So that was how he was choosing to handle the subject of Christopher Eastman: he was choosing not to handle it at all. Well, whatever worked for him. She could live with that.
"He was there, Jack. I felt him."
Or not. The encounter on Cliff Walk — had that really happened? She was far less sure that Christopher had chatted with her than she was that he'd defended her.
After a thoughtful silence, Jack said, "I read somewhere that nearly three-quarters of people believe in guardian angels."
"But you don't?"
Jack rubbed her back in reassuring circles. " 'Fraid not," he said with a sigh of regret.
She could tell he wanted to. Somehow, that was good enough for her. In a world where it got harder every day to believe in anything at all, the fact that a man of Jack's experience was actually sorry that angels did not inhabit his realm — well, that was good enough for her.
She turned her face up to Jack's, and they kissed, gently at first, and then more deeply. Liz had been afraid, up until now, that the assault by Wragg might have wrecked her responsiveness forever: how wrong she was. Despite last night — because of last night — she wanted Jack more than ever. He was the beacon in the foggy uncertainties of her life; he was the deep-water harbor for her to sail home to.
He was Jack.
In utter silence they went up the stairs, then paused at Susy's room where, with Jack watching over her shoulder, Liz quietly eased the door the rest of the way shut. Then they treaded softly into Liz's bedroom, and each of them undressed, still without saying a word, and they lay down, side by side, on Liz's mercifully unsqueaky bed.
They made love, then: carefully; quietly; with breathtaking intensity.
And when they were finished, Jack murmured in her ear, "I want a Susy with you."
It was the knife she'd dreaded, a day late.
For a long, infinitely long moment, Liz said nothing. When her answer came out, it came in a whisper — because she couldn't have said the words aloud even if her daughter weren't in the next room.
"You can't have a Susy with me."
Chapter 21
There was another long pause — Liz was sure, afterward, that both their hearts had stopped beating for the length of it — and then Jack said simply, "Tell me why."
Her "shhh" was as quiet as a slow leak in a bicycle tire. "I can't, now," she whispered in his ear. "Not with Susy here."
"But—"
"Shhh."
"Can we talk downst—?"
"Shhh."
The next sound Liz heard was a short quick exhale of defeat. Jack shook his head slowly; in the dark she felt the thickness of his hair brush against her temple.
"Okay," he murmured.
He rolled off her and swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat with his forearms leaning on his thighs — a looming, brooding presence in the unlit room. He stayed that way for a long time. Liz began to feel queasy: Jack's silence was even more thundering than his speech.
Wrong, wrong response, she realized. Why hadn't she just given him the same answer she'd given Susy earlier — ' 'You do, do you?" He would've had to accept that, and he'd be in her arms still. Instead he was standing up; lifting his clothes from the back of the chair; walking back to the side of the bed.
"Tomorrow. We'll talk," he said, still unable to keep his voice within the range of a whisper.
Some men were like that, she knew. They'd never learned to whisper because they never had anything to hide.
"Yes," she whispered.
****
Tomorrow came and nearly went without the summit taking place. Liz was tied up in the morning; Jack wasn't free in the afternoon. She was reluctant to see him at the shipyard; he was reluctant to have Susy sent off for his sake. It was obvious to both that they wanted to meet on neutral territory, and yet when Jack suggested that they have dinner at the Cooke House, Liz declined: she wanted something more downscale. She suggested Burger King. He thought that was funny.
They agreed, finally, to meet at a middle-of-the-road restaurant on downtown Thames Street called Mean Cuisine, one of the summer's bumper crop of new eateries. It hadn't been given either the seal of approval or the kiss of death by Newport's locals — that would have to wait until fall — but in the meantime it would be filled with nice, anonymous tourists.
Liz was late: it was hot, it was Friday, and everyone on the planet seemed to think the place to cool down was along Newport's waterfront. Liz had to weave her way through, around, and sometimes over a crush of strolling, aimless tourists; by the time she fetched up at Jack's table, she was in no mood to confess to anything but her irritation that he hadn't agreed to come to her house.
He was on his second glass of wine. She thought he looked melancholy, but his greeting was mild enough: "You look hot. Did you walk?"
Liz took that to mean she looked like hell. She excused herself with a tight little smile and went to freshen up. The ladies' room was lit by soft, flattering lights — but even they weren't enough to hide her sweat-dampened hair and flushed face.
Dammit! So much for the trendy, sophisticated look. Her rayon dress felt hot and clingy, and if she wasn't mistaken, that was a blister throbbing against her brand-new shoes. She touched up her lipstick and marched back out in a grim frame of mind. The point of it all was to end it all, so what did it matter how she looked as she did it?
Jack, on the other hand, looked as cool and confident as ever. Yes, indeed. The man had some awfully good genes to pass down. Too bad he wouldn't be passing them down through her. Well, that's life, she decided, letting him pull out her chair for her. Although that was the whole problem, wasn't it? That she couldn't give what he had, life? Too bad, too bad, she thought, her mind racing through the scenario that was about to be played out. No little Susies for you, fella, not from me. Sorry I can't oblige.
"Hi," she allowed herself to say.
His smile was as edgy as her mood. "I wish you looked happier to be here," he confessed, filling her wineglass for her.
"I'm just exhausted from all our pretrial negotiations," she quipped.
He called her on that. "Who's on trial?"
"I suppose," she said faintly, "our relationship."
He nodded once. "Maybe it is."
Too soon! They were cutting to the chase too soon! She couldn't bear to have this discussion, not right off the bat like this. She did a wrenching emotional somersault and said cheerfully, "This looks like a pretty nice place. Care to lay odds on whether it makes it through the winter?"
"Let's wait till we've tasted the food," he said, opening his menu.
It'll taste like cardboard, all of it, she thought, but aloud she said, "Southwestern cuisine is all the rage."
"I guess."
While Jack surveyed the menu half-heartedly, Liz launched into a monologue on how wonderfully plans were proceeding for the costume-party benefit. She was so pleased to be working with Meredith (who actually was turning out to be pretty damned helpful). As for the other members of the honorary committee—Diana and Johanna and Cuddie and Bebe and Hope—well, no doubt they would prove indispensable, in due course.
Liz lied about other things, too. She told Jack that the fund-raiser would cost less than her original rough estimate (which could only happen if she charged nothing for her time, something she was prepared to do). She told him that advertising for the program book was going amazingly well. And she told him that considering how late they'd jumped into the benefit, early interest was extremely encouraging.
"So we're hoping to sell up to two hundred tickets at sixty dollars each. Are you sure that East Gate can accommodate two hundred people, even with the tents?"
"It won't be the first time," he said.
"Okay, because we print the tickets tomorrow. And you're absolutely, positively sure you have no objections to the dinner party for thirty that precedes the general event?"
"Not if Meredith is convinced she can move the meal tickets for three hundred bucks
a pop," he said, picking over his broiled lobster. "It amounts to a nice piece of change for Anne's Place."
"I always wonder why some high roller doesn't just write out a check for the target amount," Liz confessed with a sigh. "It seems so much more efficient."
"That's called a will, darlin'. While the high rollers are still alive and kicking, benefits are how it's done."
"Of course. What was I thinking?" she said, betraying just a little bit of attitude. She smiled a brisk smile and said, "Well! Now we can take a tax deduction for this dinner."
He wasn't amused. "Liz—"
"Oh, and what about the fire?" she said quickly, rerouting his thoughts once again. "Any more news?"
His face darkened. "Not so far. It's hard to prove it was arson. Spontaneous combustion in a paint shed isn't unheard of, which is why we have big vents, and a long list of rules about disposing paint-soaked rags. No one's come forward to take credit, if that's what you mean."
"Do you think it could be—" She looked around them and lowered her voice. "You know — the developers?"
"You know my feelings on that. I think it's someone who's hell-bent on taking down the yard, and the list of suspects is damned short. All I can do is increase our security and warn the help to be on the watch."
"Any sign of your venture capitalists? Or have they fled forever?"
"I don't think they're coming back," he said with no apparent regret. "Newport is a world-class harbor and should be able to attract world-class races. I've begun to pin my hopes on the new City Council; they seem interested in doing what has to be done to bring in the business. The question is, can I can hold on that long?"
He topped off his glass, and hers, and said, "Liz—"
"No! Boy, this really is — just — delicious!" she said, with no idea what she was putting into her mouth.
"Don't," he said quietly. "Don't put this off any longer. It's no way to run a relationship. I hate double-talk; I thought you did, too."
When she said nothing, he took the initiative. "I ... look ... I'll admit it, Liz: I don't know why I said that about wanting a Susy last night. It just came out," he admitted with a baffled look. "You couldn't have been any more astonished than I was. It was as if someone else were saying the words."
Liz took that to mean he was sorry he'd said anything; that it had all been a mistake. But the relief she felt was tempered by the onset of a deep, dull ache. "I'm glad to hear that," she said, her voice catching. "Because it really did seem too ... too—"
"Soon?"
"Yes. I mean, we're only just getting to know one another ... and ... well, you have to admit: a relationship goes through a level or two before it reaches the let's-have-a-baby stage."
It was so ironic. Her own relationship with Keith never did reach that last wonderful stage. She sighed nervously, hoping she'd put an end to the discussion.
Jack nodded, almost solemnly. "You're right, of course. But I seem in a fierce hurry about life lately. I suppose it has something to do with having reached forty. A man starts to look around — to wonder, has he missed the boat? But it's not just that, Liz. Truly, it's not."
His eyes burned brightly as he said, "You know I'm crazy about you. Liz. You know that. And I'd have to be a damned fool not to realize that you ... you do care for me?"
"Yes," she murmured.
"Deeply?" he asked in a guileless follow-up.
"Yes," she said again.
He pushed his plate away from the table's edge and folded his forearms there, leaning closer, ready to read her lips if need be. "Then tell me why I can't — omeday, if all goes well — have a Susy with you."
It was such a simple request. He wasn't asking her why she believed in ghosts, or what she thought was the best way to lower long-term interest rates. He wanted to know why they couldn't have a baby together. Someday. If all went well. He deserved a straight answer.
And she couldn't give it. "Why you can't, is—" She shook her head and tried again. "It's because I, ah, really am done with that phase of my life."
He was trying not to look disappointed. "But you're only — what, not yet thirty-six? I know you have a pretty wonderful little girl — Susy's great — but
doesn't she make you want another?" he asked softly.
Liz said, "Not necessarily."
"Is this because I didn't take your career seriously? Because you know that's not true anymore." He gave her a lopsided, heart-melting smile. "You know I'm a reformed chauvinist."
"No, that's not it," Liz said in a strained voice.
His own voice was tight with emotion as he said, "Is it because you could never care for me enough to overcome the agony of Keith?"
She looked out the window at a pair of young lovers stopping, hand in hand, to read the menu posted outside. "I was devastated," she admitted without looking at Jack. "But that's not the problem."
He reached out across the table to take her hand. "Then what? You know that I'm not after a fling with you. You've probably known that since day one. It's not as if I've been any good at hiding it."
She turned back to face him. "Actually, you were pretty good," she said as an unwanted, infuriating tear rolled out.
"Hey, what's this?" he said softly, wiping the tear away from her cheek. "I thought the problem was when one person was serious and the other one wasn't," he said, surprised.
No doubt he'd seen plenty of that — not to mention, plenty of tears. She tried a feeble smile of reassurance. "No problem there."
He didn't really look encouraged, but he plowed on anyway. "And if you care deeply about me, and if I'm crazy about you ... then presumably ... this relationship could go somewhere? Somewhere I've never been before?"
"I don't know," she said, squirming in pain. "I don't."
"Ah." It was a blow, a shock to his system, she could see that. His cheeks flushed to a dark shade. For a moment he said nothing, composing himself behind a sip of wine. Then he said in a low, careful voice, "I guess I assumed that women cared about things like — like love, and marriage."
"And a baby carriage? Isn't that a little old-fashioned?" she asked out of sheer desperation.
He laughed awkwardly, obviously out of his element on the whole subject. "You know me," he said, tight-lipped. "Just a simple, old-fashioned kind of guy."
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Jack," she said, withdrawing her hand from his — because it seemed the height of hypocrisy to treat their confrontation as a romantic interlude anymore. "But you're rushing everything," she wailed.
"Rushing?" He looked genuinely astonished. "I've waited all my life for you. Rushing? I've wandered through a wilderness of women looking for you. And now that I've finally found you—" He laughed again, apparently amazed that she could be so dense. "No; if anything, I wish I could turn back the clock a decade or so. I want you so much, Liz. I can't imagine letting you slip through my fingers."
It was a dream come true: the prince was at her door, glass slipper in his hand. All she had to do was ...
Lie. "I want to concentrate on my daughter and my career, at least for now," she murmured, cracking the door open to him.
His face lit up with renewed hope. "Oh, understood," he said, holding his hands palms up in agreement. "I didn't mean we had to start tonight. I just thought ... somehow you sounded so final ... huh! See that? You're not the only one with a flair for melodrama. God, was I off base. What an ego. C'mon," he said with an utterly relieved grin, "let's eat. The food is pretty damned good here."
Somehow Liz managed to work through the courses and make it through the conversation without cluing Jack in on the magnitude of her deceit. It was a first-rate acting job, and it used up every atom of energy that she possessed. By the time the meal was over, even the cappuccino couldn't revive her.
Jack ignored her insistence on sharing the tab and dropped his Visa card on the bill. Smiling sympathetically, he said, "Let's go, droopy. I'll take you home."
"No, maybe not," she said suddenly. "I think I should ju
st walk back. I could use the air. I still have lots of work to do tonight. Is that all right?" she asked humbly. "Would you mind?"
He gave her a baffled look. "No, sure, if you'd rather." But it was clear that he did mind. Still, what could he do? She knew he didn't dare act like a chauvinist, not after his little speech earlier.
She stood up abruptly, unable to stay with him a split second longer, and said, "Good night, then. And thank you so much. Don't forget to tell your secretary that I'll need a master of the mailing list by next Tuesday."
She fled outside, leaving him waiting to square up the bill. Less than fifty yards away, she was suddenly overcome with revulsion at her own cowardice. She closed her eyes tightly and bit her lip till it hurt; then, turning on her blistered heel, she limped back to the restaurant and intercepted Jack as he was rising to leave their table.
"I lied," she said in a whisper. "I can't have a Susy. I can't have anyone, ever. It's not that I won't. I can't. So now you know."
She had no idea how he'd react, but she wasn't expecting stillness. His handsome face settled into an expression so dangerously discreet, so devoid of shock or anger or even disappointment, that she was forced to look away.
"Shall we go somewhere and talk?" he asked quietly.
"No. There's nothing more to say."
"But ... why didn't you say that earlier?" he asked, obviously rethinking everything she'd said so far. "When you told me about Keith, for example."
She stared at the flickering candle on the table between them. "I didn't know you."
"Or when you pulled out your drawer of ... supplies?"
"I didn't know you."
"Or last night."
"I was afraid," she whispered. She lifted her gaze to his and said, "I'm still afraid."
And then she left him for the second time, knowing full well he would not follow.
****
"You told him?"
"I told him."
"What did he say?"
"What could he say? Nothing. Thanks for baby-sitting, Tori. Now, go home. I can't share this one with you.
Time After Time Page 30
