Who Do You Love?

by J. M. Bronston

  Paul said, “Why don’t we take a walk, maybe get you a cup of coffee and see if we can find some tissues.”

  “I must look a mess.”

  He laughed. “I’m sure you’ve seen better days.” He stood up. “Come on. Let’s collect the dogs and get out of here.”

  A couple of calls brought the dogs over, and when she picked up Wiley, Gena said, “I’ll have to carry him. I left without bringing his leash.”

  “I’m guessing you and the boyfriend had a lover’s quarrel?”

  “Felt more like a fight. Let’s not talk about it.”

  “Suits me. We can talk about the weather. Or the state of the union. Or whatever you like. I just want to see a smile back on that pretty face.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  “Let’s walk over to Madison,” Paul said as they headed toward the park’s exit. “First we’ll get you some Kleenex. Then we can find a place with outside seating so we can tie up the dogs and get a cup of coffee. And talk about the weather.”

  The steadying calm of his voice and his easy manner were a blessing. Even though these last days had been so busy, and she’d been running since six this morning with no rest, she’d been feeling wonderful, so very pleased with her work and proud of herself. And then it was all spoiled by the sudden turmoil with Warren. No wonder she was an emotional mess, to say nothing of her face being red with weeping and her eyes swollen and unsightly.

  Thank goodness Paul Brackman seemed able to take it all in stride. At a corner newsstand he bought her a packet of tissues and then suggested they walk down to the Graydon Hotel, where the restaurant had tables outside during the summer months.

  “I’m sure I can get someone there to produce a leash for Wiley,” he said. “The concierge probably keeps a couple of extras for guests.”

  It was a short walk. The evening was lovely, the rapid daytime pace had slowed to a more leisurely stroll, and she was glad of an excuse to stay away from home, and Warren, a little longer. Her mood lifted. She began to feel less scattered and unhappy.

  “Would you like me to carry Wiley?” Paul asked. “Maybe he’s getting heavy?”

  “No. He’s a comfort. I like holding him close.”

  “Lucky dog,” Paul said. She gave him a surprised glance. He smiled, reassuringly, and said, “What I mean is, I always think dogs know when they’re needed, and I’m guessing Wiley is glad he’s helping you.”

  At the restaurant, Paul asked the waiter to get a leash from the hotel’s concierge, and with the dogs secured next to them, tied up to the decorative barriers that separated diners from sidewalk passersby, Gena and Paul settled into the comfy seats and considered the menus the waiter handed them.

  “Just coffee for me,” Paul said to the waiter. He looked questioningly at Gena. “Have you had dinner?”

  “Oh, God. I hadn’t even thought. I’d been so busy today…had a meeting at noon so I missed lunch and then worked straight through. And then—” she paused. She couldn’t speak of that awful scene with Warren. “And then, no. No dinner.” She thought of the bag of Chinese food sitting on the coffee table back at the apartment, and her stomach growled politely at the thought. “Actually, I just realized, I’ve had nothing since a couple of doughnuts and coffee on the way back from Connecticut, and that was early this morning. I must be starved and didn’t realize it. In fact, I am starved, and I did just realize it.”

  “Well then, no wonder you’re feeling a little unsteady—going all day on an empty stomach. A couple of doughnuts and a cup of coffee. Didn’t your mother tell you the first meal of the day should be a hearty one? To get you through the rigors of the day.” He gave her a nice smile and then said, “Order up. Have a steak or whatever. You’ll feel much better. And then you can tell me what you were doing in Connecticut so early in the morning.”

  “I don’t have any money with me.”

  “Oh, come on.” His smile turned into a laugh. “I’m rich enough. Have whatever you want.”

  Gena laughed, too. “I figured,” she said. “And I will have a steak.” To the waiter she added, “Rare. And the mashed potatoes and a salad on the side, and any green vegetable the chef recommends.”

  “Wine?” Paul asked.

  “Why not. Whatever you choose.” The prospect of a full meal was already cheering her up.

  Paul looked over the wine list and, with a nod to the waiter, indicated to him something listed there. “And bring some bread right away,” he said, smiling. “The lady is starving. And hold my coffee till later.”

  “Of course, sir,” said the waiter, and he disappeared.

  “So,” Paul said, sitting back in his chair, “tell me what you were doing in Connecticut.”

  She thought a minute, choosing how much to tell him. “Well,” she said thoughtfully, “I was working on my Romy deVere story.”

  “That’s a name I hadn’t heard in ages, before you mentioned her the other day. She was well before my time. And certainly well before yours. But I’ve seen pictures, and she was an incredibly beautiful woman. And also something scandalous, I seem to recall.”

  “I think her scandalous days are well behind her now. But she’s still beautiful. Ninety-seven years old and still beautiful. She’s been living a little reclusively, in a sort of cabin in the woods up in the northeastern section of Connecticut, up near the Massachusetts border. In recent years, she’d begun painting and she’s doing really wonderful work. She was showing it in a local gallery up there, very modestly, not promoting it at all. I think just for her own pleasure. And one of our people caught wind of it and thought Lady Fair should do a story.”

  “I’m impressed. That’s a story with rich possibilities. New lives, new careers, new goals. Inspirational for everyone—not just older women. At any age, it’s good to know there’s plenty of life ahead of us. I congratulate you. It’s going to be a good article.”

  As though on cue, the waiter arrived with their wine. They were both quiet while he first went through the brief ritual of getting Paul’s approval before he poured. When he’d gone, Paul raised his glass.

  It was like a toast to her and her story, and she nodded her head to thank him.

  Then she took her first sip. And her eyes opened very wide.

  “Oh!”

  Paul smiled. “Nice, isn’t it?”

  The word “nice” was perhaps too modest for a Bordeaux that was on the wine list at two hundred and eighty-five dollars a bottle. And had she known, Gena might have wondered why a man she hardly knew would spend so much on dinner just to cheer her up.

  “Nice? I never tasted anything like it.” She was silent for a moment, trying to find the right words. Finally, she said, “It’s like music.” She thought another moment, then added, “It’s like the opening bars of a Beethoven symphony. It just sings, bang! right through you.”

  “You sure do have a writer’s way with words. I’m glad you like it.”

  She took another sip. “What is it?”

  “It’s one of my favorite Bordeaux—a Pomerol.” Paul’s smile said how pleased he was. Pleased and admiring. For though Gena couldn’t know it, with his selection of the wine, and her reaction to it, he’d satisfied a question he had about her at the same moment that the busboy arrived with the basket of dinner rolls and a small dish of butter curls.

  She really was very hungry, and she attacked the rolls enthusiastically. Paul apparently enjoyed watching her place a roll on her bread plate, transfer some butter onto it, break off bits of roll, butter it, gobble it down, and then repeat the whole ritual on a second roll.

  He laughed as she finished off the second roll. “You’re a grown woman,” he said, “and it’s none of my business, but are you leaving room for the steak?”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” she said. “I always eat like a horse.”

  Which made Paul laugh even harder. That was one con
fession he’d never before heard from any woman. Now he was looking forward to seeing her eat—in fact—like a horse. And at that very moment, her dinner arrived.

  She was ladylike about it, but despite the earlier tears and her obvious stress, she did indeed eat with a hearty and healthy appreciation of the good food on her plate. Paul let her go to it for a bit, and then he started the conversation again.

  “So.” He went back to the subject of her story. “Tell me some more about Romy deVere. I’ll ask you the question people always ask about celebrities: what’s she really like?”

  Well, that was one place Gena wasn’t going to go, not with all the secrets buried there. Her response was cagey. “Too early to talk about it. You’ll just have to read the story when it’s published. But I’m guessing you don’t subscribe to Lady Fair, so you’ll have to watch for it on the newsstands.”

  Paul saw the very subtle change that had passed over her face. He looked at her sort of sideways for a bit, and then he said, “You look like a very satisfied cat with a couple of canary feathers peeking out at the corner of your mouth.”

  She shook her head slightly. “That’s a very roundabout way of saying I look as though I know something I’m not sharing. Well, as I said, you’ll have to read the story.” Then she shrugged, as though to say she couldn’t possibly care less. “But I think you’re a man who doesn’t read women’s magazines. So you’ll never know.”

  With that, she cut and popped into her mouth a perfect bit of juicy rare steak, and smiled around it at him.

  “Hm,” he said. “As I said. A very satisfied cat. I guess I will have to read that story, even if it is in a women’s magazine. I can see I won’t hear any more about that tonight. So tell me, how’s the story on Sonny Gaile?”

  She chewed down some more steak and took another sip of the wine.

  Paul’s glass was empty and the waiter appeared like magic to refill it.

  “There aren’t any secrets buried in that story, too, are there?” He sipped his wine, looked at her over the rim of his glass, then, abruptly wide-eyed, he set the glass down. He laughed. “There it is again. Another little yellow feather, just peeking out.” He reached across the table and touched a fingertip lightly to the corner of her mouth. “Right there,” he said. “You’re keeping a whole slew of secrets, aren’t you?”

  She was abashed. She hadn’t realized how transparent she was. Because of course, yes, the Sonny Gaile story had its big secret, too.

  I’m going to have to develop a poker face. They should teach you that in journalism school.

  She tried to look noncommittal. “I guess you’ll have to read that story, too. But remember, Lady Fair does not do tabloid journalism. What we write is legitimate.”

  “I will look forward to it. I really will. Women’s magazine or not, I’ll watch for your pieces. Sonny Gaile and Romy deVere.” He said the names as though he was entering them into his database.

  And with that, they set aside the topic of Gena’s work. For another hour, they chatted lightly about the weather, about local politics, about where she went to school, and how she came to be working at Lady Fair. He wanted to know why she’d been at his sister’s home that day, and she explained about finding Wiley abandoned in the rain and needing to learn more about the breed, and he told her about his sister’s interest in Crested dogs, and that Sweetie Pie was from a line of best-in-show winners, but that the breed had not yet made it to the top of the ladder, not yet having placed well enough at the annual Westminster Kennel Club show.

  “Now there’s a cause you could take on: promote the popularity of Chinese Cresteds. They’re not very well-known and some people don’t like their looks. Too bad. I think they’re really very elegant. Look at the Pie, there. And your Wiley.” Gena and Paul both looked down at the two dogs, who were sitting together most companionably, seeming to be having their own sociable evening, “chatting” to each other and watching the passing scene. “Two versions of the same dog, and both damned good-looking, I’d say.”

  How could she not appreciate his obviously genuine interest in her work, in her life, in her concerns? He listened quietly, attentive to her. With his hand folded, a rest for his chin, or gesturing lightly, emphasizing his comments.

  Nice hands, she thought. And she enjoyed watching his face as he talked and was tickled by his wry enthusiasms. A nice face. Very grown-up and intelligent. Nice gray eyes. Nice dark hair, expensive haircut. Very nice smile. I like how he knows his way around. That was a killer wine.

  He was signaling for the waiter. “I’m ready for that coffee now.” Turning to Gena, he said, “How about dessert?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “I’d love anything with ice cream.”

  “We could get you some profiteroles, and have them pile on some ice cream on top.”

  “Great. Sounds perfect. With plenty of chocolate sauce?”

  “Sure.” He gave her that sideways look again. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  She didn’t answer. Just looked at him quizzically.

  “I thought you were kidding,” he said. “Women are always worried about their diets. I thought you were putting me on.”

  “You’re right about women and their diets. Everyone I know. But, no. I’m afraid I have the opposite problem.” She made a face. “I think God threw me a curve. He gave me a metabolism that just gobbles up everything I eat. I try to put on some curves, but—”

  And there she stopped. Remembering Warren and his complaints about her looks. She looked away and said, “Never mind. You don’t want to hear all that. And I’m actually lucky. I love desserts, plenty of women wish they were me, and I have nothing at all to complain about.”

  He’d seen right through her, saw the sudden cloud that stopped her, knew some sort of nerve had been touched, and kindly let it go. To the waiter he said, “We’ll both have the profiteroles with plenty of chocolate sauce, and ice cream on the side.” To Gena he said, “What kind of ice cream?”

  “Anything.”

  “Chocolate,” he said to the waiter. “For both of us.”

  * * * *

  He walked her back to her building and said goodnight to her on the sidewalk. “You’re sure you’re okay now? No more tears?”

  “I’ll be all right. Really.” She looked up at the building. The forty-first floor was a long way up, and she knew she’d have to face Warren when she got there.

  Paul’s gaze had followed hers, and he surprised her with a touch on her arm. He was very close.

  “Gena,” he said, all serious now. “If you need help, if you want to talk, if I can do something—”

  What a nice face he has. What nice eyes—

  “Thank you, but I’m all right. Really.” She looked up again, toward the forty-first floor. “He’s probably already gone to bed.” It seemed she didn’t need to explain who “he” was. “I’ll gorge on some more ice cream. Ice cream always helps,” she said. “And you’ve been very kind. Thank you. Perhaps I’ll see you again in the park.”

  “You’ll see me again. I want my handkerchief back.”

  “Oh! Of course! I might not see you in the park. How can I get it back to you?”

  “Oh, yes. Of course. In case I don’t see you in the park.” He took his wallet from the inside breast pocket of his suit jacket. “Here’s my card. It has my home address and phone number. You can call me, if you like.” He paused and glanced up along the building’s façade. “Or if you need to. You know, if things don’t go well, you can always call me.”

  Her hand went to her hair. It was the first time in the last couple of hours she remembered how disheveled she’d become.

  “I’ll be all right, I’m sure. I’m just embarrassed that I’ve been such a mess tonight.”

  He shook his head, as though not accepting what she was saying. “I understand,” he said. “Life is so complicated, is
n’t it?” Then he smiled and said, “Don’t forget. Call if you need to,” and he and Sweetie Pie headed up Seventy-Third Street.

  She watched them until they reached the corner and turned to go uptown.

  She sighed a very big, very deep sigh.

  She should have been troubled by how she felt—and perhaps that would come later—but there was no question about it, she was attracted to this man. A forbidden reaction to what had been, after all, only human kindness and generosity. But it was a very nice feeling. She sighed one more time, savoring the lovely feeling. She picked Wiley up and, hugging him close, she whispered into his long, pointy, softly feathered ear, “He really is a very nice man, don’t you think?”

  * * * *

  It was already past eleven o’clock, and on the chance that Warren was already asleep, and because she’d left in such a state, she stopped at the desk and got the spare key from Alfie. And, sure enough, when she let herself into the apartment, all was dark.

  But Warren wasn’t there.

  Not like Warren to leave just because he was mad at her, but it was just as well. She knew she looked a mess, and she hoped to get cleaned up and in bed before he got home.

  But first, she got her phone from her bag. And with Paul’s card still in her hand, she transferred the information into her contacts list.

  Paul R. Brackman. 953 Fifth Avenue. New York, NY 10028.

  And a telephone number. Just one. Cell? Landline? Nothing more.

  She turned the card over in her hand, examining it. Heavy stock, engraved. Cream white. Yes, she thought. It suits him. It goes with the very good suit and the very good haircut.

  She was examining it as the door opened and Warren came in. She slipped the card into her pocket.

  He dropped his keys onto the little table next to the door. “Where’d you go?” he asked.

  Wiley started to bark. She picked him up, shushing him.

  “Out. We walked around.”

  This is how it begins, she thought. Keeping secrets.

  He went into the bathroom. She waited, holding Wiley. Then he came out.