"And the family believed him. And forced you to leave. And then took back what Owen left you.'*
She gazed into the fire, her face like stone.
"And your brother fled to Europe. You haven't seen him since?"
"No."
"Nor missed him?'*
"I've missed him," she said after a moment, her voice low. She turned back to Currier and told him how Ben had taken care of the two of them. "I've wanted to see him again for a long time, but every month that goes by makes it harder. I was so angry and hurt, and then I was so much a part of the Salingers—and he'd warned me, you see, that they didn't really care about us—there just didn't seem any way we could be brother and sister again."
"I'll take you to Europe," Currier said. "You'll have a grand reunion and forget the past."
She smiled. *Thank you, Wes, what a lovely idea. I'd like to go to Europe someday, though I'm not sure about a reunion. . . . But first we have to buy a hotel. If you still trust me."
He stood and came to her chair, raising her to stand with him. "I believe in you. I trust you. We'll get your hotels back from that son of a bitch, and then—^"
He kissed her with a passion that revived the weekend and convinced her he meant it: he believed her. And Laura re-
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I sponded, her passion matching his. Then she forced herself to pull back. "Wes, I have a plane to catch."
"I'll take you in mine." His voice was rough. "You wanted to come here on your own, but you'll let me take you back."
She hesitated only a moment. "I'd like that," she said, and they kissed again. And as he held her to him, Laura realized that this was the first time in years she was hiding nothing. She could say what she felt and be what she wished. Never again would she have to tread the mine fields of her lies. Gratitude for Currier filled her, another kind, a better kind, than for his help with the hotels. It could almost be confused with love. But she didn't want to think about that now; it was too soon. It was enough to feel, to be alive, to enjoy him as he enjoyed her. And in the last clear moment before she let herself sink once again into the touch of his hands and mouth and the promise of his body, a thought came to her with a surge of triumph and relief.
She was finally free of the past.
1
Chapter 16
ALLISON and Patricia walked once through the apartment and then back again while the landlord turned on lamps against the darkness of a rainy October afternoon. The apartment was on the third floor of a tall, narrow house on the Prinsengracht, once the residence of a large family but long since converted to five apartments, one on each floor. "Definitely not for you," Patricia declared. "Very small."
"So is Amsterdam and I like them both." Allison turned to the landlord who watched from the doorway. "It's fine; even the furniture is perfect. I'll take it for a month."
He shook his head. "I'm sorry; I need a minimum of six months."
"I never plan that far in advance." She began to write a check. "I may be here that long, but I can't guarantee it. I might even stay a year," she added with nervous gaiety, causing her cousin to give her a swift look.
"You wouldn't stay that long. Your mother would think you were involved with someone and she'd drag you—^"
"She'd be right," Allison said, still with that nervous excitement that made Patricia frown.
She handed the check to the landlord. "You will take this, won't you? I'd like to move in tomorrow."
He studied the check. "Are you related to the Salinger Hotel?"
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"Intimately." She broke into a giggle. "The hotel and I are intimately related."
Patricia took her arm. "You're acting very oddly. Come on; ril buy you a hot chocolate, or something stronger."
"You are a member of the Salinger Hotel family?" the landlord asked.
"My father is president of the company." Imperiously she ^aved toward the telephone. "Call the manager of the hotel; he's my reference. And I'll move in tomorrow/*
"I suggest you call first, to confirm that all is satisfactory."
Allison sighed. "I wouldn't have this trouble in Boston." But she knew she would; landlords were the same everywhere. It was just that she wanted everything about this apartment to be as magical and exciting as all of Amsterdam, as all her times with Ben.
"I suppose you're seeing him again tonight," said Patricia as they left the house and stood in the doorway, partially protected from the downpour beating on the cobblestones and the gray water of the canal. She opened her umbrella with an angry snap and waited for Allison to open hers. "You're ignoring me in the middle of a foreign country."
Allison burst out laughing. "You know Amsterdam as well as I do." They walked along the Prinsengracht, their umbrellas merging with dozens of others in a fanciful, undulating black roof. "And you've spent the last three weeks with some American college man, and I also heard you say you're bored and want to go to Paris. Anyway, I did ask you if you minded my going out with Ben."
'The first two times, you asked me."
"And you said you could take care of yourself and I didn't need to ask permission as if you were my spinster aunt. Oh, let's not quarrel; I'm feeling too happy."
"You don't know anything about him and he has shifty leyes." I "He doesn't have—"
"I'll bet he can see perfectly well without those glasses; he just wears them to hide his eyes."
"Patricia, you're being a bitch."
"And you're being gullible."
"Fuck it," Allison muttered. "I really was feeling happy."
Judith Michael
She stopped walking. Rain drummed on her umbrella as she stood still, looking at one of the brightly painted glass-enclosed excursion boats that plied the canals, giving visitors the best tour of Amsterdam. Her grandfather had taken her on one of those the first time she was in Amsterdam, when she was eight. They'd laughed and made jokes, she remembered; it had been a lovely day. She sighed. It was easier being a child.
"Fm going back to the hotel," she said to Patricia who was standing indecisively nearby. "I'm also going out with Ben tonight."
Patricia shrugged and walked beside her. "We should have taken the hotel limousine," she said after a moment. "My feet are soaked."
"I didn't feel like it."
"We could take a taxi."
"I don't feel like it."
They walked the remaining six blocks, rapidly, without speaking, and once inside the hotel stood in the lobby, catching their breath and dripping quietly on the Oriental carpet. "Are you going to sulk?" Patricia asked. "I was only warning you for your own good; you're just so dammed infatuated—^"
"Hello," Ben said, coming up to them as he crossed the lobby. "Shall I bring towels?"
"For us or the carpet?" Allison asked, smiling.
"I was thinking of you." He looked at Patricia. "Can I get you something, Miss Salinger?"
"No. Thank you. Allison, I'm going upstairs and have tea sent up. If you care to join me— **
"Paul!" Allison cried and dashed across the lobby. Heads turned, and frowns followed her squishing shoes and loud greeting. "Paul, for heaven's sake, what are you doing in Amsterdam? Did you just get here? Are you staying here? Oh, how wonderful to see you—!"
He put his arms around her and they hugged each other. "You look damp but healthy," he said, holding her away from him.
"You're getting gray," she responded accusingly. "And you look older." She touched the lines at each side of his mouth. "These are new."
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"I am older," he said with a smile. "Your mother wonders why she hasn't heard from you."
"Oh, God, you're a missionary."
He shook his head. "A simple tourist. Hello, Patricia."
"Hello, Paul. What a surprise; did you know we were here?"
"Leni told me. She was at my mother's when I called the other day, from Geneva—^"
"—and she asked you to be a good Boy Scout and ch
eck up on Allison."
"—and she said if I had any plans to be in Amsterdam of course I'd want to see both of you. I told her I wanted very much to see you, so here I am. Are you free for dinner? I want you to meet someone."
"Actually not," said Patricia. "I have a date.**
Allison shot her a look. "You didn't mention that earlier.'*
"You'll come, won't you, Allison?" Paul asked.
"Yes, if I can bring someone. Whom do you want me to meet?"
"Emily Kent. She found me in Rome about six weeks ago. I knew her years ago in Boston; you might have met her."
"I've heard the name." She tilted her head. "Is it serious?"
"I don't know. It's too soon to tell."
"Where is she?"
"Upstairs in our room, changing. She seems to do a lot of that. Who's your friend?"
"Ben Gardner." She turned and looked across the lobby. "Damn, he's gone. That was rude of me; I ran off and forgot him. Do you mind having dinner with a stranger?"
"Not if you don't."
"Then you and Emily come to our suite at seven. We'll go to Excelsior—unless you don't want French?"
"That's fine; Emily will love it." He kissed her on both cheeks. "You look a lot happier than you did at home."
"I am a lot happier. Everything is wonderful. What about you?"
He shrugged. "Not wonderful." There was a pause. "Have vou heard from Laura?"
"No."
'*You don't even know where she is?"
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Judith Michael _
1
"I don*t want to know. I'll see you at seven." |j
We all act like betrayed lovers, Paul thought as he went to the elevator. But he wondered how else they could have acted. If only she'd trusted us and told us the truth; we all loved her enough—
Bullshit, he said silently as he reached his floor and walked to his room. How much would we have loved her if she'd told us she came to rob us, and then stayed on to get what she could from Owen?
Laura Fairchild wouldn't do that. Not the Laura Fairchild I knew.
And that was where his thoughts always stopped. Because Felix had proof. And Laura had admitted he was right. Which meant Paul Janssen, like everyone else in his family, had been made a fool of by a very clever actress. A very lovely, very loving actress, Paul thought, the pain like a fist in his stomach. He didn't want to believe it, but it always came back to that in the end.
"Hi," Emily said as he unlocked the door and walked in. She was sitting at a desk, her slender blond head silhouetted against the window. Paul's photographs of her, taken over the past month, were spread out on the desk and propped against the wall. There were almost forty of them, with Emily posing in evening dress, business suits, hiking clothes, and filmy nightgowns: professional poses, outdoors and in, with the ancient buildings, modem skyscrapers, mountain ranges, and deep forests of Switzerland as backdrops for her cultivated beauty. Emily dropped the one she had been studying and stood up and they kissed lightly. "Guess who just telephoned."
"I can't imagine. Does anyone know we're in Amsterdam?"
"Barry Marken does. The luckiest chance: I saw his name on the guest register and called him this morning, and he just called back. We're having dinner with him tonight."
"I've already made plans for dinner with my cousin.'*
"Paul, we can see her anytime. Barry is leaving tomorrow."
"Am I supposed to know who he is?"
"He's your friend! Isn't he?" she asked with sudden nervousness. "You were the one who told me about him; I'm sure you've mentioned him at least twice, that's why I called him. And he was very polite. . . . Paul, he is your friend, isn't he? The publisher of Eyel He owns the Marken Agency."
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"I remember. We've met a few times in New Yoik. He's an acquaintance, not a friend."
"I shouldn't have called him." Her voice was anguished. "It wasn't proper."
"I wouldn't worry about it; he obviously wasn't insulted since he made a dinner date. But why don't we invite him up here for a drink? You want him to look at these photographs, and he won't do that at a dinner table."
"No, but I want more than a working relationship with him; I want a proper friendship. It's not enough for him to think of me as a fabulous model and you as a brilliant photographer."
Amused, Paul said, "He could think of us in worse ways." Then he shrugged. "AH right, I'll call Allison; we'll make it another night."
*Thank you, darling." She smiled at him and, as he made his telephone call, he acknowledged her perfection. There were no flaws in Emily Kent. The only child of a wealthy, adoring, old Boston family, she had everything. She had few friends, which Paul found puzzling, and had not married, though she had been linked to several prominent men in Boston and New Yoiic, but her singleness could be exclusivity: a trait she cultivated. Like Paul, she was almost thirty, though her beauty was such that it was impossible to guess her age: neither the sun nor laughter nor worry had left traces on her alabaster skin, rounded cheeks or small moist mouth. She had perfected a slight tilt to her head that kept her sleek blond hair partially over one eye: a racy look that seemed at odds with the ingenuous, slightly startled expression in her light blue eyes. It was that contrast that Paul had highlighted in his photographs of her.
For years her hobby had been modeling in benefit fashion shows. After her twenty-seventh birthday, when no one acceptable had offered to be her husband, she began to take modeling seriously, and so a hobby became a career.
"We'll have a drink with them," Paul said, hanging up the telephone. "Allison's friend is going out of town tomorrow, and she's anxious for us to meet him."
"Who is he?"
"Ben Gardner."
"From where?"
Judith Michael
"She didn't say. Five-thirty for drinks. What time are we meeting your friend Market?"
"Mariten, darling. And he's our friend—or he soon will be. Seven o'clock. Where are we having drinks?"
"Here in the lounge."
"Good, I can change for dinner after we shop." She pulled on her rain hat. "Paul, 1 don't mean to criticize, but you won't forget Barry's name again, will you? Especially in front of him? It's not flattering to do it with anyone, but Barry can be so enormously helpful to me. And to you, too. That is what you want, isn't it?"
"It's more important that he help you, if he can." He was silent as they took a taxi to Beethovenstraat, where Emily had heard of a new shop. He wasn't sure what he wanted. That was the heart of everything: he didn't know and didn't much care. Nothing tantalized him; nothing aroused his passion, either for work or for play. It was as if something inside him refused to make any connection with the rest of the world, because he'd been hurt—and because he had inflicted hurt, m
In the satin-draped Valois boutique Emily tried on hats I while Paul watched. Sprawled in an armchair nearby, he saw • her image in the triple mirror: full face and two perfect profiles, like framed pictures, and automatically his fingers curved as if he were picking up his camera. Making a circle of his thumb and forefinger, he held it up to frame Emily's triple image. She smiled at him in the mirror, knowing what he was doing. "What a shame you didn't bring your camera; you don't often get three of me at one time."
He lowered his hand. "I'd like to try some new pictures of you."
"Of course, darling. Anytime."
She was the perfect model, he reflected. She would stand or sit for hours in whatever pose she was given, because that was where she was happiest: at the center of someone's view, or viewfinder. She hadn't even asked what would be new about the pictures; all that was important was being photographed. But to Paul, the challenge of photographing triple-mirtored Emily to show simultaneous images of perfection brought a spark of interest that he knew would cut through his restlessness and boredom, at least for a while.
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"Do you want me to wait while you get your camera?" she asked.
"No, we can
come back tomorrow." He looked at his watch. "I want to buy a gift for Allison."
"Is it her birthday?"
He was amused. "I don't think so. I want to buy her something because I love her and I'm glad to see her."
"How erratic that sounds. Gifts are for special days."
"This is one," he said shortly. He waited while Emily paid for her hats and gave instructions for them to be delivered to the hotel.
"You're not angry with me, are you?" she asked as they ducked through the rain into the waiting taxi. "I didn't mean to criticize you."
"You can criticize me whenever you like; it's not forbidden. And I'm not angry,"
She moved close to him on the back seat and took his hand, and began to talk about changes in Amsterdam since she was last there. In a minute they were laughing together and his irritation was forgotten.
Paul knew he had to guard against the seductiveness of Emily's pliancy. He wanted companionship, not servility, yet he could not deny how soothing it was to be with a woman who enveloped him in agreement, flattery, and deference. It was like a drug, he thought; a man could become addicted to being stroked.
That was the sort of thing Allison scorned. He saw it a few minutes after they sat down at a table in the Salinger lounge. The din was tremendous, conversations in a dozen languages shouted by men and women wearing wildly dramatic designer fashions from Milan and Paris. Allison ignored them all; she was talking to Emily. "You don't ever disagree with Paul?" she asked in exaggerated surprise. "Isn't that awfully dull?"
"Paul is never dull," Emily said seriously. "And there are ways he can be . . . convinced."
Allison gave her a sharp look, and Emily told herself to be more careful; after all, this was Paul's favorite cousin.
"Where's your friend?" Paul asked. "And Patricia?"
"Patricia decided not to come. Ben should be here; he must have been delayed."
Judith Michael
She was wearing a long sleeveless dress, in black, with diamonds at her ears and throat. Paul admired her angular beauty; it almost dimmed Emily's soft roundness. "Ben Gardner," he said thoughtfully. "American? British? What's he doing in Amsterdam?"
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