."
"Did she leave a note?"
"Yes. Apparently she became overly depressed after he was born, obsessing about the career she gave up and panicking about raising a child. Can you imagine a new mother being that desperate? That self-absorbed?"
"Actually, I can," Rita said, her voice taking on a professional, if not clinical tone. "Have you ever heard of postpartum depression? Or better yet, postpartum psychosis?"
Gina moved closer. "Are you talking about the baby blues?"
"In a sense, but to a much stronger degree. New mothers affected with these mood disorders experience a range of symptoms and sometimes exhibit bizarre or dangerous behavior. The mild cases disappear on their own, but if a severe case goes untreated, it can lead to disaster."
"Like suicide?" Gina asked.
"Yes. Of course, there's no way to know about your friend's mother, not without her medical records."
"I suppose you're right." But that didn't mean she couldn't mention it to Flint, that it wasn't worth discussing.
* * *
Gina returned to Flint's house hours later. Armed with information, she searched the estate and found him on the patio, his hair disturbed by the wind.
He sipped a cup of coffee and watched the setting sun. The air was cold and brisk, the sk
y a scatter of clouds.
He turned toward her. "You're back?"
She sat across from him, praying that she could ease his pain, that together they could uncover the truth behind Danielle's suicide. "I have something to tell you, Flint."
He frowned at the landscape, at the perfectly groomed yard, at the towering trees and stone planters. "I have something to tell you, too."
He looked worried, she thought. Edgy. Like a dark, brooding warrior. "What's wrong?" she asked, realizing her news could wait.
He met her gaze. "Tara's coming to the party."
Gina felt the blood drain from her face, the air in her lungs expand. His ex-lover was attending their breakup? "Did you invite her?"
"What? No. Her publicist called and said to expect her."
"Why?"
"I don't know. But he said that she wanted to talk to me. Privately. And that it was important."
How important? Gina wondered. Was Tara going to make a play for him? Was she going tell him that she missed him? That her marriage was falling apart? That she needed comfort? Love? Sex?
Gina wrapped her arms around her middle, pride keeping her voice steady, her outward appearance intact. How could she compete with Tara Shaw? With the one true love of Flint's life? "Are you nervous about seeing her?"
"Frantic. I can't believe this is happening. Especially tonight."
Yes, she thought. Tonight. When their staged fight would set him free. "How could she just invite herself? That isn't right."
Flint blew a windy breath. "Maybe not. But there were rumors in the tabloids about her attending this party."
Rumors that he'd started, Gina realized. Maybe deep down he'd wanted Tara to show. Maybe he had fantasies about seeing her just one more time.
"Will her husband be accompanying her?" she asked, hopeful.
"No. Her publicist said she'd be there alone. Or with her bodyguard, I suppose. Around nine."
Suddenly nine o'clock seemed like the bewitching hour, the hour Gina would lose the glass slipper her prince would never retrieve. Letting Flint go was almost more than she could bear, but turning him over to his ex-lover made every cell in her body weep.
"Should we stage the fight before or after Tara arrives?" she asked, praying he would opt to cancel.
"Damn it. I don't know." He dragged a hand through his wind-ravaged hair. "Before, after. Either way, the press is going to blame Tara for our breakup. And those gossip rags are going to spread more lies. This thing will never end."
This thing? Their affair? The nights they'd spent in each other's arms?
She turned to look at the sky and saw the dim gray light of dusk, the promise of rain.
"You never told me your news," Flint said, drawing her attention to him.
Good heavens. She'd forgotten all about his mother. Now she had to tell him. She had to bring up another emotional issue.
"Danielle might have been ill, Flint."
He gave her a blank stare. "Ill? What are you talking about?"
"There's a disorder some women are affected with after childbirth. It's called postpartum depression. And there's an even stronger degree of it that's considered a psychosis."
He stood and pushed away his chair. "Please, Gina, don't make excuses for my mother."
"I'm not." She rose and walked toward him. "These disorders can be quite severe."
"I've heard of them. I've seen things in the paper about women using postpartum psychosis as a defense in court because they freaked out and killed their kids."
"I'm not here to debate the cases you've read about. But I'm telling you, these disorders are real. Rita is the one who brought this up, and she's a nurse." Gina put her hands in her pockets to ward off the cold. "And after I talked to my sister, I spent hours on the Internet researching postpartum depression and the varying degrees of it. I even called some of the support groups to ask questions."
"My mother was depressed about losing her career."
"Yes, she was. But maybe those weren't feelings she could control. If we talked to your father, if we obtained Danielle's medical records, maybe we could find out the truth."
"We? I'm not going to drag you into this mess. And to be quite honest, I'm not sure it matters."
"Yes, it does."
"Why?" he asked. "She's been dead for thirty years. Why should I care?"
Because you're hurting, Gina thought. And you need answers. "Danielle could have been struggling with any number of symptoms. Some women lack interest in their babies, and others have fears of harming them."
Flint frowned. "Do they have fears of harming themselves, too? Is that one of the symptoms?"
"Yes."
He shook his head. "It's just so bad to fathom."
"I know. But according to the experts, postpartum psychosis is considered a serious medical condition and should be treated immediately."
"Do you honestly think that's what was wrong with my mom?"
"I can't say for sure. But it's a possibility."
"And you're willing to help me find out?" he asked.
She nodded.
"What if we find out that she wasn't ill? That she just hated her life. And me."
"I don't see how anyone could hate you, Flint."
He moved closer, and when they were just inches apart, he reached for her. His touch, his affection made her ache, but she accepted his embrace, holding him in the circle of her arms.
"You used to hate me," he said.
"That isn't true. I never did."
"Are you going to miss me as much as I'm going to miss you?" he asked.
More, she thought. He would have Tara waiting in the wings, an ex-lover all too willing to console him. "Yes."
He pulled her closer, so close their bodies were nearly one.
She drew a shaky breath. How could he torture her like this? How could he pretend that Tara wasn't there, like a ghost drifting between them?
"We should get ready," she said. "We're expected at your parents' house by seven."
"It doesn't matter. We can be late."
He held her a moment longer, and suddenly the wind shifted, making way for a quiet rain.
As water drizzled from the sky, Gina closed her eyes and wished that she could find a way to stop loving Flint. Yet as she inhaled the scent of his skin and felt the wonder of his body next to hers, she knew she would love him forever. This man she couldn't keep.
* * *
The Gatsby party was in full swing when Flint and Gina arrived. The Kingman estate had been transformed into the jazz age, where speakeasies, prohibition and it ruled supreme.
It, Flint knew, was the 1920s slang for sex appeal. And everyone at his stepmother's party clamored to show everyone else that they had it.
Women frolicked in flapper dresses or glided through the mansion in long elegant gowns or pajama-style smoking suits. The men in attendance did their best to embody screen stars like Douglas Fairbanks, Sr., and Rudolph Valentino. Of course, some chose a more humorous approach, going for the Charlie Chaplin or Buster Keaton vibe. And then there were the mobsters, the tough guys who dipped their hats like Al Capone.
Flint used to enjoy this soiree, but tonight he was too damn nervous to slip into the party mode.
He turned to look at Gina. She walked beside him, as breathtaking as the rain-shrouded night. Her vintage dress shimmered, streaming to the floor like a silver-lined waterfall. Her hair, secured in a fashionable bun, was adorned with a jeweled headband that complemented the long strand of pearls draped around her neck.
Why was she so quiet, so elegantly reserved? Was she playing a role for the reporters? The regal heiress. The Boston princess preparing to face the Hollywood movie star.
He knew that Tara's impending arrival troubled Gina. It troubled him, too. He had no idea what Tara wanted. Nor could he deal with any more stress, not tonight. Not on the night he was losing the woman he—
He—
He what? Lusted after? Craved?
No, he t
hought. No. It went much deeper than that. Somewhere along the way Gina had become more than an addiction, more than the equivalent of a sexual drug.
She'd become part of him, part of every breath he took, every word he spoke, every smile, every frown, every emotion that made him who he was.
Dear God. Flint's knees nearly buckled.
He loved her. He truly loved her.
All this time he'd been fighting the panic, the obsession, the seesaw of emotions. The desperate twists and turns of a captured heart.
Now it was too late. Gina had agreed to end their relationship.
And why wouldn't she? He'd never offered her anything but sex, anything but an erotic tangle between the sheets.
There was no reason for her to love him back. He'd done nothing to earn that. He'd accused her of being selfish for wanting to balance a family and a career. Yet she'd come to him today, as a friend, trying to ease his pain about his family. About the mother who'd abandoned him.
"What time is it?"
Flint turned to the sound of Gina's voice. He wanted to hold her, to press her against his heart, but instead he took a steadying breath and checked his watch. "A little after eight."
"It's raining harder now," she said.
"Yes." Suddenly he could hear it pounding on the roof, rising above the music, the voices, the party that would end his affair with the woman he'd never really gotten to love.
A tuxedoed waiter stopped with a tray of champagne, and Gina shook her head, refusing a drink. Flint declined, as well.
"Gina?" he said, after the waiter moved on.
"Yes?"
"Do you want to meet my parents?"
"Certainly."
He took her arm and led her into the drawing room, where James and Faith Kingman socialized with guests.
Flint introduced her, and she smiled graciously at his family. James shook her hand, and Faith kissed the side of her cheek. The three made small talk while Flint saw his miserable life flash before his eyes.
His life as a bachelor.
Would Gina marry someone else? Of course she would, he decided a second later. She wanted a home, a husband, children. And she wanted to keep her career. Something he should have supported long before now. But he'd let his mother's suicide blind him, confusing an issue that had never been problematic in the past.
SLEEPING WITH HER RIVAL Page 13
