Season Of Passion Part 29

It was a far cry from her trip to New York with Nick. Gone were the limousines, the hansom cab rides, the secret adventures, the lunches at Lutece and dinners at Caravelle. And gone the buffer of his loving. This time she was confronted with New York in all its bold bra.s.sy reality, pus.h.i.+ng, shoving, fighting for cabs, fighting stiff winds as newspapers and litter swirled around her feet. And the bookings her publisher had made were almost inhuman. She had three radio shows to do the first day, no time for lunch, and at four that afternoon she taped a television talk show, where the host had paired her with a sportswriter who was openly condescending. She was numb with exhaustion and anger when she reached the hotel at six, and it was the wrong time to call Nick or Tygue. Nick would be setting up the show, and Tygue would still be in school. She called room service and asked for a gla.s.s of white wine, and then sat back quietly to wait until she could call Nick. Even the room was less pretty this time. It was more elaborate, in white and gold, but smaller and colder, and the bed looked sad and empty. She smiled as she remembered the love-making of their last trip.

She sat back on the couch with her gla.s.s of wine and tucked her long legs under her. She was three thousand miles from home, alone in a strange hotel, and she couldn't talk to anyone she knew. She felt unloved and suddenly frightened, and she desperately wanted to go home. This was it. The wild fabulous high rise of fame. But it was a lonely, empty building and no one else seemed to live there. She longed to be back in the house hidden in the hedges on Green Street. If he even wanted her back. Maybe it was almost over. It felt as though they had just begun, and she and Tygue had only just moved to San Francisco the month before, but maybe it would all be too much for Nick. Maybe her career would be too great a conflict for him, with his own work, or maybe he just couldn't accept her. Kate started to call room service for a second gla.s.s of wine, and then with a frown she put down the phone. This was ridiculous. She was in New York. She was a star. She grinned to herself at the word. All right, so she wasn't a star, but she was successful. She could go anywhere she liked for dinner. She didn't have to sit in her room. It was absurd. She reached into her handbag and pulled out the sheet of paper where she'd written a list of restaurants Felicia had given her. The first on the list was someplace called Gino's. Licia had told her she could go there alone, and that it was crawling with models, ad men, and writers, a smattering of European society types, and "beautiful people." "It's a good show. You'll love it." And it was only two blocks from her hotel. She could walk.

She ran a comb through her hair, washed her face, and put on fresh makeup. She was ready. The black dress she had worn all day would do fine. Felicia said it wasn't dressy. By New York standards, anyway, that meant blue jeans, Guccis, and mink, or your latest Dior. As she picked up the long red wool coat off the back of a chair where she'd flung it, she remembered the grueling heat of only two months before. She looked down at the black lizard shoes, and then around the room again ... so empty. G.o.d, it was so empty. It was going to feel good to get out. Even the view didn't delight her this time. The whole city looked very tall and frightening and dark. And it was chilly and even windier when she stepped outside. She turned up the collar of her coat and turned east toward Lexington Avenue. She had rejected the doorman's offer of a cab, and walked rapidly away. She had already picked up the pace of New Yorkers. Run, dash, fly, b.u.mp into someone on street, grunt, shove, and run past. She laughed to herself as she thought of it. She had only been in town for a day and she already felt corroded by the pace. Her mind wandered back to Nick as she walked, and she was annoyed at herself. And at him. What right did he have to make her feel guilty about her success? She had worked hard for it. She deserved it. And she wasn't short-changing Tygue, or Nick, for that matter. All right, so the timing wasn't perfect for a trip, but Christ, she'd only be gone for a week. And she had a right to this ... she had a right to it ... the words kept echoing in her head as she turned south on Lexington Avenue, her high heels beating an even staccato against the subway grill beneath as she avoided fleets of pedestrians clattering by. She was almost thirty years old now, and she had a right to this ... right to this.... She almost missed the restaurant, and looked up in surprise as two men b.u.mped into her. They were just leaving Gino's. They didn't even say sorry, they merely looked her over, seemed to approve, and walked on, stepping off the curb to grab a cab from two other men. Standard New York. In California, the men would have been knocking each other cold for something like that. In New York, the two men who'd lost their cab simply hailed another, and grabbed it, just before the woman who'd flagged it first from the curb. Kate smiled to herself as she slipped inside Gino's double, yellow, swinging doors. It would take years to develop a style like that on the streets of New York, or maybe it happened very quickly. Maybe one got that way without noticing it. It still seemed funny to her.

"Signora?" A dapper Italian in a gray pin-striped suit came to her side with a smile. "Table for one?"

"Yes." She nodded with a smile. She could hardly hear him in the din as she looked around with amus.e.m.e.nt. The walls were a hideous coral color, covered with zebras chasing each other diagonally up and down the walls. Plastic plants flourished in several locations, and (he lighting was dark. The bar was jammed seven deep, and the tables were covered with white cloths and well populated by "le tout New York." Just what Felicia had promised. Models still wearing the day's makeup and the latest Calvin Klein, ad men looking suave, married, and unfaithful, actresses and society matrons of some note, and a certain uniform look to the men. There were two kinds: European and American. The Americans all looked very Madison Avenue, in striped suits, horn rims, white s.h.i.+rts, and ties. The Europeans had them beat by a mile-better tailors, better s.h.i.+rts, softer colors, more scandalous eyes, and their trousers were all the right length. The laughter of women darted in and out of the conversations of men, like chimes in an orchestra, and thickly woven into the background was a constant caw and clatter provided by the waiters. They made as much noise as possible with their trays, all but destroyed the crockery as they sent it sailing into the hands of the busboys, and shouted to each other as loudly as they could from as far away as they could manage in the crowd. The kitchen itself would have produced lightning and thunder, and for lack of that they did the best they could with the materials at hand. They managed very nicely with metal pots and heavy utensils. And all of it combined to produce Gino's, a rich tapestry of sounds and sights, and the luscious smells of Italian cuisine.

"We'll have a table for you in a moment." The maitre d' in the gray pin-stripe suit looked her over in a manner worthy of Rome and waved her graciously to the bar. "A drink while you're waiting?" His accent was perfection, his eyes were a caress. She had to force herself not to laugh. Gino's was a heady experience. It catapulted her instantly from her earlier mood of gloom to a feeling of fiesta.

With only the slightest hesitation she walked to the bar, ordered a gin and tonic, and heard the man just in front of her order Campari. Obviously an Italian. She could tell by the way he said "Campari soda" and then carried on a few sentences of conversation in Italian with the bartender. Kate looked him over from just behind him, where she stood. He smelled of a rich European men's cologne ... something French ......she couldn't remember it, but it was familiar. She had tried it out once at I. Magnin's, thinking of buying it for Nick. But it wasn't Nick, it was too rich, too sophisticated. Nick's lemons and spice suited him better. But not this man. The collar she saw was a warm Wedgwood blue, the back of his suit looked like a blazer, and it too had an Italian flair to it, from what she could see. The hair was gray, the neck slightly lined ... forty-five maybe ... forty-eight ... and then suddenly he turned to face her and she felt herself blush and then gasp in surprise.

"Oh, it's you!" It was the man from the cab she'd taken from the airport. The architect from Chicago. "I thought you were Italian." And then she was even more embarra.s.sed to have admitted considering the matter at all, and laughed again as he smiled at her.

"I lived in Rome for seven years. I'm afraid I'm addicted to scungili. antipasto, Campari, and all things Italian."

His front view was even more impressive than the rear view had been, and she realized now that he was much better-looking than she had first thought him. She hadn't paid much attention to him in the cab.

"How is New York treating you, Miss Harper?" He smiled at her over his drink and made room for her at the bar.

"All right, for New York. I worked my tail off today."

"Writing?"

"Nothing as easy as that. Doing publicity."

"I am impressed." But he looked more amused than impressed, and his eyes somehow embarra.s.sed her. It was as though he saw too much through the black dress, yet he said nothing inappropriate. It was just a feeling she got. There was something raw and s.e.xy beneath the well-tailored clothes and the businesslike manner. "Will I see you on TV?"

"Not unless you stay in your hotel room and watch daytime television." She smiled at him again.

"I'm afraid not. I've been doing my New York number too. We started with breakfast conferences at seven today. They work like madmen in this town." And then together, they looked out at the room. "They do everything like madmen. Even eat." She laughed with him and for a few minutes they just watched the scene. Then she felt his eyes on her again, and she turned toward him. She said nothing. They only looked at each other, and he smiled and held up his drink.

"To you, Miss Harper, for a book that meant a great deal to me. How did you ever get those insights into what makes men tick? The crawl for success, and the heartbreak if you stop just shy of the top-or get there, and fall off." He looked into his gla.s.s and then back at her, and she was surprised at the seriousness she saw in his face. The book really had meant something to him, and suddenly she was glad. He understood. It was as though he understood Tom.

"You handled it very well. Even from a man's point of view. I would think it would be difficult for a woman to really understand what it's like. All the macho nonsense about making it, and then the heartbreak of it when you don't."

"I'm not so sure it's all that different for women. But I watched my husband go through it," she said, looking into her drink. But she was very aware of this man's gentle voice, like a soft summer breeze in the winter storm of the noise around them.

"He must be very proud of you now."

She looked up at him unexpectedly and shook her head. "No. He's dead." She didn't say it to shock him. She just said it, but he was stunned nonetheless. And then she was the one who apologized. "I didn't mean to say it that way."

"I'm sorry for you. But now I understand the book better than I did. That makes a lot of sense. Did he make it, in the commercial sense of the word, before he died?" It seemed to matter to this man a lot. And Kate had decided to be honest with him. He was a stranger, and she had had two drinks. The wine at the hotel, and now the gin. She was feeling unusually honest, and cut off from everyone she knew. Here, no one knew her. She could say anything that popped into her head.

"Yes, he made it. And he blew it. That's what killed him. He had to have another chance, 'or else.' He got the Or else.'"

"Heart attack?" It was his worst fear.

"More or less." And then she realized what she was doing to this man, and looked up quickly. "No. Not a heart attack. Something else. His soul died. The rest just sort of went with it. But no, it wasn't a heart attack." He looked only slightly relieved.

"I wonder what the answer is. To refuse to play the game? To refuse to run the race for success? But it's so d.a.m.n tempting, isn't it?" He looked at her with that warm, s.e.xy smile, and she smiled back.

"Yes, it is. I'm beginning to understand that better now myself. You always end up having to choose, having to make decisions about what matters, hurting somebody. Somehow one shouldn't have to make those choices."

"Ah, Miss Harper, but one does." He smiled ruefully.

"Do you?" She was shocked at her own question, but she liked talking to him. He was worldly and bright and very good-looking, and he wanted to talk about the things that were bothering her now.

"Yes, I have to make those choices. I have a wife who says she needs me in Chicago. For dinner parties, or something like that. A son who thinks I'm a capitalist a.s.shole, and a daughter with cerebral palsy. They need me. Probably very much. But if I don't run after the almighty dollar, then my wife can't give her dinner parties, and my son can't sit on his lazy a.s.s and espouse his saintly causes, and my daughter ... well, she needs it most of all." He grew very quiet and looked into his drink, and then back at Kate again. "The b.i.t.c.h of it is that my reasons for running all sound good and righteous and proper, but the truth of it is, that isn't even why I do it anymore."

"I know." She understood. Only too well. "You do it because you enjoy it. Because you have to. Because now it's part of you, and ..." She said the last words very softly, as though to herself. "... because you have a right to it. To the good stuff. To the excitement, the success ..." She looked up at him again and he held her eyes for a long time with a small ironical smile.

"That's why I loved your book. Because you knew."

And then she smiled too. "The funny thing is that when I wrote the book, I knew all about it. Or I thought I did. But I knew it from seeing it, not feeling it. I knew it from where your wife sits. Now I know it differently. Now I'm confronted by the same things myself."

"Welcome to the land of the successful failures, Miss Harper."

"Do you consider yourself a failure?"

"Depends on how you look at it. I suspect that to them, my family, I probably am. I don't know. To the business community, I'm certainly not a failure." Far from it. He had won several major international awards in the past five years. But he didn't tell Kate that, he merely smiled the small ironical smile. "One pays a very high price, just like all the songs say."

"Is it worth it?"

"Ask your husband." Ouch. She almost flinched at the words. "You ought to know the answer to that."

"I suppose so, but I see it differently now. I'm enjoying what I'm doing. I don't see why you can't have both. A real life, a family life, a life with some meaning and integrity, and a successful career."

"I suppose so." He waved to the barman to refill their drinks and she didn't object. "But it depends on what you call successful and what you call a career. Your career is by no means of small proportions, I would think. In a sense, you're a celebrity. That must take its toll."

"And you?" She wanted to know more about him. She liked him.

"I'm not a celebrity. I'm just an architect. But I play in the big leagues."

"Are you happy?"

"No." He said it very simply as though it were something he accepted, not something he cried about. "I suppose it's very lonely for all of us." He looked at her pointedly.

"And your wife?" Kate's eyes bored into his with the question.

"I suppose she's unhappy too."

"Doesn't she say?"

"No. She's a very well-behaved woman. And"-he hesitated for only a moment-"I don't ask her. We knew each other as kids, and we got married young. We had both just finished college. I was going to be a commercial artist. She wanted to play around with fine arts. Instead, my father suggested I go to graduate school at Yale. I did and studied architecture, got my degree, and that was the beginning. We both forgot about the dreams. The small dreams anyway. The big dreams came easy. Too easy." And then he looked up at Kate with a broad smile that belied everything he'd said. "And now you know my entire life story, Miss Harper. From beginning to end. The dismal failure of my marriage, the pains of my soul, even my fears about a heart attack. You can use it all in your next novel." He finished his drink and then looked up at her again with irony and laughter in his eyes. "And I'll bet you don't even remember my name."

She still had his card somewhere but she hadn't looked at it. And now she gave him an embarra.s.sed smile. "I hate to admit it, but you're right. Besides, I'm awful with names."

"So am I. The only reason I remembered yours is because I liked the book. Kaitlin, isn't it?" She liked the way he said it.

"Kate."

"Philip. Philip Wells." He held out a hand, and she solemnly shook it.

And then suddenly the headwaiter in the pin-stripe suit was standing discreetly next to them. "Signore, signora, your tables are ready." He waved toward the center of the room, and Philip looked at Kate.

"Could we consolidate them into one? Or would I be intruding on your time alone?" It never even occurred to him that she might be meeting someone, but she liked the idea of eating dinner with him. She didn't want to eat alone.

"No, that would be very nice."

The headwaiter nodded instant acquiescence, Philip paid the bartender for their drinks, and they moved on toward the main dining area in the center of the room, between the diagonally fleeing zebras. Kate looked up at them with a dubious expression and winced as Philip held out a chair for her and laughed at the look on her face.

"I know. Aren't they awful? The best of it is that every time they've redecorated, they've gone to fabulous expense to reproduce the exact same decor. Right down to the plastic greenery and the zebras. They're probably right. The natives expect them."

"Do you come here that often?"

"I'm in New York fairly often, and I always come here when I am. I told you, I'm addicted to all things Italian." Especially the women, but he omitted telling her that. She suspected it anyway. He didn't look like a man who was faithful to his wife, and he had told her enough to let her know that he was unhappy. That was the usual prelude. But she didn't care. She liked him anyway. And he was an intelligent person to talk to. It was better than watching television in her room. Much better. And besides, Nick wasn't home either ... she felt the same gnawing worries again as Nick crept into her thoughts.

"When did you live in Rome?" She forced herself to think of Philip and not Nick, at least for the duration of this meal.

"We came back ten years ago. We were there while the children were small. My daughter was born there. It's a marvelous city."

"Do you go back often?"

"Once or twice a year. I have more business in Paris and London than I do in Rome." She could see what he meant about being successful. Paris, London, Rome, New York. It sounded exciting. She wondered if she'd ever have to go to Europe to tour for the book. Nick would probably kill her. If he was still around.

The conversation moved on easily through dinner. No more baring of souls or heartrending secrets. She told him amusing stories about San Francisco, and he told her tales of his adventures abroad. There was a great deal of teasing, right through dessert. They finished the dinner with zabaglione.

"You should come to San Francisco. We have a restaurant there with zabaglione that makes this one look sick." The rest of the dinner had been fabulous, but at dessert she missed Vanessi's oozing rum-kissed treat.

"I might surprise you." She laughed at the thought. That would be a surprise. But she knew he didn't mean it. "Actually, I haven't been out there in about twenty years. Most of my business is in the East or in Europe. We do very little work on the West Coast, and usually when we have something out there"-he looked at her in embarra.s.sment-"I send out one of the underlings."

"That's nice. Don't you consider California worthy of you?" She was teasing, and he laughed.

"I confess. I guess I never did. Business isn't as high-powered there."

"Maybe that's a virtue."

"I never thought so. But maybe you're right." He smiled at her warmly and reached for the check, as she frowned.

"I don't think we ought to do it that way, Philip. Let me pay my half."

"How modern! Don't be absurd." He smiled benevolently as he put several bills on the plate.

"Please don't. After all"-she grinned at him mischievously-"I have an expense account."

"In that case, I'll let you pay for drinks. Can I lure you up to the Carlyle for an hour of Bobby Short?" It was a tempting invitation, but she looked at her watch with regret.

"Would you settle for a quick drink at our hotel? I'm afraid I have to be up and out at an unG.o.dly hour tomorrow. I have to be at the studio by seven-fifteen."

"I have to be at a breakfast meeting on Wall Street at seven-thirty myself. The hotel sounds fine."

And it was better than fine. It was lovely. A pianist was playing, and the room was uncrowded and surprisingly romantic for a hotel bar.

"I didn't remember this bar was so nice." She looked around in surprise and he laughed.

"Is that why you suggested it? You thought it would have neon lights and a jukebox?"

She laughed at the thought. "What a shame it doesn't. Wouldn't that be fun at the Regency?" They both laughed and sipped their brandies. She had had a lot to drink, but she didn't feel drunk. They had shared half a bottle of wine with dinner, but they had eaten well, so the food had balanced out the wine. Only the brandy was finally beginning to make her feel a little bit high, but not very. It only heightened the softness of the music, and the warmth of Philip's leg next to hers.

"What are you doing at the studio tomorrow?"

"Giving guided tours." She said it with a serious expression and he laughed at her.

"I'm serious. I'm fascinated by all this celebrity stuft."

"Don't be. It's exhausting. And most of it's very dull. I'm beginning to find that out. I was here in August and it all seemed very glamorous. Two months later, it's terribly tedious and a lot of hard work."

"Do you have to prepare for the shows?"

"Not really. They ask me ahead of time what I'll be willing to talk about. And you have some idea of what each show wants. But that's about it. After that it's ad-libbing and being charming and terribly witty." She said it with a face Tygue would have made, and Philip laughed at her.

"I see you take it very seriously. By the way, Kate, could I talk you into lunch tomorrow? Mine has been canceled and I'm free."

"I wish I were too." She said it mournfully and he looked disappointed. "I'm going to some kind of women's literary luncheon. Can you think of anything worse?"

"Can you get out of it?"

"Not if I plan to publish my next book." He smiled regretfully. And he couldn't offer her dinner. He had a big business dinner he had to go to, and she was having dinner with her editor and her publisher anyway, and some guy from the New York office of her agency.

"How long will you be in town?"

"Till the end of the week."

"Good. Then we can do it another day. Day after tomorrow? Lunch?" He was even free for dinner, but he thought he'd wait to suggest that at lunch. Lunch was always a good way to start things. They could work their way toward the evening slowly.

"I'd love it. Where shall we meet?" She was actually beginning to feel drunk now, and was suddenly anxious for bed. She looked at her watch and was horrified to realize that it was after one. They had spent a long time together. And she was going to get only about four hours sleep. Very New York.

He looked at her with a smile and put down his empty gla.s.s. "Let's see ... what's fun for lunch? Quo Vadis?"

"Where is it?"

"Just up the street. It's very pleasant." It also had the advantage of being a block away from the hotel, in case their lunch together went unusually well.

He held her arm as they walked to the elevator, and his eyes watched her hungrily as she got off at her floor. He held the door open for just a moment and looked at her. There was no one else in the elevator, and they were automatically run after midnight. "Good night, Kate." His voice was a caress, and she almost s.h.i.+vered. "I'll miss you tomorrow."

"Thanks."