They made love slowly, tasting each other, drinking each other, releaming the tiny sounds and movements, gestures and expressions that only a loved one knows and treasures and remembers, laughing softly as the past and the present merged and the emptiness inside them was filled with joy, and they were complete. They made love and talked through a long night that was theirs alone. The sounds of the city's traffic, punctuated with horns, came to them through the open window as if from a distant place. The air had turned cool, and they pulled the comforter over them, and the closeness of being wrapped together aroused them again and, almost without moving, Paul was inside Laura and they moved in a harmony that was as new and as familiar as their love.
Laura reached up to turn on a lamp beside the bed, and shadows danced on the wall. "Friendly shadows," she murmured. "There were so many I was afraid of."
"No more," Paul said quietly. "We have only those we make for ourselves." He kissed her smiling lips. "Don't go away; I'll be right back." He slid from the bed and walked
Judith Michael
across the room, and Laura watched him, tall and lean, as graceful as an athlete or a dancer, his muscles taut with coiled energy. We're both like that, she thought: impatient and aggressive, wanting to create and achieve and win. But at one time Paul had been different. She remembered how they had talked at dinner in Owen's kitchen about work and what it meant to them. Paul had been flippant and careless—he couldn't imagine caring about work—and she had been serious and determined, and worried about the differences between them. How much he's changed, she thought. And yet the young man she had fallen in love with was still there. As she stretched in bed, remembering the weight of his body on hers, the embrace in his eyes, the laughter in his voice, she loved him with a passion that astonished her with its intensity. It was as if a lantern lit our way through the years, and it was always bright. Owen had said that about Iris. And now we've found it, too, Laura thought, watching him come back to her. We'll light each other's way. My love, who seems so right in my bedroom, so natural a part of the home I thought I was making only for myself. My first love. And I never got over him. She smiled.
"Yes?" he asked, sliding in beside her.
"I love you."
He put an arm beneath her shoulders. "I love you, my darling. Although I must admit that I'm also thinking a great deal right now about food."
Laura laughed. "Poor darling, you haven't eaten since you got off the plane."
"And not much on the plane, either. Shall I prepare you a feast and serve you in bed?"
"No, I'm beginning to feel like I'm rooted here. Let's make something together and eat in the breakfast room, as if we live here and aren't just camping out."
"We could live here, if you'd like to. But I'd have to build a darkroom. Have you a guest room I could use?"
"Yes, but I don't think I want to give it up; I like to have a place for Rosa when she visits. We may have to find something bigger—" She stopped. "We did this once before. At the Cape. Started talking about what kind of home we'd have before we even talked about getting married. Paul, you and Emily are still married."
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"We're going to change that as soon as possible. She's not fighting a divorce, and we're still friends. Especially if I can find someone to help her in films. I haven't told you about that; I will. There are so many things we haven't talked about. Would you have a bathrobe for me to wear?"
"Nothing that would fit you."
"No men here? Or only small ones."
She smiled. "No men." She slipped an ivory satin caftan over her head and waited for him.
With a sigh, Paul pulled on his pants and shirt. "Do you require shoes at the dinner table?"
"Not if it's a casual evening," she laughed, and they went downstairs barefoot.
It was nearly midnight. The courtyard was quiet, and the kitchen was bright and warm, with oak cabinets and Pennsylvania Dutch tiles on the walls. Laura took eggs and salad ingredients from the refrigerator. "If you'll make the salad, I'll do the omelets. And there's French bread; we can warm it up. And wine."
They worked together for a moment. "Tell me about Ben,'* Paul said. "Why were you in Boston?"
Stunned, Laura looked at him. So much had happened, and he knew none of it. *There was a Salinger board meeting," she said, and she went over the past week, from the time Paul had come to her office to the meeting with the OWL investors. "So many changes," she said, "and I don't know what other ones are ahead."
"Whatever they are, we'll be together. We'll share them instead of reporting back to each other later, and we'll make up for all that went wrong."
Laura shook her head. "I told you, I don't want to make up for anything; I want to start again. I've been angry for so long, and trying to make up for things that happened—^I don't even want to think that way anymore. The past is over, Paul. I want to love you and be loved and share my Ufe with you, not have some kind of contest, keeping score or measuring what we owe each other or whether we've done enough . . ." She looked at him, a little frown between her eyes. "Is there anything wrong with that?"
"Nothing. It's what I want, too. But I want you to under-
Judith Michael
stand that I'm not trying to deny the past. There's so much I regret—"
"Oh, regrets." Laura sighed and put her fingers on his lips. "We both have more than enough of those. But let's not have any now. We'll sort it all out later. I want to tell you about Ben and Clay, how we grew up and loved each other, all the good times we had, and the ones that were bad. . . . There were so many things I wanted to tell you when we were together; I always thought it was unfair that you could tell me anything you wanted but I had to be so careful. And now I don't. It's like being free for the first time, not having to guard myself when I talk to you." Her eyes grew shadowed. "Clay doesn't have that. He's never been able to be himself with anyone, not even me."
*Tell me about him," Paul said, and for a few minutes Laura talked about their childhood, how close they had been when they thought they had nothing. Paul began to understand the charm and sweetness in Clay that had helped blind Laura, and others, to what he really was. And he learned much about Laura herself that he had never known. "We kept trying to prove how brave and grown up and invulnerable we were, but we weren't; we were all looking for love and a home. Ben found it, and I tried to make Clay believe he had one with me, but he never believed it. Or it was never enough. And so he never outran his past." She was silent a moment. "I think he was h^piest with Kelly and John's vintage cars. They were wonderful toys, they didn't make demands on him, they were luxurious enough to make him feel rich, and they made him the center of attention when he drove them. They gave him everything he wanted. If we'd stayed at Damton's, he might never have started stealing again."
"But he'd abready been gambling, hadn't he?" She nodded, and Paul said, "It was nothing you did, you must believe that. It wasn't because you left Damton's, or because you were busy with your hotels, or even because he wasn't as happy as he thought he should be. If it was anything, I'd bet it was because he never got over feeling smart and invulnerable, like a kid on Halloween with a terrific mask that fools or scares the hell out of everybody. There was nothing you could have done about that, my love. Do you believe that?"
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She smiled slightly. "Sometimes.**
There was a pause. "By the way,** Paul said, to deflect her thoughts, "I talked to my parents yesterday, before I left London. Did you know that Leni is marrying again, as soon as her divorce is final?**
"No, how wonderful for her. She didn*t mention it when we were together last week.** She poured eggs into the omelet pan. "Is it someone you know?'*
"I haven't met him, but you have. Wes Currier. My mother says he—what is it?**
Laura had looked stunned for an instant, then she burst out laughing. "Are you serious?**
"About what? Currier? Of course; why wouldn*t I be? My mother says they*re very happy to
gether; he's very solicitous of Leni, and he looks like he wants to give her the world and make her happy. I think it*s fine. Why is it fiinny?**
"You know that Wes was the first investor in my company?**
"Yes, my father told me. I thought it showed he has good sense.'*
"But that's all you know." She was swirling the pan and did not look at him.
"Yes. Is there something else?"
She hesitated barely an instant. No more secrets; no more lies. "We were lovers for a long time. He wanted to marry me, and I thought about it a lot, but I never could. It wasn't Wes so much; it was me. I couldn*t get over the idea that there was supposed to be someone else at the end of the rainbow.** She slipped the omelet onto a plate. "You should eat this right away, while I make the other one.**
Paul took the pan from her and put it down. Holding her face m both hands, he kissed her. "We're going to drink a toast first." He handed her a glass of wine and took her other hand in his. *To the rainbow, my love, and the gold we've found at its end.**
They drank to each other, and then, dreamily, Laura made her own omelet. They sat at the small table in the kitchen alcove, eating slowly, warm and loved and loving, talking of their different lives, beginning the long rediscovery that would bring them into each other*s separate worlds and make them
Judith Michael
fiilly one with each other once again. Very late at night, as they stood to return to the bedroom, Paul put his ami around Laura and held her close. "One more thing," he said. "I'm going to find Clay. I'll work with Ben and hire anyone I have to, but whatever it takes, my love, I'm going to find him and bring him back, and clear up this mess he's made for you, once and for all."
Chapter 33
THE key no longer worked. Clay had expected that— everybody changed locks after a robbery—but it had been worth a quick try. The alarm code probably had been changed, too. Anyway, there was a guard, which meant the front door couldn't be used. From across the street, he'd watched one guard leave and another take his place at midnight, and then everything was quiet. He settled back to watch the house.
At one-thirty, the guard came out and walked down the street. Asshole, Clay thought contemptuously. That's no way to do a job. But he wasn't complaining; it made everything easier for him. It was after the guard had disappeared around the comer that Clay had tried the key, the only one he hadn't sent to Colby when he'd mailed the Durers and the other five keys that afternoon, as soon as he had arrived in New York. At one forty-five the guard came back, carrying a package from the delicatessen and another from the liquor store next door. Fifteen minutes. Clay thought. Not a lot, but probably enough.
He walked away from the house, to the third house from the comer. He'd chosen it because it was completely screened frx)m the sidewalk and street by the overhanging branches of a ginkgo tree. At a few minutes before two, he grasped the drainpipe and scaled the wall.
He looked at his watch. Three and a half minutes. Not bad for four stories.
Judith Michael
He tipped his hat to himself before adjusting the rope coiled at an angle across his chest, retying his shoes, and then turning to make his way, smoothly, silently, across the four roofs to Felix and Leni's house. A cool breeze blew; orange and red-brown leaves drifted to the rooftops and the street below; sodium lights turned the sidewalks a garish orange but left the rooftops in darkness, exacdy the way Clay liked them.
He reached the place he sought, and leaned over the edge to look at the attic window in the center of the rear wall. Nothing was close to it—no drainpipe, no ivy, no decorative plaster work; it was alone in an expanse of Hudson River gray stone. And therefore, the expert in Clay reasoned, probably not wired as part of the alarm system.
He slipped the coiled rope over his head and tied one end to a chimney a few feet from the edge. Carefully, he laid the rope beside the chimney, crossed to the front of the roof, where he could watch the street, and sat down to wait. He'd give the guard an hour to take another stroll over to Lexington. It would be so much easier if the guy made a habit of it.
He stretched out his legs, leaning back comfortably against the parapet, and thought about Laura. She wouldn't like what he was doing. It wouldn't matter to her that he was putting something back, not stealing; she'd say it was wrong. Probably wouldn't even love him for doing it for her, because she'd think he should have found another way to do it. He shrugged in the darkness. Even if there was another way, it wouldn't be fun or exciting. But she wouldn't understand that. Probably wouldn't appreciate his getting her involved, either; it would be like she was an accessory, if she knew what he'd done.
I better not tell her, he thought with a sigh. I'll just tell her the letter was there all the time. Then she won't scold me for breaking in, and she won't be a part of it. She'll just thank me for my help.
He nodded, pleased with himself. There was always a solution; he always found one. He hummed to himself, very softly, and waited. At a few minutes before three, he heard the front door open and close. Peering over the parapet, he saw the guard walking up the street with long, easy steps. Ass, Clay thought again, and grinned to himself. Swiftly, he moved to the back of 3ie roof. He took the free end of the rope in his gloved hands, played it out, and went over the side.
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He felt so great he could have let out a whoop of joy. This was it. He'd committed himself, he was into the real danger, everything counted. He was as alive as he ever would be. His heartbeat was up, his breathing quick and shallow, and he was grinning in the dailcness as he rappeled down the rough stone to the attic window. Hanging there, feet against the stone, he looked through the glass with a tiny flashlight held in the protection of his curved hand and studied the inside window frame. No visible wires; better than a fifty-fifty chance that it was all right. He pried it open and eased it up, holding his breath, waiting for the piercing cry of the alarm. There was none. For a few seconds, he listened to the beautiful, perfect silence, then pushed the window higher and slipped inside.
From there it was only a minute before he stood once again in Felix's study. New paintings over the sofa, he noted briefly; too bad I don't have anything to carry them in. He pushed the other painting aside to get to the safe, and twirled the combination he had used before. How about that, he marveled; old Felix didn't think about changing it. The safe was still empty except for te small pile of documents on the purchase of the house. Clay took Owen's letter, in its envelope, from the shirt pocket beneath his sweater and slid it beneath the house documents, as far back as it would go. Then he closed and locked the safe, adjusted the painting over it, and took the stairs back to the attic. How about that. Couldn't be easier.
But there was still danger; his heart still pounded. Holding the end of the rope, he climbed through the window, closed it with one hand, and went up the stone wall, pulling on the rope with his hands while his feet walked up the rough surface. On die roof, he untied the rope from the chinmey and carried it with him back across the four roofs. In the shadow of the gmkgo tree, using the same drainpipe he had used before, he began to climb down the wall.
Too late, he heard the guard. The same tree that helped screen his descent from the roof also partially screened the guard, who was just returning. "Hey! What the fiick . . . !" the guard shouted, and Clay froze.
But only for a second. He dropped the rest of the way to the ground and began to run. The guard saw him in the orange glow of the streetUght. "Hey!" he yelled again, but Clay kept
Judith Michael
running, a dark shape dashing down the sidewalk. But the guard was just as fast; he was trained to react, and he did, pulling out his gun and firing. And then it was over, as quickly as it had begun. The dark form turned the comer onto Lexington and was gone.
Li^ts came on; a door opened. "What's going on?*' someone demanded.
"Some goon trying to break in," the guard said. "He's gone, but we gotta call the police. I'll take care of it. Go back to bed. Everythi
ng's fine. Under control."
He'd have to figure out a story about why he'd been outside, the guard thought as he walked down the street and let himself into Felix's house. Probably say he'd heard a noise and went to check and saw this bozo climbing the wall and fired over his head and scared him off. I did fire over his head, he thought. Except that last shot, when he wouldn't stop. That might have got him. He shrugged. Nothing in this house, he thought, picking up the telephone to call the police. That's all that matters; nothing happened here.
Laura heard the sound first; a scraping somewhere downstairs. Ben was in the guest room—he had come for the weekend while Paul was in Los Angeles, talking to Emily— but Laura didn't wait to see if he would investigate. Putting on a robe, she walked down the stairs to the foyer and looked into the court. It was empty; no one was about at four in the morning. But the scrying was there again; it came from the front door. "What is it?" Ben asked. He was coming up from the guest room in the basement, tying his robe. "It sounds like a dog."
"I don't know," Laura said. "I can't see anything." Then they both heard, faintly, Laura's name, once, then twice. "That sounds like Clay!" she exclaimed, and ran to the door.
When she opened it, a dark form fell at her feet. She gave a sharp scream. "Ben!"
Ben was just behind her; he switched on a light and dropped to his knees. "My God, it is Clay. And there's blood . . . Clay! Where are you hurt?"
"Is that Ben?" Qay asked. He lay on the floor, scowling at Ben. "Son of a bitch . . . What the fiick are you doing in New York? I want Laura. Son of a— "
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"Glay, Fm here,** Laura said. "Ben, should we move him? Can we get him to the couch in the library?*'
"Lots of blood," said Clay. His breathing was short and ragged. "One little bullet. Tried to stop it with my shirt, but the fucking thing kept bleeding and bleeding . . .Oh, God, it hurts, it hurts ..."
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