Passion's Promise

CRITICAL RAVES FOR

DANIELLE STEEL“STEEL IS ONE OF THE BEST.”—Los Angeles Times“THE PLOTS OF DANIELLE STEEL’S NOVELS TWIST AND WEAVE AS INCREDIBLE STORIES UNFOLD TO THE THRILL AND DELIGHT OF HER ENORMOUS READING PUBLIC.”—United Press International“A LITERARY PHENOMENON … ambitious … prolific … and not to be pigeonholed as one who produces a predictable kind of book.”—The Detroit News“There is a smooth reading style to her writings which makes it easy to forget the time and to keep flipping the pages.”—The Pittsburgh Press“Ms. Steel excels at pacing her narrative, which races forward, mirroring the frenetic lives chronicled here; men and women swept up in bewildering change, seeking solutions to problems never before faced.”—Nashville Banner

Books by Danielle SteelSUNSET IN ST. TROPEZTHE COTTAGETHE KISSLONE EAGLELEAP OF FAITHJOURNEYTHE HOUSE ON HOPE STREETTHE WEDDINGIRRESISTIBLE FORCESGRANNY DANBITTERSWEETMIRROR IMAGEHIS BRIGHT LIGHT:

The Story of Nick TrainaTHE KLONE AND ITHE LONG ROAD HOMETHE GHOSTSPECIAL DELIVERYTHE RANCHSILENT HONORMALICEFIVE DAYS IN PARISLIGHTNINGWINGSTHE GIFTACCIDENTVANISHEDMIXED BLESSINGSJEWELSNO GREATER LOVEHEARTBEATMESSAGE FROM NAMDADDYSTARZOYAKALEIDOSCOPEFINE THINGSWANDERLUSTSECRETSFAMILY ALBUMFULL CIRCLECHANGESTHURSTON HOUSECROSSINGSONCE IN A LIFETIMEA PERFECT STRANGERREMEMBRANCEPALOMINOLOVE: poemsTHE RINGLOVINGTO LOVE AGAINSUMMER’S ENDSEASON OF PASSIONTHE PROMISENOW AND FOREVERPASSION’S PROMISEGOING HOMEVisit the Danielle Steel Web Site at:

www.daniellesteel.comDELL PUBLISHING

“I shall bury the wounded like pupas,

I shall count and bury the dead.

Let their souls writhe in a dew,

Incense in my track.

The carriages rock, they are cradles.

And I, stepping from this skin

Of old bandages, boredoms, old facesStep to you from the black car of Lethe,

Pure as a baby.”From “Getting There”

by Sylvia Plath, Ariel.

Chapter 1

Edward Hascomb Rawlings sat in his office and smiled at the morning paper on his desk. Page five showed a large photograph of a smiling young woman coming down the ramp of a plane. The Honorable Kezia Saint Martin. Another smaller photograph showed her on the arm of a tall, attractive man, leaving the terminal for the seclusion of a waiting limousine. The man, as Edward knew, was Whitney Hayworth III, the youngest partner of the legal firm of Benton, Thatcher, Powers, and Frye. Edward had known Whit since the boy got out of law school. And that had been ten years ago. But he wasn’t interested in Whit. He was interested in the diminutive woman on his arm. Edward knew her almost jet black hair, deep blue eyes, and creamy English complexion so well.

And she looked well now, even in newsprint. She was smiling. She seemed tanned. And she was finally back. Her absences always seemed interminable to Edward. The paper said that she had just come from Marbella, where she had been seen over the weekend, staying at the Spanish summer home of her aunt, the Contessa di San Ricamini, née Hilary Saint Martin. Before that Kezia had summered in the South of France, in “almost total seclusion.” Edward laughed at the thought. He had seen her column regularly all summer, with reports from London, Paris, Barcelona, Nice, and Rome. She had had a busy summer, in “seclusion.”

A paragraph further down the same page mentioned three others who had arrived on the same flight as Kezia. The so suddenly powerful daughter of the Greek shipping magnate, who had left her, his only heir, the bulk of his fortune. And there was mention as well of the Belgian princess, fresh from the Paris collections for a little junket to New York. Kezia had been in good company on the flight, and Edward wondered how much money she had taken from them at backgammon. Kezia was a most effective player. It struck him too that it was once again Kezia who got most of the press coverage. It was that way for her. Always the center of attention, the sparkle, the thunder, the flash of cameras as she walked into restaurants and out of theaters. It had been at its cruelest peak when she was in her teens; the photographers and reporters were always hungry, curious, prying, then. For years it had seemed that she was followed everywhere by a fleet of piranhas, but that was when she had first inherited her father’s fortune. Now they were used to her, and their attention seemed kinder.

At first Edward had tried hard to shield her from the press. That first year. That first, godawful, intolerable, excruciating year, when she was nine. But the scavengers had only been waiting. And they hadn’t waited long. It came as a shock to Kezia when she was thirteen, to be followed by a red-hot young woman reporter into Elizabeth Arden’s. Kezia hadn’t understood. But the reporter had. She had understood plenty. Edward’s face grew hard at the memory. Bitch. How could she do that to a child? She had asked her about Liane, right there in front of everyone. “How did you feel when your mother …” The reporter was four years late with her story. And out of a job by noon the next day. Edward was disappointed: he had hoped to have her job by the same night. And that was Kezia’s first taste of it. Notoriety. Power. A fortune. A name. Parents with histories. And grandparents with histories and power and money. Nine generations of it on her mother’s side. Only three worth mentioning on her father’s. History. Power. Money. Things you can’t conjure up, or lie about, or steal. You have to be born with them running thick in your veins. All three. And beauty. And style. And then with some other magical ingredient dancing in you at lightning speed, then … and only then, are you Kezia Saint Martin. And there was only one.

Edward stirred the coffee in the white-and-gold Limoges cup on his desk, and settled back to look at the view. The East River, dotted with small boats and barges, was a narrow gray ribbon far below on his right. He faced north from where he sat, and gazed peacefully over the congestion of midtown Manhattan, past its skyscrapers, to look down on the sturdy residential fortresses of Park Avenue and Fifth, huddled near the clump of browning green that was Central Park, and in the distance, a blur that was Harlem. It was merely a part of his view, and not a part that interested him a great deal. Edward was a busy man.

He sipped the coffee, and turned to “Martin Hallam’s” column to see who among his acquaintances was allegedly in love with whom, who was giving a dinner party where, who would attend, and who would presumably not show up because of the latest social feud. He knew only too well that there would be an item or two from Marbella. He knew Kezia’s style well enough to know that she would mention herself. She was thorough and prudent. And he was right. “On the list of returning refugees after a summer abroad: Scooter Hollingsworth, Bibi Adams-Jones, Melissa Sentry, Jean-Claude Reims, Kezia Saint Martin, and Julian Bodley. Hail, hail, the gang’s all here! Everyone is coming home!”

It was September, and he could still hear Kezia’s voice of a September seven years before….

“… All right, Edward, I’ve done it. I did Vassar, and the Sorbonne, and I just did another summer at Aunt Hil’s. I’m twenty-one years old and now I’m going to do what I want for a change. No more guilt trips about what my father would have wanted, or my mother would have preferred and what you feel is ‘sensible.’ I’ve done it all, for them and for you. And now I’m going to do it for me….”

She had marched up and down his office with a stormy look on her face, while he worried about the “it” she was referring to.

“And what exactly are you planning to do?” He was dying inside. But she was awfully young and very beautiful.

“I don’t know exactly. But I have some ideas.”

“Share them with me.”

“I plan to, but don’t be disagreeable, Edward.” She had turned toward him with fiery amethyst lights in her rich blue eyes. She was a striking girl, even more so when she was angry. Then the eyes would become almost purple, the cameo skin would blush faintly under the cheekbones, and the contrast made her dark hair shine like onyx. It almost made you forget how tiny she was. She was barely more than five feet tall, but well proportioned, with a face that in anger drew one like a magnet, riveting her victim’s eyes to her own. And the entire package was Edward’s responsibility, had been since her parents’ deaths. Ever since then, the burden of those fierce blue eyes had belonged to him, and her governess, Mrs. Townsend, and her Aunt Hilary, the Contessa di San Ricamini.

Hilary, of course, didn’t want to be bothered. She was perfectly willing, in fact nowadays frankly delighted, to have the girl stay with her in London at Christmas, or come to the house in Marbella for the summer. But she did not want to be bothered with what she referred to as “trivia.” Kezia’s fascination with the Peace Corps had been “trivia,” as had her much-publicized romance with the Argentinian ambassador’s son three years before. Her depression when the boy had married his cousin had also been “trivia,” as had Kezia’s other passing fascinations with people, places, and causes. Maybe Hilary had a point; it all fell by the wayside eventually anyway. But until it did, it was inevitably Edward’s problem. At twenty-one, she had already been a burden on his shoulders for twelve long years. But it was a burden he had cherished.

“Well, Kezia, you’ve been wearing out the rug in my office, but you still haven’t told me what these mysterious plans of yours are. What about that course in journalism at Columbia? Have you lost interest in trying that?”

“As a matter of fact, I have. Edward, I want to go to work.”

“Oh?” He had shuddered almost visibly. God, let it be for some charity organization. Please. “For whom?”

“I want to work for a newspaper, and study journalism at night.” There was a look of fierce defiance in her eyes. She knew what he would say. And why.

“I think you’d be a good deal wiser to take the course at Columbia, get your master’s, and then think about working. Do it sensibly.”

“And after I get my master’s, what sort of newspaper would you suggest, Edward? Women’s Wear Daily maybe?” He thought he saw tears of anger and frustration in her eyes. Lord, she was going to be difficult again. She grew more stubborn each year. She was just like her father.

“What sort of paper were you considering, Kezia? The Village Voice or the Berkeley Barb?”

“No. The New York Times.” At least the girl had style. She had never lacked that.

“I heartily agree, my dear, I think it’s a marvelous idea. But if that’s what you have in mind, I think you’d be far wiser to attend Columbia, get your master’s, and….” She cut him off, rising from the arm of the chair where she’d perched, and glared at him angrily across his desk.

“And marry some terribly ‘nice’ boy in the business school. Right?”

“Not unless that’s what you want to do.” Tedious, tedious, tedious. And dangerous. She was that too. Like her mother.

“Well, that’s not what I want to do.” She had stalked out of his office then, and he found out later that she already had the job at the Times. She kept it for exactly three and a half weeks.

It all happened precisely as he had feared it would. As one of the fifty wealthiest women in the world, she became the puppy of the paparazzi again. Every day in some newspaper, there was a mention or a photograph or a blurb or a quote or a joke. Other papers sent their society reporters over to catch glimpses of her. Women’s Wear had a field day. It was a continuation of the nightmare that had shadowed her: the fourteenth-birthday party broken into by photographers. The evening at the opera with Edward, over the Christmas holidays when she was only fifteen, which they had turned into such a horror. A pigsty of suggestion about Edward and Kezia. After that he had not taken her out publicly for years… and for years after that, there were the photographs of her that were repressed, and those that were not. The dates she was afraid to have, and then had and regretted, until at seventeen she had feared notoriety more than anything. At eighteen she had hated it. Hated the seclusion it forced on her, the caution she had to exercise, the constant secretiveness and discretion. It was absurd and unhealthy for a girl her age, but there was nothing Edward could do to lighten the burden for her. She had a tradition to live up to, and a difficult one. It was impossible for the daughter of Lady Liane Holmes-Aubrey Saint Martin and Keenan Saint Martin to go ignored. Kezia was “worth a tidy sum,” in common parlance, and she was beautiful. She was young, she was interesting. And she made news. There was no way to avoid that, however much Kezia wanted to pretend she could change that. She couldn’t. She never would. At least that was what Edward had thought. But he was surprised at her skill at avoiding photographers when she wanted to (now he even took her to the opera again) and the marvelous way she had of putting down reporters, with a wide dazzling smile and a word or two that made them wonder if she was laughing at them or with them, or about to call the police. She had that about her. Something threatening, the raw edge of power. But she had something gentle too. It was that that baffled everyone. She was a peculiar combination of her parents.

Kezia had the satiny delicacy of her mother and the sheer strength of her father. The two had always been an unusual couple. A surprising couple. And Kezia was like both of them, although more like her father. Edward saw it constantly. But what frightened him was the resemblance to Liane. Hundreds of years of British tradition, a maternal great-grandfather who was a duke-although her paternal grandfather had only been an earl-but Liane had such breeding, such style, such elegance of spirit. Such stature. Edward had fallen head over heels in love with her right from the first. And she had never known. Never. Edward knew that he couldn’t … couldn’t … but she had done something so much worse. Madness … blackmail … nightmare. At least they had averted a public scandal. No one had known. Except her husband, and Edward … and … him. Edward had never understood it. What had she seen in the boy? He was so much less a man than Keenan. And so … so coarse. Crude almost. She had made a poor choice. A very poor choice. Liane had taken Kezia’s French tutor as her lover. It was almost grotesque, except that it was so costly. In the end, it had cost Liane her life. And it had cost Keenan thousands to keep it quiet.

Keenan had had the young man “removed” from the household, and deported to France. After that it took Liane less than a year to drown herself in cognac and champagne, and, secretly, pills. She had paid a high price for her betrayal. Keenan died ten months later in an accident. There had been no doubt it was an accident, but such a waste. More waste. Keenan hadn’t given a damn about anything after Liane died, and Edward had always suspected that he had just let it happen, just let the Mercedes slide along the barrier, let it careen into the oncoming highway traffic. He had probably been drunk, or maybe only very tired. Not really a suicide, just the end.

No, Keenan hadn’t cared about anything in those last months, not even, really, about his daughter. He had said as much to Edward, but only to Edward. Everyone’s confidant, Edward. Liane had even told him her ugly stories, over tea one day, and he had nodded sagely and prayed not to get sick in her drawing room. She had looked at him so mournfully, it had made him want to cry.

Edward always cared. He cared too much-for Liane, who had been too perfect to be touched (or so he had thought) and for her child. Edward had always wondered if it excited her to have someone so far from her own class, or maybe it was just that the man was young, or maybe because he was French.

At least he could protect Kezia from that kind of madness, and he had long ago promised himself that he would. She was his duty now, his responsibility, and he was going to see to it that she lived up to every ounce of her breeding. He had sworn to himself that there would be no disasters in Kezia’s life, no blackmailing, boy-faced French tutors. With Kezia it would be different. She would live up to her noble ancestry on her mother’s side and to the powerful people on her father’s side. Edward felt he owed that much to Keenan and Liane. And to Kezia, as well. And he knew what it would take. How he would have to inculcate her with a sense of duty, a sense of the mantle of tradition she wore. As she grew up, Kezia had jokingly referred to it as her hair shirt, but she understood. Edward always saw to it that she did. That was the one thing he could give her objectively, he thought: a sense of who and what she was. She was Kezia Saint Martin. The Honorable Kezia Holmes-Aubrey Saint Martin, offspring of British nobility and American aristocracy, with a father who had used millions to make millions, in steel, copper, rubber, petroleum, and oil. When there was big money to be made on unthinkable scales, Keenan Saint Martin was there. It had made him an international legend, and a kind of American prince. His was the legend Kezia had inherited with the fortune. Of course, by some standards Keenan had had to get his hands a little bit dirty, but not very. He was always so spectacular, and such a gentleman, the kind of man whom people forgave anything, even the fact that he made much of his own money.

Liane, on the other hand, was Kezia’s threat, her terror … her reminder that if she crossed the invisible boundaries into forbidden lands, she, like her mother, would die. Edward wanted her to be more like her father. It was so much less painful for him that way. But so often … too often … she was the image of Liane, only stronger, and better, smarter, and so much more beautiful even than Liane.

Kezia was born of extraordinary people. She was the last surviving link in a long chain of almost mythical beauty and grace. And it was up to Edward now to see that the chain was not broken. Liane had threatened it. But the chain was still safe, and Edward, like all lonely people who never quite dare, who are never quite beautiful, who are never quite strong-was impressed by it. His own modestly elegant family in Philadelphia was so much less impressive than these magical people to whom he had given his soul. He was their guardian now. The keeper of the Holy Grail: Kezia. The treasure. His treasure. Which was why he had been so glad when her plan to work at the Times had failed so dismally. Everything would be peaceful again. For a while. She was his to protect, and he was hers to command. She did not yet command him, but he feared that one day she would. Just as her parents had. He had been trusted and commanded, never loved.

In the case of the Times, he had not had to command. She had quit. She had gone back to school for a while, fled to Europe for the summer, but in the fall, everything had changed again. Mostly Kezia. For Edward it had been almost terrifying.

She had returned to New York with something crisper about her manner, something more womanly. This time she didn’t consult Edward, even after the fact, and she didn’t make claims to being grown-up. At twenty-two she had sold the co-op on Park Avenue where she had lived with Mrs. Townsend-Totie-for thirteen very comfortable years, and rented two smaller apartments, one for herself, and the other for Totie, who was gently but firmly put out to pasture, despite Edward’s protests and Totie’s tears. Then she had gone about solving the problem of a job as resolutely as she had the matter of the apartment. The solution she chose was astonishingly ingenious.

She had announced the news to Edward over dinner in her new apartment, while serving him a very pleasant Pouilly Fumé ’54 to soften the blow.

Kezia had acquired a literary agent, and stunned Edward by announcing that she had already published three articles that summer, which she had sent in from Europe. And the amazing thing was that he had read them all, and rather liked them. He remembered them-a political piece she had written in Italy, a haunting article about a nomadic tribe she had come across in the Middle East, and a very funny spoof on the Polo Club in Paris. All three had appeared in national publications under the name of K. S. Miller. It was the last article that had set off the next chain of events.

They had opened another bottle of wine, and Kezia had suddenly begun to look mischievous, as she tried to extort a promise from him. Suddenly, he had that sinking sensation in his stomach again. There was more, he could tell. He got that feeling every time she got that look in her eyes. The look that reminded him so acutely of her father. The look that said the plans had been made, the decisions taken, and there wasn’t a hell of a lot you could do about it. Now what?

She had pulled out a copy of the morning’s paper, and folded it to a page in the second section. He couldn’t imagine what he might have missed. He read the paper thoroughly every morning. But she was pointing to the society column by Martin Hallam, and that morning he hadn’t bothered to read it.

It was a strange column, actually, and had begun appearing only a month before. It was a well-informed, slightly cynical, and highly astute account of Jet Set doings in their private haunts. No one had any idea who Martin Hallam was, and everyone was still trying to guess who the traitor might be. Whoever he was, he wrote without malice-but certainly with a great deal of inside information. And now Kezia was pointing to something at the top of the column.

He read it through, but found no mention of Kezia.

“So?”

“So, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine. Martin Hallam.” She was laughing openly, and Edward felt faintly foolish. And then she stuck out a hand to shake his, with a gurgle of laughter and those familiar amethyst lights in her eyes. “Hello, Edward. I’m Martin. How do you do?”

“What? Kezia, you’re joking!”

“I’m not. And no one will ever know. Even the editor doesn’t know who writes it. Everything goes through my literary agent, and he’s extremely discreet. I had to give them a month of sample columns to show that I knew what I was talking about, but word came back to us today. The column will now run as a regular feature three times a week. Isn’t it divine?”

“Divine? It’s ungodly. Kezia, how could you?”

“Why not? I don’t say anything I could get sued for, and I don’t let out any secrets that will destroy anyone’s life. I just keep everyone … well, ‘informed,’ shall we say … and amused.”

And that was Kezia. The Honorable Kezia Saint Martin, K. S. Miller, and Martin Hallam. And now she was home after another summer away. Seven summers had passed since her career began. She was successful now, and it only added to her charm. To Edward, it gave her a mysterious sparkle, an almost unbearable allure. Who but Kezia could pull it off? And for such a long time. Edward and her agent were the only two people she had entrusted with the secret that the Honorable Kezia Saint Martin had another life, other than the one so lavishly depicted in WWD, Town and Country, and occasionally in the “People” column of Time.

Edward looked at his watch again. He could call her now. It was just past ten o’clock. He reached for the phone. This was one number he always dialed himself. It rang twice, and she answered. The voice was husky, the way she always sounded in the morning. The way he liked best. There was something very private about that voice. He often wondered what she wore to bed, and then reprimanded himself for the thought.

“Welcome home, Kezia.” He smiled at the newspaper photograph still lying on his desk.

“Edward!” He felt warm at the delight in her voice. “How I’ve missed you!”

“But not enough to send me so much as a postcard, you little minx! I had lunch with Totie last Saturday, and she at least gets an occasional letter from you.”

“That’s different. She’d go into a decline if I didn’t let her know I’m alive.” She laughed, and he heard the clink of a cup against the phone. Tea. No sugar. A dash of cream.

“And you don’t think I’d go into a decline?”

“Of course not. You’re far too stoic. It would be bad form. Noblesse oblige, et cetera, et cetera.”

“All right, all right.” Her directness often embarrassed him. She was right, too. He had a distinct sense of “form.” It was why he had never told her that he loved her. Why he had never told her mother that he had loved her.

“And how was Marbella?”

“Dreadful. I must be getting old. Aunt Hil’s house was absolutely crawling with all sorts of eighteen-year-old children. Good God, Edward, they were born eleven years after I was! Why aren’t they at home with their nannies?” He laughed at the sound of her voice. She still looked twenty. But a very sophisticated twenty. “Thank God I was only there for the weekend.”

“And before that?”

“Didn’t you read the column this morning? It said I was in seclusion in the South of France for most of the summer.” She laughed again, and he smiled. It was so good to hear her voice.

“Actually, I was there for a while. On a boat I rented, and it was very pleasant. And peaceful. I got a lot of writing done.”

“I saw the article you did on the three Americans imprisoned in Turkey. Depressing, but excellent. Were you there?”

“Of course I was. And yes, it was depressing as hell.”

“Where else did you go?” He wanted to get her off the subject. Disagreeable issues were unnecessary.

“Oh, I went to a party in Rome, to the collections in Paris, to London to see the Queen…. Pussycat, pussycat, where have you been? I’ve been to London to see the …”

“Kezia, you’re impossible.” But delightfully so.

“Yeah.” She took a long swallow of tea and hiccuped in his ear. “But I missed you. It’s a pain in the ass not being able to tell anyone what I’m really doing.”

“Well, come and tell me what you really did. Lunch at La Grenouille today?”

“Perfect. I have to see Simpson, but I can meet you after that. Is one all right with you?”

“Fine. And Kezia …”

“Yes?” Her voice was low and gentle, suddenly not quite so brisk. In her own way, she loved him too. For almost twenty years now, he had softened the blow of the absence of her father.

“It really is good to know you’re back.”

“And it really is good to know that someone gives a damn.”

“Silly child, you make it sound as though no one else cares.”

“It’s called the Poor Little Rich Girl Syndrome, Edward. Occupational hazard for an heiress.” She laughed, but there was an edge to her voice that troubled him. “See you at one.”

She hung up, and Edward stared out at the view.

Twenty-two blocks from where he sat, Kezia was lying in bed, finishing her tea. There was a stack of newspapers on her bed, a pile of mail on the table next to her. The curtains were drawn back, and she had a peaceful view of the garden behind the townhouse next door. A bird was cooing on the air conditioner. And the doorbell was ringing.

“Damn.” She pulled a white satin robe off the foot of the bed, wondering who it might be, then suspecting quickly. She was right. When she opened the door, a slim, nervous Puerto Rican boy held out a long white box.

She knew what was in the box even before she traded the boy a dollar for his burden. She knew who the box was from. She even knew the florist. And knew also that she would recognize his secretary’s writing on the card. After four years, you let your secretary write the cards: “Oh, you know, Effy, something like ‘You can’t imagine how I’ve missed you,’ et cetera.” Effy did a fine job of it. She said just what any romantic fifty-four-year-old virgin would say on a card to accompany a dozen red roses. And Kezia didn’t really care if the card was from Effy or Whit. It didn’t make much difference anymore. None at all, in fact.

This time Effy had added “Dinner tonight?” to the usual flowery message, and Kezia paused with the card in her hand. She sat down in a prim blue velvet chair that had been her mother’s, and played with the card. She hadn’t seen Whit in a month. Not since he had flown to London on business, and they had partied at Annabelle’s before he left again the next day. Of course he had met her at the airport the night before, but they hadn’t really talked. They never really did.

She leaned pensively toward the phone on the small fruitwood desk, the card still in her hand. She glanced across the neat stacks of invitations her twice-weekly secretary had arranged for her-those she had missed, and those that were for the near and reasonably near future. Dinners, cocktails, gallery openings, fashion shows, benefits. Two wedding announcements, and a birth announcement.

She dialed Whit’s office and waited.

“Up already, Kezia darling? You must be exhausted.”

“A bit, but I’ll live. And the roses are splendid.” She allowed a small smile to escape her and hoped that it wouldn’t show in her voice.

“Are they nice? I’m glad. Kezia, you looked marvelous last night.” She laughed at him and looked at the tree growing in the neighboring garden. The tree had grown more in four years than Whit had.

“You were sweet to pick me up at the airport. And the roses started my day off just right. I was beginning to gloom over unpacking my bags.”

She had had the bad judgment to arrive on one of the cleaning woman’s days off. But the bags could wait.

“And what about my dinner invitation? The Orniers are having a dinner, and if you’re not too tired, Xavier suggested we all go to Raffles afterwards.” The Orniers had an endless suite in the tower at the Hotel Pierre, which they kept for their annual trips to New York. Even for a few weeks it was “worth it”: “You know how ghastly it is to be in a different room each time, a strange place.” They paid a high price for familiarity, but that was not new to Kezia. And their dinner party was just the sort of thing she ought to cover for the column. She had to get back into the swing of things, and lunch at La Grenouille with Edward would be a good start, but … damn. She wanted to go downtown instead. There were delights downtown that Whit would never dream she knew. She smiled to herself and suddenly remembered Whit in the silence.

“Sorry, darling. I’d love to, but I’m so awfully tired. Jet lag, and probably all that wild life at Hilary’s this weekend. Can you possibly tell the Orniers I died, and I’ll try to catch a glimpse of them before they leave. For you, I will resurrect tomorrow. But today, I’m simply gone.” She yawned slightly, and then giggled. “Good Lord, I didn’t mean to yawn in your ear. Sorry.”

“Quite all right. And I think you’re right about tonight. They probably won’t serve dinner till nine. You know how they are, and it’ll be two before you get home after Raffles. …” Dancing in that over-decorated basement, Kezia thought, just what I don’t need. …

“I’m glad you understand, love. Actually, I think I’ll put my phone on the service, and just trot off to bed at seven or eight. And tomorrow I’ll be blazing.”

“Good. Dinner tomorrow then?” Obviously, darling. Obviously.

“Yes. I have a thing on my desk for some sort of gala at the St. Regis. Want to try that? I think the Marshes are taking over the Maisonette for their ninety-eighth wedding anniversary or something.”

“Nasty sarcastic girl. It’s only their twenty-fifth. I’ll take a table at La Côte Basque, and we can go next door late.”

“Perfect, darling. Till tomorrow, then.”

“Pick you up at seven?”

“Make it eight.” Make it never.

“Fine, darling. See you then.”

She sat swinging one leg over the other after she hung up. She really was going to have to be nicer to Whit. What was the point in being disagreeable to him? Everyone thought of them as a couple, and he was nice to her, and useful in a way. Her constant escort. Darling Whitney … poor Whit. So predictable and so perfect, so beautiful and so impeccably tailored. It was unbearable really. Precisely six feet and one inch, ice-blue eyes, short thick blond hair, thirty-five years old, Gucci shoes, Dior ties, Givenchy cologne, Piaget watch, apartment on Park and Sixty-third, fine reputation as a lawyer, and loved by all his friends. The obvious mate for Kezia, and that in itself was enough to make her hate him, not that she really hated him. She only resented him, and her need of him. Despite the lover on Sutton Place that he didn’t know she knew about.

The Whit and Kezia game was a farce, but a discreet one. And a useful one. He was the ideal and eternal escort, and so totally safe. It was appalling to remember that a year or two before she had even considered marrying him. There didn’t seem any reason not to. They would go on doing the same things they were doing, and Kezia would tell him about the column. They would go to the same parties, see the same people, and lead their own lives. He’d bring her roses instead of send them. They would have separate bedrooms, and when Kezia gave someone a tour of the house Whit’s would be shown as “the guest room.” And she would go downtown, and he to Sutton Place, and no one would have to be the wiser. They would never mention it to each other, of course; she would “play bridge” and he would “see a client,” and they would meet at breakfast the next day, pacified, mollified, appeased, and loved, each by their respective lovers. What an insane fantasy. She laughed thinking back on it now. She still had more hope than that. She regarded Whit now as an old friend. She was fond of him in an odd way. And she was used to him, which in some ways was worse.

Kezia wandered slowly back to her bedroom and smiled to herself. It was good to be home. Nice to be back in the comfort of her own apartment, in the huge white bed with the silver fox bedspread that had been such an appalling extravagance, but still pleased her so much. The small, delicate furniture had been her mother’s. The painting she had bought in Lisbon the year before hung over the bed, a watermelon sun over a rich countryside and a man working the fields. There was something warm and friendly about her bedroom that she found nowhere else in the world. Not in Hilary’s palazzo in Marbella, or in the lovely home in Kensington where she had her own room-Hilary had so many rooms in the London house that she could afford to give them away to absent friends and family like so many lace handkerchiefs. But nowhere did Kezia feel like this, except at home. There was a fireplace in the bedroom too, and she had found the brass bed in London years before; there was one soft brown velvet chair near the fireplace, and a white fur rug that made you want to dance barefoot across the floor. Plants stood in corners and hung near the windows, and candles on the mantel gave the room a soft glow late at night. It was very good to be home.

She laughed softly to herself, a sound of pure pleasure as she put Mahler on the stereo and started her bath. And tonight … downtown. To Mark. First, her agent, then lunch with Edward. And finally, Mark. Saving the best till last … as long as nothing had changed.

“Kezia,” she spoke aloud to herself, looking in the bathroom mirror as she stood naked before it, humming to the music that echoed through the house, “You are a very naughty girl!” She wagged a finger at her reflection, and tossed back her head and laughed, her long black hair sweeping back to her waist. She stood very still then and looked deep into her own eyes. “Yeah, I know. I’m a rat. But what else can I do? A girl’s got to live, and there are a lot of different ways to do it.” She sank into the bathtub, wondering about it all. The dichotomies, the contrasts, the secrets … but at least no lies. She said nothing to anyone. But she did not lie. Almost never anyway. Lies were too hard to live with. Secrets were better.

As she sank into the warmth of the water, she thought about Mark. Delicious Marcus. The wild crazy hair, the incredible smile, the smell of his loft, the chess games, the laughter, the music, his body, his fire. Mark Wooly. She closed her eyes and drew an imaginary line down his back with the tip of one finger and then traced it gently across his lips. Something small squirmed low in the pit of her stomach, and she turned slowly in the tub, sending ripples gently away from her.

Twenty minutes later she stepped out of the bath, brushed her hair into a sleek knot, and slipped a plain white wool Dior dress over the new champagne lace underwear she had bought in Florence.

“Do you suppose I’m a schizophrenic?” she asked the mirror as she carefully fitted a hat into place and tilted it slowly over one eye. But she didn’t look like a schizophrenic. She looked like “the” Kezia Saint Martin, on her way to lunch at La Grenouille in New York, or Fouquet’s in Paris.

“Taxi!” Kezia held up an arm and dashed past the doorman as a cab stopped a few feet away at the curb. She smiled at the doorman and slid into the cab. Her New York season had just begun. And what did this one have in store? A book? A man? Mark Wooly? A dozen juicy articles for major magazines? A host of tiny cherished moments? Solitude and secrecy and splendor. She had it all. And another “season” in the palm of her hand.

In his office, Edward was strutting in front of the view. He looked at his watch for the eleventh time in an hour. In just a few minutes he would watch her walk in, she would see him and laugh, and then reach up and touch his face with her hand … “Oh Edward, it’s so good to see you!” She would hug him and giggle, and settle in at his side-while “Martin Hallam” took mental notes about who was at what table with whom, and K. S. Miller mulled over the possibility of a book.

Chapter 2

Kezia fought her way past the tight knot of men hovering between the cloak room and the bar of La Grenouille. The luncheon crowd was thick, the bar was jammed, the tables were full, the waiters were bustling, and the decor was unchanged. Red leather seats, pink tablecloths, bright oil paintings on the walls, and flowers on every table. The room was full of red anemones and smiling faces, with silver buckets of white wine chilling at almost every table while champagne corks popped demurely here and there.

The women were beautiful, or had worked hard at appearing so. Cartier’s wares were displayed in wild profusion. And the murmur of conversation throughout the room was distinctly French. The men wore dark suits and white shirts, and had gray at their temples, and shared their wealth of Romanoff cigars from Cuba via Switzerland in unmarked brown packages.

La Grenouille was the watering hole of the very rich and the very chic. Merely having an ample expense account to pay the tab was not adequate entree. You had to belong. It had to be part of you, a style you exuded from the pores of your Pucci.

“Kezia?” A hand touched her elbow, and she looked into the tanned face of Amory Strongwell.

“No, darling. It’s my ghost.” He won a teasing smile.

“You look marvelous.”

“And you look so pale. Poor Amory.” She gazed in mock sympathy at the deep bronze he had acquired in Greece, as he squeezed her shoulder carefully and kissed her cheek.

“Where’s Whit?”

Probably at Sutton Place, darling. “Working like mad, presumably. Will we see you at the Marsh party tomorrow night?” The question was rhetorical, and he nodded absently in answer. “I’m meeting Edward just now.”

“Lucky bastard.” She gave him a last smile and edged through the crowd to the front, where the headwaiter would be waiting to shepherd her to Edward. As it happened, she found Edward without assistance; he was at his favorite table, a bottle of champagne chilling nearby. Louis Roederer 1959, as always.

He saw her too and stood up to meet her as she walked easily past the other tables and across the room. She felt eyes on her, acknowledged discreet greetings as she passed tables of people she knew, and the waiters smiled. She had grown into it all years ago. Recognition. At sixteen it had agonized her, at eighteen it was a custom, at twenty-two she had fought against it, and now at twenty-nine she enjoyed it. It amused her. It was her private joke. The women would say “marvelous dress,” the men would muse about Whit; the women would decide that with the same fortune they could get away with the same sort of hat, and the waiters would nudge each other and murmur in French, “Saint Martin.” By the time she left, there might, or there might not, be a photographer from Women’s Wear waiting to snap her photograph paparazzi-style as she came through the door. It amused her. She played the game well.

“Edward, you look wonderful!” She gave him a searching look, an enormous squeeze, and sank onto the banquette at his side.

“Lord, child, you look well.” She kissed his cheek gently, and then smoothed her hand over it tenderly with a smile.

“So do you.”

“And how was this morning with Simpson?”

“Pleasant and productive. We’ve been discussing some ideas I have for a book. He gives me good advice, but let’s not … here. …” They both knew that there was too much noise to allow anyone to piece much together. But they rarely spoke of her career in public. “Discretion is the better part of valor,” as Edward often said.

“Right. Champagne?”

“Have I ever said no?” He signaled the waiter, and the ritual of the Louis Roederer was begun. “God, I love that stuff.” She smiled at him again and gazed slowly around the room as he began to laugh.

“I know what you’re doing, Kezia, and you’re impossible.” She was checking out the scene for her column. He raised his glass to her, and smiled. “To you, mademoiselle, welcome home.” They clinked glasses and sipped slowly at the champagne. It was precisely the way they liked it, a good year and icy cold.

“How’s Whit, by the way? Seeing him for dinner tonight?”

“Fine. And no, I’m going to bed to recover from the trip.”

“I don’t think I believe that, but I’ll accept it if you say so.”

“What a wise man you are, Edward. That’s probably why I love you.”

He looked at her for a moment then, and took her hand. “Kezia, be careful. Please.”

“Yes, Edward. I know. I am.”

The lunch was pleasant, as all their lunches were. She inquired about all his most important clients, remembered all their names, and wanted to know what he had done about the couch in his apartment that so desperately needed re-upholstering. They said hello to everyone they knew, and were joined for brief moments by two of his partners in the firm. She told him a little about her trip, and she kept an eye on the comings and goings and pairings of the natives.

She left him outside at three. The “surprise” photographer from Women’s Wear dutifully took their photograph, and Edward hailed her a cab before he walked back to his office. He always felt better when he knew she was back in town. He could be there if she needed him, and he felt closer to her life. He never really knew, but he had an idea that there was more to her life than Raffles and parties given by the Marshes. And much more to her life than Whit. But she didn’t tell Edward, and he didn’t ask. He didn’t really want to know as long as she was all right-“careful,” as he put it. But there was too much of her father in her to be satisfied with a man like Whit. Edward knew that only too well. It had taken more than two years to settle her father’s will discreetly, and execute the arrangements for the two women no one had known about.

The cab took Kezia home and deposited her at her door with a flourish of brakes and scattered curbside litter, and Kezia went upstairs and hung the white Dior dress neatly in the closet. Half an hour later she was in jeans, her hair hanging free, the answering service instructed to pick up her calls. She was “resting” and didn’t want to be disturbed until the following noon. A few moments later, she was gone.

She walked away from her house and slipped quietly into the subway at Seventy-seventh Street and Lexington Avenue. No makeup, no handbag, just a coin purse in her pocket and a smile in her eyes.

The subway was like a concentrated potion of New York, each sound and smell magnified, each character more extreme. Funny old ladies with faces made up like masks, gay boys in pants so tight one could almost see the hair on their legs, magnificent girls carrying portfolios on their way to modeling engagements, and men who smelled of sweat and cigars, whom one wanted not to be near, and the occasional passenger for Wall Street in striped suit, short hair, and hornrims. It was a symphony of sights and odors and sounds conducted to the shrieking background beat of the trains, brakes screaming, wheels rattling. Kezia stood holding her breath and closing her eyes against the hot breeze and flying litter swept up by the oncoming train, then moved inside quickly, sidestepping the doors as they closed.

She found a seat next to an old woman carrying a shopping bag. A young couple sat down next to her at the next stop, and furtively shared a joint, unobserved by the transit patrolman who moved through the car, eyes fixed ahead of him. Kezia found herself smiling, wondering if the old woman on her other side would get high from the smell. Then the train screeched to a halt at Canal Street and it was time to get off. Kezia danced quickly up the steps and looked around.

She was home again. Another home. Warehouses and tired tenements, fire escapes and delicatessens, and a few blocks away the art galleries and coffee houses and lofts crowded with artists and writers, sculptors and poets, beards and bandannas. A place where Camus and Sartre were still revered, and de Kooning and Pollock were gods. She walked along with a quick step and a little throb in her heart. It shouldn’t matter so much … not at her age … not the way things were between them … it shouldn’t feel so good to be back … it might all be different now…. But it did feel good to be back, and she wanted everything to be the same.

“Hey girl. Where’ve you been?” A tall, lithe black man wallpapered into white jeans greeted her with surprise delight.

“George!” He swept her off her feet in a vast embrace and whirled her around. He was in the ballet corps of the Metropolitan Opera. “Oh, it’s good to see you!” He deposited her, breathless and smiling, on the pavement beside him, and put an arm around her shoulders.

“You’ve been gone for a mighty long time, lady.” His eyes danced and his grin was a long row of ivory in the bearded midnight face.

“It feels like it. I almost wondered if the neighborhood would be gone.”

“Never! SoHo is sacred.” They laughed and fell into step beside her. “Where’re you going?”

“How about The Partridge for coffee?” She was suddenly afraid to see Mark. Afraid that everything was different. George would know, but she didn’t want to ask him.

“Make it wine, and I’m yours for an hour. We have rehearsal at six.”

They shared a carafe of wine at The Partridge. George drank most of it while Kezia played with her glass.

“Know something, baby?”

“What, George?”

“You make me laugh.”

“Terrific. How come?”

“Because I know what you’re so nervous about, and you’re so damn scared you won’t even ask me. You gonna ask or do I have to volunteer the answer?” He was laughing at her.

“Is there something that maybe I don’t want to know?”

“Shit, Kezia. Why don’t you just go on up to his studio and find out? It’s better that way.” He stood up, put a hand in his pocket, and pulled out three dollars. “My treat. You just go on home.” Home? To Mark? Yes, in a way … even she knew it.

He shooed her out the door with another ripple of laughter, and she found herself in the familiar doorway across the street. She hadn’t even looked up at the window, but instead nervously searched strangers’ faces.

Her heart hammered as she ran up the five flights. She reached the landing, breathless and dizzy, and raised a hand to knock at the door. It flew open almost before she touched it, and she was suddenly wrapped in the arms of an endlessly tall, hopelessly thin, fuzzy-haired man. He kissed her and lifted her into his arms, pulling her inside with a shout and a grin.

“Hey, you guys! It’s Kezia! How the hell are you, baby?”

“Happy.” He set her down and she looked around. The same faces, the same loft, the same Mark. Nothing had changed. It was a victorious return. “Christ, it feels like I’ve been gone for a year!” She laughed again, and someone handed her a glass of red wine.

“You’re telling me. And now, ladies and gentlemen …” The endlessly tall young man bowed low, and swept an arm from his friends to the door. “My lady has returned. In other words, you guys, beat it!” They laughed goodnaturedly and murmured hellos and goodbyes as they left. The door had barely closed when Mark pulled her into his arms again.

“Oh baby, I’m glad you’re home.”

“Me too.” She slid a hand under his ragged, paintsplattered shirt and smiled into his eyes.

“Let me look at you.” He slowly pulled her shirt over her head, and she stood straight and still, her hair falling across one shoulder, a warm light in her rich blue eyes, a living reflection of the sketch of a nude that hung on the wall behind her. He had done it the previous winter, soon after they had met. She reached out to him slowly then, and he came into her arms smiling at the same moment that there was a knock at the door.

“Go away!”

“No, I won’t.” It was George.

“Shit, motherfucker, what do you want?” He pulled open the door as Kezia darted bare-chested into the bedroom. George loomed large and smiling in the doorway with a small split of champagne in one hand.”

“For your wedding night, Marcus.”

“George, you’re beautiful.” George danced down the stairs with a wave, and Mark closed the door with a burst of laughter. “Hey, Kezia! Could you dig a glass of champagne?” She returned to the room smiling and naked, her hair swinging loose down her back, the vision of champagne at La Grenouille in the Dior dress bringing laughter to her eyes now. The comparison was absurd.

She lounged in the doorway, her head to one side, watching him open the champagne. And suddenly she felt as though she loved him, and that was absurd too. They both knew she didn’t. It wasn’t that kind of thing. They both understood … but it would have been nice not to understand, just for a moment. Not to be rational, or make sense. It would have been lovely to love him, to love someone-anyone-and why not Mark?

“I missed you, Kezia.”

“So did I, darling. So did I. And I also wondered if you had another lady by now.” She smiled and took a sip of the too-sweet, bubbly wine. “I was queasy as hell about coming up. I even stopped and had some wine at The Partridge with George.”

“Asshole. You could have come here first.”

“I was afraid to.” She walked toward him and traced a finger across his chest as he looked down at her.

“You know something weird, Kezia?”

“What?” Her eyes filled with dreams.

“I’ve got syphilis.”

“WHAT!” She stared at him, horrified, and he chuckled.

“I just wondered what you’d say. I don’t really have it.” But he looked amused at his joke.

“Jesus.” She settled back into his arms with a shake of the head and a grin. “I’m not so sure about your sense of humor, kiddo.” But it was the same Mark.

He followed her into the bedroom and his voice sounded husky as he spoke from behind her. “I saw a picture of some girl in the paper the other day. She looked sort of like you, only older, and very uptight.” There was a question in his voice. One she was not planning to answer.

“So?”

“Her last name was French. Not ‘Miller,’ but her first name was blurred. I couldn’t read it. You related to anyone like that? She looked pretty fancy.”

“No, I’m not related to anyone like that. Why?” And now the lies had even begun with Mark. Not just sins of omission; now they were sins of commission too. Damn.

“I don’t know. I was just curious. She was interesting looking, in a fierce, unhappy sort of way.”

“And you fell in love with her, and decided that you had to find her and rescue her, so you could both live happily ever after. Right?” Her voice was light, but not as light as she wanted it to be. His answer was lost as he kissed her and eased her gently onto the bed. There was at least an hour of truth amid the lifetime of lies. Bodies are generally honest.

Chapter 3

“Ready?”

“Ready.” Whit smiled at her across the last of their coffee and mousse au chocolat. They were two hours late for the Marshes’ party at the St. Regis, but no one would notice. The Marshes had invited more than five hundred guests.

Kezia was resplendent in a blue-gray satin dress that circled her neck in a halter and left her back bare to show her deep summer tan. Small diamond earrings glistened at her ears, and her hair was swept into a neat knot high on her head. Whit’s impeccable evening clothes set off his classic good looks. They made a very spectacular couple. By now, they took it for granted.

The crowd at the entrance to the Maisonette at the St. Regis was enormous. Elegantly dinner-jacketed men whose names appeared regularly in Fortune; women in diamonds and Balenciagas and Givenchys and Diors whose faces and living rooms appeared constantly in Vogue. European titles, American scions of society, friends from Palm Beach and Grosse Pointe and Scottsdale and Beverly Hills. The Marshes had outdone themselves. Waiters circulated through the ever-thickening crowd, offering Moët et Chandon champagne and little platters boasting caviar and pâté.

There was cold lobster on a buffet at the back of the room, and later on there would appear the pièce de résistance, an enormous wedding cake, a replica of the original served a quarter of a century before. Each guest would be given a tiny box of dream cake, the wrapping carefully inscribed with the couple’s name and the date. “More than a little tacky,” as Martin Hallam would note in his column the next day. Whit handed Kezia a glass of champagne from a passing tray and gently took her arm.

“Do you want to dance, or circulate for a while?”

“Circulate, I think, if it’s humanly possible.” She smiled quietly at him, and he squeezed her arm.

A photographer hired by their hosts snapped a picture of them looking lovingly at each other, and Whit slipped an arm about her waist. She was comfortable with him. After her night with Mark, she felt benign and benevolent, even with Whit. It was odd to think that at dawn that morning she had wandered the streets of SoHo with Mark, then left him reluctantly at three that afternoon to phone in her column to her agent, clear her desk, and rest before the onslaught of the evening. Edward had called to see how she was, and they had chuckled for a few moments about her mention of their lunch in the morning’s column.

“How in God’s name can you call me ‘dashing,’ Kezia? I’m over sixty years old.”

“You’re a mere sixty-one. And you are dashing, Edward. Look at you.”

“I try very hard not to.”

“Silly man.” They had moved on to other topics, both of them careful not to mention what she had done the night before….

“More champagne, Kezia?”

“Mm?” She had drifted through the first glass without even noticing it. She had been thinking of other things: Edward; the new article she’d just been commissioned to write, a piece on the outstanding women candidates in the upcoming national elections. She had forgotten all about Whit, and the Marshes’ party. “Good Heavens, did I finish that already?” She smiled at Whit again, and he looked at her quizzically.

“Still tired from the trip?”

“No, just a little dreamy. Drifting, I suppose.”

“That’s quite a knack in a furor like this.” She exchanged her empty glass for a full one, and they found a secluded corner where they could watch the dance floor. Her eyes took in all the couples and she made rapid mental notes as to who was with whom, and who was wearing what. Opera divas, bankers, famous beauties, celebrated playboys, and an extravagance of rubies and sapphires and diamonds and emeralds.

“You look more beautiful than ever, Kezia.”

“You flatter me, Whit.”

“No. I love you.”

It was foolish of him to say it. They both knew otherwise. But she inclined her head demurely with a slender smile. Perhaps he did love her, after a fashion. Perhaps she even loved him, like a favorite brother or a childhood friend. He was a sweet man; it wasn’t really difficult to like him. But love him? That was different.

“It looks as though the summer did you good.”

“Europe always does. Oh, no!”

“What?” He turned in the direction that had brought a look of dismay to her face, but it was too late. The Baron von Schnellingen was bearing down on them, with perspiration pouring from his temples, and a look of ecstasy at having spotted the pair.

“Oh Christ tell him you’ve got the curse, and you can’t dance,” Whit whispered.

Kezia burst into laughter, which the chubby little German Baron misinterpreted as delight.

“I am zo happy to zee you too, my dear. Good evening, Vitney. Kee-zee-ah, you are exquisite tonight.”

“Thank you, Manfred. You’re looking well.” And hot and sweaty. And obese, and disgusting. And lecherous, as usual.

“It is a valtz. Chust for us. Ja? Nein, but why the hell not? She couldn’t say no. He was always sure to remind her of how much he had loved her dear departed father. It was simpler to concede one waltz with him, for her “father’s sake.” At least he was a proficient dancer. At the waltz in any case. She bowed her head gently and extended a hand to be led to the floor. The Baron patted her hand ecstatically and led her away, just as Whit whispered in her ear, “I’ll rescue you right after the waltz.”

“You’d better, darling.” She said it through clenched teeth and a well-practiced smile.

How could she ever explain something like this to Mark? She began to laugh to herself at the thought of explaining Mark and her anonymous forays into SoHo to anyone at the Maisonette that night. Surely the Baron would understand. He probably crept off to far more unusual places than SoHo, but he didn’t expect Kezia to. No one did. Not Kezia, a woman, the Kezia Saint Martin … and that was different anyway. Like the other men she knew, the Baron conducted his adventures differently, and for different reasons … or was it different? Was she simply being a poor little rich girl running away to get laid and play with her Bohemian friends? Were any of them real to her? Sometimes she wondered. The Maisonette was real. Whit was real. The Baron was real. So real it made her feel hopeless at times. A gilded cage from which one never escapes. One never escapes one’s name and one’s face and one’s ancestors and one’s father or one’s mother, no matter how many years they’ve been dead. One never escapes all the bullshit about Noblesse oblige. Or does one? Does one simply get on the subway with a token and a smile, never to return? The mysterious disappearance of the Honorable Kezia Saint Martin. No, if one leaves, one leaves elegantly and openly. With style. Not fleeing on a subway in total silence. If she really wanted SoHo, she had to say so, if only for her own sake. She knew that much. But was that what she wanted? How much better was SoHo than this? It was zabaglione instead of souffié Grand Marnier. But neither was very nourishing. What she needed was good, wholesome steak. Counting on Mark’s world for sustenance was like hiding with a six-month supply of Oreo cookies and nothing else. She simply had one world to offset the other, one man to complement another, and the worst of it was that she knew it. Nothing was whole…. “Am I?” She didn’t realize that she had said it aloud.

“Are you vat?” the Baron cooed in her ear.

“Oh. Sorry. Am I stepping on your foot?”

“No, my beauty. Only my heart. And you dance like an angel.”

Nauseating. She smiled pleasantly and swirled in his arms. “Thank you, Manfred.”

They swept gracefully about once more, and at last her eye met Whit’s, as the waltz drew to a merciful close. She stood slightly apart from the Baron and thanked him again.

“But perhaps they play another?” His disappointment was almost childlike.

“You dance a very handsome waltz, sir.” Whitney was at their side, bowing slightly to the perspiring German.

“And you are a very lucky man, Vitney.” Kezia and Whit exchanged a beatific glance and Kezia bestowed a last smile on the Baron as they glided away.

“Still alive?”

“Very much so. And I’ve really been hopelessly lazy. I haven’t talked to a soul tonight.” She had work to do and the evening was young.

“Want to stop and talk to some of your cronies now?”

“Why not? I haven’t seen any of them since I got back.”

“Then onwards, milady. Let us throw ourselves to the lions, and see who’s here.”

Everyone was, as Kezia had observed upon entering. And after a round of a dozen tables, and six or seven small groups standing near the dance floor, she was grateful to spot two of her friends. Whitnev left her to them, and went to share a cigar with his senior partner. A little congenial talk over a good Monte Cristo never hurt. He waved her on her way, and vanished in a cluster of black and white emitting the pungent fumes of Havana’s finest.

“Hi, you two.” Kezia joined two tall thin young women who seemed surprised to see her arrive.

“I didn’t know you were back!” Cheeks almost met as kisses flew into midair, and the three looked at each other with pleasure. Tiffany Benjamin was more than a little drunk, but Marina Walters looked bright and alive. Tiffany was married to William Patterson Benjamin IV, the number two man in the biggest brokerage house on Wall Street. And Marina was divorced. And loved it that way, or so she said. Kezia knew otherwise.

“When did you get back from Europe?” Marina smiled at her, and appraised the dress. “Hell of a neat dress, by the way. Saint Laurent?”

Kezia nodded.

“I thought so.”

“And so’s yours, Madame Hawkeye.” Marina nodded pleased assent, but Kezia knew it for a copy. “Christ, I got back two days ago, and I’m beginning to wonder if I was ever away.” Kezia spoke while keeping a casual eye on the room.

“I know the feeling. I got back last week, in time to get the kids back to school. By the time we’d done orthodontists, shoes, school uniforms, and three birthday parties, I forgot I’d ever been away. I’m ready for another summer. Where’d you go this year, Kezia?”

“The South of France, and I spent the last few days at Hilary’s in Marbella. You, Marina?”

“The Hamptons all summer. Boring as hell. This was not my most glowing summer.”

Kezia raised an eyebrow. “How come?”

“No men, or something like that.” She was creeping toward thirty-six and was thinking about having something done about the bags under her eyes. The summer before, she had had her breasts firmed up by “the most marvelous doctor” in Zurich. Kezia had hinted at it in the column, and Marina had been livid.

Tiffany had been to Greece for the summer, and she had also spent a few days with distant cousins in Rome. Bill had had to come home early. Bullock and Benjamin seemed to require the presence of its director almost constantly. But he thrived on it. He ate it and slept it and loved it. The Dow Jones ticked somewhere in his heart, and his pulse rate went up and down with the market. That was what Martin Hallam said in his column. But Tiffany understood; her father had been the same way. He had been the president of the Stock Exchange when he finally retired to a month of golf before the fatal heart attack. What a way to go, one foot on the Exchange, and the other on the golf course. Tiffany’s mother’s life was less dramatic. Like Tiffany, she drank. But less.

Tiffany was proud of Bill. He was an Important man. Even more important than her father. Or her brother. And hell, her brother worked just as hard as Bill did. Gloria said so. Her brother was a corporate lawyer with Wheeler, Spaulding, and Forbes, one of the oldest firms on Wall Street. But the brokerage house of Bullock and Benjamin was the most important on the Street. It made Tiffany someone. Mrs. William Patterson Benjamin IV. And she didn’t mind vacationing alone. She took the children to Gstaad at Christmas, Palm Beach in February, and Acapulco for spring vacation. In summer, they spent a month at the Vineyard with Bill’s mother, and then off they went to Europe; Monte Carlo, Paris, Cannes, St. Tropez, Cap d’Antibes, Marbella, Skorpios, Athens, Rome. It was divine. Everything was divine, according to Tiffany. So divine that she was drinking herself to death.

“Isn’t this the most divine party you’ve ever seen?” Tiffany was weaving slightly and watching her friends. Marina and Kezia exchanged a rapid glance, and Kezia nodded. She and Tiffany had gone to school together. She was a nice girl too, when she wasn’t drunk. It was something Kezia would not put in the column. Everyone knew she drank, and it hurt to see her like that. It wasn’t something amusing to read at breakfast, like Marina’s boob lift. This was different, painful. Suicide by champagne.

“What’s next on your agenda, Kezia?” Marina lit a cigarette, and Tiffany faded back into her glass.

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll give a party.” After I write that article I landed today….

“Christ, you’ve got courage. I look at something like this and I cringe. Meg spent eight months planning it. Are you on the Arthritis Committee again this year?”

Kezia nodded. “They asked me about doing the Crippled Children’s Ball too.” Tiffany awoke at the mention of that.

“Crippled children? How dreadful!” At least she hadn’t said it was divine.

“What’s dreadful about it? It’s as good a ball as any of the others.” Marina was quick to the fiesta’s defense.

“But crippled children? I mean really, who could stand to look at them?” Marina looked at her, annoyed.

“Tiffany darling, have you ever seen an arthritic at the Arthritis Ball?”

“No … I don’t think so….”

“Then you won’t see any children at the Crippled Children’s Ball either.” Marina was matter-of-fact, and Tiffany seemed appeased, while something slimy turned over in Kezia’s stomach.

“I suppose you’re right, Marina. Are you going to do the ball, Kezia?”

“I don’t know yet. I haven’t decided. I’m a little tired of the benefit circuit, frankly. I’ve been doing that stuff for a hell of a long time.”

“Haven’t we all,” Marina echoed ruefully and flicked ashes into the waiter’s silent butler.

“You should get married, Kezia. It’s divine.” Tiffany smiled delightedly and lifted another glass of champagne from a passing tray. It was her third since Kezia had joined them. A waltz was beginning again at the far end of the room.

“And that, my friends, is my bad luck dance.” Kezia glanced around and inwardly groaned. Where in hell was Whit?

“Bad luck? How come?”

“That’s how come.” Kezia nodded quickly in the direction of the approaching Baron. He had requested the dance, and had looked high and low for her for half an hour.

“Lucky you.” Marina grinned evilly, and Tiffany did her best to focus.

“And that, Tiffany my love, is why I don’t get married.”

“Kezia! Our valtz!” It was useless to protest. She nodded gracefully at her friends and departed on the arm of the Baron.

“You mean she likes him?” Tiffany looked stunned. He was really very ugly. Even drunk she knew that much.

“No, you idiot. She means that with creeps like mat hounding her, who has time to find a decent guy?” Marina knew the problem only too well. She had been scouting a second husband for almost two years, and if someone halfway decent didn’t hurry along pretty damn soon, her settlement would fizzle out and her tits would fall again, and she’d get waffles on her ass. She figured she had about a year to hit it lucky before the roof fell in.

“I don’t know, Marina. Maybe she does like him. Kezia’s a little strange, you know. Sometimes I wonder if all that money coming to her so young affected her. I mean, after all, it would affect almost anyone. It’s not like you can lead a normal life when you’re one of the wealthiest …”

“Oh for chrissake, Tiffany, shut up. And why don’t you go home and sober up for a change?”

“What a rotten thing to say!” There were tears in Tiffany’s eyes.

“No, Tiffany. What a rotten thing to watch.” And with that, Marina turned on her heel and vanished in the direction of Halpern Medley. She had heard that he and Lucille had just broken up. That was the best time to get them. Frightened and bruised, scared to death to manage life on their own, missing the children, lonely at night. She had three children and would be more than happy to keep Halpern busy. He was an excellent catch.

On the dance floor, Kezia was whirling slowly in the arms of the Baron. Whitney was engaged in earnest conversation with a young broker with long, elegant hands. The clock on the wall struck three.

Tiffany went to sit dizzily on a red velvet banquette at the back of the room. Where was Bill? He had said something about calling Frankfurt. Frankfurt? Why Frankfurt? She couldn’t remember. But he had gone out to the lobby … hours ago? … and things were beginning to whirl. Bill? She couldn’t remember if he had brought her tonight, or was he out of town and had she come with Mark and Gloria? Had she … damn, why couldn’t she remember? Let’s see, she had had dinner at home with Bill and the children … alone with the children? … were the children still at the Vineyard with Mother Benjamin? … was…. Her stomach began to spin slowly with the room and she knew she was going to be sick.

“Tiffany?” It was her brother, Mark, with that look on his face, and Gloria just behind him. A wall of reproach between her and the bathroom, wherever the hell it was at whatever goddamn hotel they were in, or was this somebody’s house? She couldn’t remember a fucking thing, dammit.

“Mark … I …”

“Gloria, take Tiffany to the ladies’ room.” He didn’t waste time speaking to his sister. He simply addressed his wife. He knew the signs too well. All over the seat of the new Lincoln last time they’d driven her home. And deep within Tiffany something withered further. She knew. That was the trouble. No matter how much she drank, she always knew. She could hear the tone in their voices so clearly. That never faded.

“I … I’m sorry … Mark, Bill is out of town and if you could just drive me …” She belched loudly and Gloria rushed forward nervously while Mark shrank backwards with a look of disgust.

“Tiffany?” It was Bill, with his usual vague smile.

“I thought … you were …” Mark and Gloria faded into the background and Tiffany’s husband took her arm and escorted her as swiftly as possible from the halls where the last of the party was fading. She was too noticeable in the thinning crowd. “I thought….” They were moving through the lobby now, and she had left her bag on the banquette. Someone would take it. “My bag. Bill, my …”

“That’s right, dear. We’ll take care of it.”

“I … oh God, I feel awful. I have to sit down.” Her voice was barely a whisper, and her bag was forgotten. He was walking too fast, it made her feel worse.

“You just need some air.” He kept a firm grip on her arm and smiled at passersby, the director on the way to his office … good morning … morning … hello … nice to see you…. The smile never faded, and the eyes never warmed.

“I just … I … oh.” The cool night breeze slapped her face and she felt clearer, but her stomach rose menacingly toward her throat. “Bill….” She turned and looked at him then, but only for a moment. She wanted to ask him a terrible question. Something was forcing her to say it. To ask. How awful. Oh God, she prayed that she wouldn’t. Sometimes when she was very drunk she wanted to ask her brother the same thing. Once she had even asked her mother, and her mother had slapped her. Hard. The question always burned in her when she was this drunk. Champagne always did it to her, and sometimes gin.

“Well just get you into a nice cozy cab, and you’ll be all set, won’t you dear.” He gently squeezed her arm again, like an overly solicitous headwaiter, and signaled the doorman. A cab stood with open door before them a moment later.

“A cab? Aren’t you … Bill?” Oh God, and there was the question again, trying to fight its way out of her mouth, out of her stomach, out of her soul.

“That’s right, dear,” Bill had leaned over to speak to the driver. He wasn’t listening. Everyone spoke over her, around her, past her, never to her. She heard him give the driver their address and she grew more confused by the moment. But Bill looked so sure. “See you in the morning, darling.” He pecked her cheek and the door slammed shut, and all she could see was the doorman’s face smiling at her as the cab pulled away. She reached for the knob to open the window and frantically rolled it down … and the question … the question was fighting its way out. She couldn’t hold it back any longer. She had to ask Bill … William … Billy … they had to go back so she could ask, but the cab was lunging away from the curb and the question sailed from her mouth with a long stream of vomit as she leaned out the window. “Do you love me? …”

The driver had been paid twenty dollars to get her home, and he did, without a word. He never answered the question. Nor did Bill. Bill had gone upstairs to the room he’d reserved at the St. Regis. Both girls were still waiting. A tiny Peruvian, and a large blonde from Frankfurt. And in the morning, Tiffany wouldn’t even remember that she’d gone home alone. Bill was certain of that.

* * *

“Ready to go?”

“Yes, sir.” Kezia stifled a yawn and nodded sleepily at Whit.

“It was quite a party. Do you realize what time it is?”

She nodded and looked at the clock. “Almost four. You’re going to be dead at the office tomorrow.” But he was used to it He was out almost every night in the week. Out, or at Sutton Place.

“And I can’t lie in bed till noon like all of you indolent ladies.”

All of them? “Poor, poor Whit. What a sad story.” She patted his cheek as they swept out the door and onto the deserted street. She couldn’t lie in bed in the morning either. She had to start researching that new article, and wanted to be up by nine.

“Do we have anything like this on the agenda tomorrow, Kezia?” He hailed a passing cab and held the door open for her as she gathered up her blue satin skirt and settled onto the seat.

“God, I hope not. I’m out of training after the summer.” Actually, her summer hadn’t been so very different. But at least it had been blissfully devoid of the Baron.

“Come to think of it, I have a partners’ dinner tomorrow night. But I think Friday there’s something at the El Morocco. Are you going to be in town?” They were speeding up Park Avenue.

“As a matter of fact, I doubt it. Edward is trying to talk me into some deadly dull weekend thing with some old friends of his. They knew my father.” That was always a safe thing to say.

“Monday then. We’ll have dinner at Raffles.” She smiled easily and leaned back onto his shoulder. She had lied to Whit after all. She had no plans with Edward, who knew better than to try to rope her into a weekend like the one she had described to Whit. She was going to SoHo. After tonight, she had earned it … and what did a little lie to Whitney matter? It was all for a good cause. Her sanity.

“Raffles on Monday sounds fine.” She’d need new material for the column by then anyway. And in the meantime, she could manage to get enough information by calling a few friends for a “chat.” Marina was always an excellent source. And now she was going to be an excellent item as well. Her interest in Halpern Medley at the Maisonette had not gone unnoticed by Kezia. Nor had Halpern seemed indifferent to Marina. Kezia knew why Halpern was so interesting to her friend, and it was hard to blame her. Going broke was no fun, and Halpern was a most attractive remedy for what ailed her.

“I’ll give you a call tomorrow or the day after, Kezia. Maybe we can sneak in a quick lunch. Lutèce, ‘21,’ we’ll think of some place amusing.”

“I’m sure we will. Want to come up for a quick brandy, or coffee, or eggs or something?” It was the last thing she wanted, but she felt that she owed him something. Eggs if not sex.

“I really can’t, darling. I’ll be half blind at the office tomorrow as it is. I’d better get some sleep. And you too!” He wagged a finger at her as the cab drew to a halt at her door, and then kissed her ever so gently on the rim of her mouth, barely touching her lips.

“Good night, Whit. It was a lovely evening.” The preceding message was taped in Television City, Hollywood….

“It’s always a lovely evening with you, Kezia.” He walked her slowly to the door, and waited for the doorman to unlock it. “Keep an eye on the papers tomorrow. I’m sure it’ll be full of us. Even Martin Hallam will undoubtedly have something to say about that dress.” His eyes smiled at her appreciatively again, and he pecked her on the forehead while the doorman waited patiently. It was fascinating the way they had stopped pretending years before. A peck here and there, a grope, a feel, but she had claimed virginity long since, and he had greedily bought the story.

She waved as he walked away, and rode sleepily up to her floor. It felt good to be home. She unzipped the blue satin dress as she walked through the living room and deposited it on the couch where it could lie until Monday. Until doomsday for all she cared. What an insane way to make a living. It was like a lifetime of Halloween, trick or treat … getting all dressed up for a daily masquerade party to spy on your friends. This was the first “season” when it had rankled right at the beginning. It usually took a few months to get to her. This year, the restlessness had come early.

She smoked a last cigarette, turned off the light, and it seemed as though only a few moments later the alarm was ringing. It was eight o’clock in the morning.

Chapter 4

Kezia did three hours of work on the new article, outlining, sketching what she thought she knew about the women she wanted to write about, and drafting letters to key people who could tell her something more about them. It was going to be a nice solid K. S. Miller piece, and she was pleased. After that she opened her mail and sifted through it. The usual spate of invitations, a couple of “fan” letters forwarded to her by a magazine via her agent, and a memo from Edward about some tax shelters he wanted to look into with her. None of it was interesting and she was restless. She had another article in mind; maybe that would help. A piece on child abuse in middle-class homes. It would be a hot and heavy piece if Simpson could find a market for it. She wondered if the Marshes, with their parties for a cast of thousands, ever thought of that. Child abuse. Or the slums. Or the death penalty in California. None of them were “in” causes. If they had been, surely there would have been a benefit for them, a “fabulous” ball, or a “marvelous little vernissage,” something “absolutely super” staged by a committee of beauties … while Marina waited for a sale at Bender’s or hunted a good knock-off at Ohrbach’s, and Tiffany announced the cause as “divine” …. What was happening to her, dammit? Why did it matter if Marina tried to palm off her copies as originals? So what if Tiffany was drunk every day long before noon? So fucking what? But it bothered her. Oh God, how it bothered her. Maybe a good piece of ass would calm her nerves. She was in Mark’s studio by twelve-thirty.

“Wow, lady, what’s with you?”

“Nothing. Why?” She stood watching him work on a gouache. She liked it. She would have liked to buy it from him, but she couldn’t do that, and she wouldn’t let him give it to her. She knew he needed the money, and that was one commodity she was wise enough not to exchange with him.

“Well, you slammed the door, so I figured something must be bugging you.” He had given her back her keys.

“No, I’m just grumpy, I guess. Jet lag or something.” A smile broke through the anger in her eyes, and she dumped herself into a chair. “I missed you last night. Sometimes I wish you wouldn’t let me go anywhere.”

“Do I have that option?” He looked surprised and she laughed and kicked her shoes off.

“No.”

“That’s what I thought” It didn’t seem to bother him, and Kezia was beginning to feel better.

“I like the gouache.” She looked over his shoulder as he stepped back to observe the morning’s work.

“Yeah. Maybe it’ll be okay.” He was demolishing a box of chocolate cookies and looking secretly pleased. Suddenly he turned to face her and slipped his arms around her. “And what have you been up to since yesterday?”

“Oh, let’s see. I read eight books, ran a mile, went to a ball, ran for president. The usual stuff.”

“And somewhere in all that bullshit lies the truth, doesn’t it?” She shrugged and they exchanged a smile interspersed with kisses. He didn’t really care what she did when she wasn’t with him. He had his own life, his work, his loft, his friends. Her life was her own. “Personally, I suspect that the truth is that you ran for president.”

“I just can’t keep any secrets from you, Marcus.”

“No.” He said it while carefully unbuttoning her shirt. “No secrets at all…. Now there’s the secret I was looking for.” He tenderly uncovered one breast and leaned down to kiss it, as she slid her hands under his shirt and onto his back. “I missed you, Kezia.”

“Not half as much as I missed you.” A brief flash of the evening before raced through her mind. Visions of the dancing Baron. She pulled away from Mark then and smiled at him for a long moment. “You’re the most beautiful man in the world, Mark Wooly.”

“And your slave.” She laughed at him, because Mark was no one’s slave and they both knew it, and then, barefoot, she darted away from’ him and ran behind the easel, grabbing his box of chocolate cookies as she went.

“Hey!”

“Okay, Mark, now the truth will out. What do you love more? Me or your chocolate cookies?”

“What are you, crazy or something?” He chased her behind the easel but she fled to the bedroom doorway. “I love my chocolate cookies! What do you think?”

“Ha ha! Well, I’ve got them!” She ran into the bedroom and leapt onto the bed, dancing from one foot to the other, laughing, her eyes sparkling, her hair flying around her head like a flock of silky ravens.

“Give me my chocolate cookies, woman! I’m addicted!”

“Fiend!”

“Yeah!” He joined her on the bed with a gleam in his eye, took the cookies from her and flung them to the sheepskin chair, then pulled her into a tight embrace.

“Not only are you a hopeless chocoholic, Mark Wooly, but you’re a sex fiend too!” She laughed the laugh of her childhood as she settled into his arms.

“You know, maybe I’m addicted to you too.”

“I doubt it.” But he pulled her down beside him, and wrapped in laughter and her long black hair, they made love.

“What do you want for dinner?” She yawned and cuddled closer to him in the comfortable bed.

“You.”

“That was lunch.”

“So? There’s a law that says I can’t have for dinner what I had for lunch?” He rumpled her hair, and his mouth sought her lips.

“Come on, Mark, be serious. What else do you want? Besides chocolate cookies?”

“Oh … steak … lobster … caviar … the usual.” He didn’t know just how usual it was. “Oh shit, I don’t know. Pasta, I guess. Fettuccine maybe. Al pesto? Can you get some basil? The fresh kind?”

“You’re four months late. It’s out of season. How about clam sauce?”

“You’re on.”

“Then I’ll see you in a bit.” She ran her tongue across the small of his back, stretched once more and then hopped out of bed, just out of reach of the hand he held out for her. “None of that, Marcus. Later. Or we’ll never get dinner.”

“Screw dinner.” The light in his eyes was reviving.

“Screw you.”

“That’s just what I had in mind. Now you’ve got the picture.” He grinned broadly as he lay on his back and watched her dress. “You’re really no fun, Kezia, but you’re pretty to watch.”

“So are you.” His long frame was stretched out lazily atop the sheets. It occurred to her as she looked at him that there was nothing quite so beautiful as the bold good looks of a very young man, a very handsome young man….

She left the bedroom and returned with her string bag in hand, one of his shirts knotted just under her breasts above well-tailored jeans, her hair tied in a wisp of red ribbon.

“I ought to paint you like that.”

“You ought to stop being so silly. I’ll get a fat head. Any special requests?” He smiled, shook his head, and she was gone, off to the market.

There were Italian markets nearby, and she always liked to shop for him. Here, the food was real. Home-made pasta, fresh vegetables, oversized fruit, tomatoes to squeeze, a whole array of sausages and cheeses waiting to be felt and sniffed and taken home for a princely repast. Long loaves of Italian bread to carry home under your arm the way they did in Europe. Bottles of Chianti dancing from hooks near the ceiling.

It was a short walk, and it was the time of day when young artists began to come out of their lairs. The end of the day, when those who worked at night began to come alive, and those who worked by day needed to stretch and walk. Later there would be more people in the streets, wandering, talking, smoking grass, drifting, stopping in at the cafes, en route to the studios of friends or someone’s latest sculpture show. It was friendly in SoHo; everyone was hard at work. Companions on a shared journey of the soul. Pioneers in the world of art. Dancers, writers, poets, painters, they congregated here at the southern tip of New York, locked between the dying filth and litter of Greenwich Village and the concrete and glass of Wall Street. This was a softer place. A world of friends.

The woman in the grocery store knew her well.

“Ah signorina, comè sta?”

“Bene grazie, e lei?”

“Così così. Un po’ stanca. Che cosa vorebbe oggi?”

And Kezia wandered amidst the delicious smells and chose salami, cheese, bread, onions, tomatoes. Fiorella approved of her selections. Here was a girl who knew how to buy. She knew the right salami, what to put in a sauce, how a good Bel Paese should feel. She was a nice girl. Her husband was probably Italian. But Fiorella never asked.

Kezia paid and left with the string bag full. She stopped next door to buy eggs, and down the street she went into the delicatessen for three boxes of chocolate cookies, the kind he liked best. On her way back, she strolled slowly through the ever-thickening groups on the street. The aroma of fresh bread and salami wafted around her head, the smell of marijuana hung close by, the heavy scent of espresso drifted out of the cafés, while a rich twilight sky stretched overhead. It was a beautiful September, still warm, but the air felt cleaner than it usually did, and there were pink lights in the sky, like one of Mark’s early water-colors, rich in pastels. Pigeons cooed and waddled down the street, and bicycles leaned against buildings; here and there a child skipped rope.

“What’d you get?” Mark was lying on the floor, smoking a joint.

“What you ordered. Steak, lobster, caviar. The usual.” She blew him a kiss and dropped the packages on the narrow kitchen table.

“Yeah? You bought steak?” He looked more disappointed than hopeful.

“No. But Fiorella says we don’t eat enough salami. So I bought a ton of that.”

“Good. She must be a trip.” Before Kezia had come into his life, he had existed on navy beans and chocolate cookies. Fiorella was just another part of Kezia’s mystery, one of her many gifts to him.

“She is a trip. A good trip.”

“So are you. So are you.” She stood-in the kitchen doorway, her eyes alight, a twilight glow filling the room, and she looked back at Mark, sprawled on the floor.

“You know, once in a while I think I really love you, Marcus.”

“Once in a while I think I love you too.”

The look they shared said a multitude of things. There was no unpleasantness there, no pressure, no strain. No depth, but no hassles. There was merit in that, for both of them.

“Want to go for a walk, Kezia?”

“La passeggiata.”

He laughed softly at the word. She always called it that. “I haven’t heard that since you went away.”

“That’s what it always is to me, down here. Uptown, people walk. They run. They go crazy. Here, they still know how to live. Like in Europe. Le passeggiate, the walks Italians take every evening at dusk, and at noon on Sundays, in funny little old towns where most of the women wear black and the men wear hats and white shirts, baggy suits and no ties. Proud farmers, good people. They check out their scene, greet their friends. They do it right, it’s an institution to them. A ritual, a tradition, and I love it.” She looked content as she said it.

“So let’s go do it.” He rose slowly to his feet, stretched, and put an arm around her shoulders. “We can eat when we get back.”

Kezia knew what that meant. Eleven, maybe twelve o’clock. First they would walk, and then they would run into friends and stop to chat on the street for a while. It would get dark and they would take refuge in someone’s studio, so Mark could see the progress of a friend’s latest work, and eventually the studio would grow crowded so they would all go to The Partridge for wine. And suddenly, hours later, they would be starving, and Kezia would be serving fettuccine for nine. There would be candles and music, and laughter and guitars, and joints passed around until they were tiny wisps of paper in somebody’s roach clip. And Klee and Rousseau and Cassatt and Pollock would come alive in the room as their names flew among them. Paris in the days of the Impressionists must have been like that. Unloved outlaws of the art establishment banding together and forming a world of their own, to give each other laughter and courage and hope … until one day, somebody found them, made them famous, and offered them caviar to replace the chocolate cookies. It was a shame really. For their sakes, Kezia almost hoped they would never leave the fettuccine and the dusty floors of their studios and their magic nights far behind them, because then they would wear dinner jackets and brittle smiles and sad eyes. They would dine at “21” and dance at El Morocco and go to parties at the Maisonette.

But Park Avenue was far from SoHo. A universe away. And the air was still rich with the last of summer, and the night was filled with smiles.

“Where are you off to, my love?”

“I have to go uptown to do some errands.”

“See ya later.” He wasn’t paying attention to her; he was intent on a gouache.

She kissed the nape of his neck on her way past him and looked around the room with a brief, swift glance. She hated to go “uptown.” It was as though she was always afraid she wouldn’t find her way back. As though someone in her world would suspect what she’d been up to, where she had been, and might try to keep her from ever coming back here. The idea terrified her. She needed to come back, needed SoHo, and Mark, and all that they stood for. Silly really. Who could stop her from returning? Edward? Her father’s ghost? How absurd. She was twenty-nine years old. Still, leaving SoHo felt like crossing the frontier into enemy territory, behind the Iron Curtain, on a scouting mission for the underground. It amused her to fantasize about it. And Mark’s casual way of treating her comings and goings made it easier to float back and forth between both worlds. She laughed to herself as she ran lightly down the stairs.

It was a bright sunny morning and the subway let her out three blocks from her apartment, and the walk down Lexington Avenue and across Seventy-fourth Street was crisp. Nurses from Lenox Hill were dashing out to lunch, afternoon shoppers looked harassed, and traffic bleated angrily. Everything was so much faster here. Louder, darker, dirtier, more.

The doorman swept open the door and touched his cap. There were flowers waiting for her in the refrigerator kept by the building management for instances such as this. God forbid the roses should wilt while Madame was at the coiffeur—or in SoHo. It was the usual white box from Whit.

Kezia looked at her watch and made a rapid calculation. She had the day’s calls to make on behalf of “Martin Hallam,” snooping secretly for tidbits. And she also had the column she’d already finished which she still had to phone in to her agent. A quick bath, and then the meeting for the Arthritis Ball. First meeting of the year, and good meat for Martin Hallam. She could be back in SoHo by five, stop briefly at Fiorella’s for provisions, and still be out for the nightly stroll with Mark. Perfect.

She called her service and collected her messages. A call from Edward. Two from Marina, and one from Whit, who wanted to confirm their lunch at “21” the following day. She returned the call, promised him her full attention at lunch, thanked him for the roses, and listened patiently while he told her how much he missed her. Five minutes later she was in the bathtub, her mind far from Whit, and shortly thereafter she was drying herself in the big white Porthault towels discreetly monogrammed in pink. KHStM.

The meeting was at Elizabeth Morgan’s house. Mrs. Angier Whimple Morgan. The third. She was Kezia’s age, but looked ten years older, and her husband was twice her age. She was his third wife, the first two having conveniently died, augmenting his fortune handsomely. Elizabeth was still redoing the house. It just took “forever to find the right pieces.”

Kezia was ten minutes late, and when she arrived, throngs of women were crowded into the hall. Two maids in crisp black uniforms offered tea sandwiches, and there was lemonade on a long silver tray. The butler was discreetly taking orders for drinks. And he was getting a lot more business than the long silver tray.

The couch and Louis XV fauteuils (“Imagine, eight of them, darling, from Christie’s! And all in one day! You know, the Richley estate, and signed too!”) were cluttered with the older women on the committee, enthroned like heads of state, clanking gold bracelets and covered with pearls, wearing “good” suits and “marvelous” hats, a host of Balenciaga and Chanel. They eyed the younger women carefully, criticism rich on their minds.

The room had a ceiling the height of two floors; the mantel was French, a “marvelous” marble, Louis XVI, and the ghastly chandelier had been a wedding present from Elizabeth’s mother. Fruitwood tables, an inlaid desk, an ormolu chest, Chippendale, Sheraton, Hepplewhite—it all looked to Kezia like Sotheby’s the day before auction.

The “girls” were given half an hour of grace before coming to order, and then their attention was demanded at the front of the room. Courtnay St. James was in charge.

“Well, ladies, welcome home from the summer. And doesn’t everyone look just marvelous!” She was heftily poured into a navy silk suit that crushed her ample bosom and struggled over her hips. A sapphire brooch of considerable size adorned her lapel, her pearls were in place, her hat matched her dress, and three or four rings that had been born with her hands waved her demi-glasses at the “girls” as she spoke. “And now, let’s get organized for our marvelous, marvelous fete! It’s going to be at the Plaza this year.” Surprise! Surprise! The Plaza and not the Pierre. How terribly, terribly exciting!

There was a murmur among the women, and the butler silently circulated his tray at the edge of the crowd. Tiffany was first on line, and seemed to weave as she stood, smiling amiably at her friends. Kezia looked away and let her eyes comb the crowd. They were all here, all the same faces, and one or two new ones, but even the newcomers were not strangers. They had just added this committee to their myriad others. There were no outsiders, no one who didn’t belong. One couldn’t let just anyone work on the Arthritis Ball, could one? “But my dear, you must understand, you do remember who her mother was, don’t you?” Last year, Tippy Walgreen had tried to introduce one of her strange little friends to the group. “I mean, after all, everyone knew her mother was half-Jewish! I mean, really, Tippy, you’ll embarrass the girl!”

The meeting droned on. Assignments were given. Meeting schedules decided. Twice a week for seven long months. It would give the women a reason for living and a motive for drinking—at least four martinis per meeting if they caught the butler’s eye often enough. He would continue his rounds, ever discreet, while the pitcher of lemonade remained almost full.

As usual, Kezia accepted her role as head of the Junior Committee. As long as she was in town, it was useful for the column to do it. And it meant nothing more than being sure that all the right debutantes came to the Ball, and that a chosen few of them were allowed to lick stamps. An honor which would enchant their mothers. “The Arthritis Ball, Peggy? How nifty!” Nifty … nifty … nifty….

The meeting broke up at five, with at least half of the women comfortably tight, but not so much so that they couldn’t go home and face their husbands with the usual “You know how Elizabeth is, she just forces it on you.” And Tiffany would tell Bill it had all been divine. If he came home. The gossip that Kezia was hearing about Tiffany these days was growing unpleasant.

The echoes she heard brought back other memories, memories that were long gone but would never quite be forgotten. Memories of reproaches she had heard from behind closed doors, warnings, and the sounds of someone violently sick to her stomach. Her mother. Like Tiffany. She hated watching Tiffany now. There was too much pain in her eyes, shoddily wrapped in “divine” and bad jokes and that vague glazed look that said she didn’t know exactly where she was or why.

Kezia looked at her watch in annoyance. It was almost five-thirty, and she didn’t want to bother stopping at home to get out of the little Chanel number she’d worn. Mark would survive it. And with luck, he’d be too wrapped up in his easel to notice. If he ever got a chance to notice; at that hour it was almost impossible to catch a cab. She looked at the street in dismay. Not a vacant cab in sight.

“Want a ride?” The voice was only a few feet away, and she turned in surprise. It was Tiffany, standing beside a sleek navy blue Bentley with liveried chauffeur. The car was her mother-in-law’s, as Kezia knew.

“Mother Benjamin lent me the car.” Tiffany looked apologetic. In the late afternoon sunlight, away from the world of parties and façades, Kezia saw a so much older version of her school friend, with wrinkles of sadness and betrayal around her eyes, and a sallow look to her skin. She had been so pretty in school, and still was, but she was losing it now. It reminded Kezia again of her mother. She could hardly bear to look into Tiffany’s eyes.

“Thanks, love, but I don’t want to take you out of your way.”

“Hell, you don’t live very far … do you?” She smiled a tired smile which made her look almost young again. As though being out with the grown-ups was just too much for her, and now it was time to go home. She had had just enough to drink to make her begin to forget things again. Kezia had lived in the same place for years.

“No, I don’t live very far, Tiffie, but I’m not going home.”

“That’s okay.” She looked so lonely, so in need of a friend. Kezia couldn’t say no. Tears were welling up in her throat.

“Okay, thanks.” Kezia smiled and approached the car, forcing herself to think of other things. She couldn’t cry in front of the girl, for God’s sake. Cry about what? Her mother’s death, twenty years later … or for this girl who was already halfway dead? Kezia wouldn’t let herself think about it, as she sank into the gentle upholstery in the back seat. The bar was already open. “Mother Benjamin” kept quite a stock.

“Harley, we’re out of bourbon again.”

“Yes, madam.” Harley remained expressionless and Tiffany turned to Kezia with a smile.

“Want a drink?”

Kezia shook her head “Why don’t you wait ’til you get home?” Tiffany nodded, holding the glass in her hand and gazing out the window. She was trying to remember if Bill was coming home for dinner. She thought he was in London for three days, but she wasn’t sure if that was next week … or last week.

“Kezia?”

“Yes?” Kezia sat very still as Tiffany tried to make her mind stick to one thought.

“Do you love me?” Kezia was stunned, and Tiffany looked horrified. She had been absent-minded and it had slipped out. The question again. The demon that haunted her. “I … I’m sorry … I … I was thinking of someone else….” There were tears flooding Kezia’s eyes now as Tiffany brought her gaze from the window to rest on Kezia’s face.

“It’s all right, Tiffie. It’s okay.” She put her arms around her friend and there was a long moment of silence. The chauffeur glanced into the rearview mirror, then hastily averted his eyes and sat rigid, behind the wheel, patient imperturbable and profoundly and eternally discreet. Neither of the young women noted his presence. They had been brought up to think that way. He waited a full five minutes while the women in the back seat sat hugged wordlessly and there was the sound of gentle weeping. He wasn’t sure which woman was crying.

“Madam?”

“Yes, Harley?” Tiffany sounded very young and very hoarse.

“Where are we taking Miss Saint Martin?”

“Oh … I don’t know.” She dried her eyes with one gloved hand, and looked at Kezia with a half smile. “Where are you going?”

“I … the Sherry-Netherland. Can you drop me off there?”

“Sure.” The car had already started, and the two settled back in their seat, holding hands between fine beige kid and black suede and saying nothing. There was nothing either could say: too much would have to be said if either of them ever began to try. The silence was easier. Tiffany wanted to invite Kezia home to dinner, but she couldn’t remember if Bill was in town, and he didn’t like her friends. He wanted to be able to read the work he brought home after dinner, or go out to his meetings, without feeling he had to stick around and make chitchat. Tiffany knew the rules. No one to dinner, except when Bill brought them home. It had been years since she’d tried … that was why … that was how … in the beginning, she had been so lonely. With Daddy gone, and Mother … well, Mother … and she had thought babies of their own … but Bill didn’t want them around either. Now the children ate at five-thirty with Nanny Singleton in the kitchen, and Nanny thought it “unwise” for Tiffany to eat with them. It made the children “uncomfortable.” So she ate alone in the dining room at seven-thirty. She wondered if Bill would be home for dinner tonight, or just how angry he would be if….

“Kezia?”

“Hm?” Kezia had been lost in her own painful thoughts, and she had had a dull pain in her stomach for the last twenty minutes. “Yes?”

“Why don’t you come to dinner tonight?” She looked like a little girl with a brilliant idea.

“Tiffie … it … I …I’m sorry, love, but I just can’t.” She couldn’t do that to herself. And she had to see Mark. Had to. Needed to. Her survival came first, and the day had already been trying enough. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay. Not to worry.” She kissed Kezia gently on the cheek as Harley drew up to the Sherry-Netherland, and the hug they exchanged was ferocious, born of the longing of one and the other’s remorse.

“Take good care, will you?”

“Sure.”

“Call me sometime soon?”

Tiffany nodded.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Tiffany looked old again as they exchanged a last smile, and Kezia waved once as she disappeared into the lobby. She waited five minutes and then came out and hailed a cab, and sped south to SoHo, trying to forget the anguish in Tiffany’s eyes. Driving north, Tiffany poured herself one more quick Scotch.

“My God, it’s Cinderella! What happened to my shirt?”

“I didn’t think you’d notice. Sorry, love, I left it at my place.”

“I can spare it. It is Cinderella, isn’t it? Or are you running for president again?” He was leaning against the wall, observing the day’s work, but his smile told her he was glad she was back home with him.

“State senator, actually. Running for president is so obvious.” She grinned at him and shrugged. “I’ll get out of this stuff and go get some food.”

“Before you do, Madam Senator …” He walked purposefully toward her with a mischievous grin.

“Oh?” The suit jacket was already off, her hair down, her blouse half-unbuttoned.

“Yes, ‘oh.’ I missed you today.”

“I didn’t even think you’d notice I was gone. You looked busy when I left.”

“Well, I’m not busy now.” He swept her into his arms, her stockinged feet dangling over his arms, her black hair sweeping his face. “You look pretty all dressed up. Sort of like that girl I saw in the paper while you were gone, but nicer. Much, much nicer. She looked like a bitch.” Kezia let her head fall back gently against his chest as she began to laugh.

“And I’m not a bitch?”

“Never, Cinderella, never.”

“What illusions you have.”

“Only about you.”

“Fool. Sweet, sweet fool….” She kissed him gently on the mouth, and in a moment the rest of her clothes marked a path to his bed. It was dark by the time they got up.

“What time is it?”

“Must be about ten.” She stretched and yawned. It was dark in the apartment. Mark leaned out of bed to light a candle and then snuggled back into her arms. “Want to go out for dinner?”

“No.”

“Me neither, but I’m hungry, and you didn’t buy any food, did you?” She shook her head. “I was in too much of a hurry to get home. Somehow I was more anxious to see you than to see Fiorella.”

“No big deal. We can sup on peanut butter and Oreos.”

She answered with a choking sound and a hand clasped to her throat. Then she laughed and they kissed and they made their way to the bathtub where they splashed each other generously before sharing his one purple towel. With no monogram. From Korvette’s.

She was thinking, as she dried herself, that SoHo had come too late for her. Maybe at twenty it would have seemed real, perhaps then she might have believed it. Now it was fun … special … lovely … Mark’s, but not hers. Other places belonged to her, all those places she didn’t even want, but inadvertently owned.

“Do you dig what you do, Kezia?” She paused for a long moment before answering, and then shrugged.

“Maybe yes, maybe no, maybe I don’t even know.”

“Maybe you ought to figure it out.”

“Yeah. Maybe I should figure it out before noon tomorrow.” She had remembered the luncheon engagement with Whit.

“Is there some big deal tomorrow?” He looked puzzled, and she shook her head as they shared a handful of cookies and the last of the wine.

“Nope. No big deal tomorrow.”

“You made it sound like there was.”

“Nope. As a matter of fact, my love, I’ve just decided that when you reach my age very little is a ‘big deal.’” Not even you, or your lovemaking, or your sweet delicious young body, or my own bloody life….

“May I quote you, Methuselah?”

“Absolutely. They’ve been quoting me for years.” And then in the clear autumn night, she laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“Everything. Absolutely everything.”

“I think you’re drunk.” The idea amused him, and for a moment she wished that she were.

“Only a little drunk on life maybe … your kind of life.”

“Why my kind of life? Can’t this be your kind of life too? What’s so different about your life and my life for christsake?”

Oh Jesus. This wasn’t the time.

“The fact that I’m running for state senator, of course!”

He pulled her around to face him as she tried to laugh him off.

“Kezia, why can’t you be straight with me? Sometimes you give me the feeling that I don’t even know who you are.” His grip on her arm troubled her, almost as much as the question in his eyes. But she only shrugged with an evasive smile. “Well, I’ll tell you, Cinderella, whoever you are, I think you’re gassed.” They both laughed as she followed him into the bedroom, and she wiped two silent, unseen tears from her cheeks. He was a nice boy, but he didn’t know her. How could he? She wouldn’t let him know her. He was only a boy.

Chapter 5

“Miss Saint Martin, how nice to see you!”

“Thank you, Bill. Is Mr. Hayworth here yet?”

“No, but we have the table waiting. May I show you in?”

“No, thank you. I’ll wait at the fireplace.”

The “21” Club was crammed with lunch-hungry bodies. Business executives, high-fashion models, well-known actors, producers, the gods of the publishing world, and a handful of dowagers. The Scions of Meccas. The restaurant was alive with success. The fireplace was a peaceful corner where Kezia could wait before entering the whirling currents with Whit. “21” was fun but she wasn’t quite in the mood.

She hadn’t wanted to come to lunch. It was strange the way it was all getting a little bit harder. Maybe she was getting too old for a double life. Her thoughts turned to Edward. Maybe she’d see him at “21” for lunch, but he was more likely to be found at Lutèce or the Mistral. His luncheon leanings were usually French.

“How do you suppose the children would feel about it if we took them to Palm Beach? I don’t want them to feel I’m pushing out their father.” The wisp of conversation made Kezia turn her head. Well, well, Marina Walters and Halpern Medley. Things were certainly progressing. Item One for tomorrow’s news. They hadn’t see her discreetly folded in one of the large red leather chairs. The advantage of being small. And quiet.

And then she saw Whit, elegant and youthful and tanned, in a dark gray suit and Wedgewood blue shirt. She waved at him and he walked over to her chair.

“You’re looking awfully well today, Mr. Hayworth.” She held out a hand to him from her comfortable seat, and he kissed her wrist lightly, then clasped her fingers loosely in his.

“I feel a lot better than I did with a jeroboam of champagne under my belt the other night. How did you weather that?”

“Very nicely, thank you. I slept all day,” she lied. “And you?” She smiled at him and they began to thread their way toward the dining room.

“Don’t make me jealous. Your sleep-ins are an outrage!”

“Ah, Mr. Hayworth! Miss Saint Martin …” The headwaiter led them to Whitney’s customary table, and Kezia settled in and looked around. Same old faces, same old crowd. Even the models looked familiar. Warren Beatty sat at a corner table, and Babe Paley had just walked in.

“What did you do last night, Kezia?” Her smile was one he could not read.

“I played bridge.”

“You look like you must have won.”

“As a matter of fact, I did. I’ve been on a winning streak since I got home.”

“I’m glad for you. Me, I’ve been losing at backgammon consistently for the past four weeks. Bitching rotten luck.” But he didn’t look overly worried, as he patted her hand gently and signaled to the waiter. Two Bloody Marys and a double steak tartare. The usual. “Darling, do you want wine?” She shook her head. The Bloody Marys would be fine.

It was a quick lunch; he had to be back in the office at two. Now that the summer was over, it was business as usual: new wills, new trusts, new babies, new divorces, new season. It was almost like a whole new year. Like children returning to school, socialites marked the years by “the season,” and the season had just begun.

“Will you be in town this weekend, Kezia?” He seemed distracted as he hailed her a cab.

“No. Remember? I have that weekend thing with Edward.”

“Oh, that’s right. Good. Then I won’t feel like such a meanie. I’m going to Quogue with some business associates. But I’ll call you on Monday. Will you be all right?” The question amused her.

“I’ll be fine.” She slid gracefully into the cab, and smiled up into his eyes. Business associates, darling? “Thanks for the lunch.”

“See you Monday.” He waved again as the cab pulled away, and she sighed comfortably from the back seat. Finito. She was off the hook till Monday. But suddenly, there was nothing but lies.

* * *

The weekend was perfect. Bright sunny skies, a light breeze, little pollution and a low pollen count, and she and Mark had painted the bedroom a bright cornflower blue. “In honor of your eyes,” he told her as she worked diligently around the window. It was a bitch of a job, but when they had finished, they were both immensely pleased.

“How about a picnic to celebrate?” He was in high spirits and so was she.

She ran down to Fiorella’s for provisions, while he called around to borrow a car. A friend of George’s offered his van.

“Where are we going, sire?”

“Treasure Island. My own treasure island.” And he began to sing snatches of absurd songs about islands, interspersed with a great many cackles and guffaws.

“Mark Wooly, you’re a madman.”

“That’s cool, Cinderella. As long as you dig it.” There was no malice in the “Cinderella.” They were too happy and it was too fine a day. And Mark had never been malicious.

He took her to a little island in the East River, a nameless gem near Randall’s Island. They looped off the highway, and through litter and a bumpy little road that seemed to go nowhere, crossed a small bridge, and suddenly…. magic! A lighthouse and a crumbling castle all their own.

“It looks like the fall of the House of Usher.”

“Yes, and it’s all mine. And now it’s yours, too. Nobody ever comes here.” New York gazed somberly at them from across the river, the United Nations, the Chrysler Building and the Empire State looking sleek and polite, as the happy pair lay on the grass and opened a bottle of Fiorella’s best Chianti. Tugboats and ferries floated past, and they waved to captains and crewmen and laughed at the sky.

“What a beautiful day!”

“Yeah, it really is.” He put his head in her lap and she leaned down and kissed him.

“Want some more wine, Mr. Wooly?”

“No, just a slice of the sky.”

“At your service, sir.”

Clouds were gathering, and it was four in the afternoon when the first lightning flashed past the clouds.

“I think you’re going to get that slice of the sky you ordered. In about five minutes. See how good I am to you? Your wish is my command.”

“Baby, you’re terrific.” He sprang to his feet and flung out his arms, and in five minutes it was pouring rain and lightning flashed and thunder roared, and they ran around the island together hand in hand, laughing and soaked to the skin.

When they got home, they showered together, and the hot water felt prickly on their chilled bodies. They walked naked into the new blue bedroom, and lay peacefully in each others’ arms.

She left him at six the next morning. He slept like a child, his head on his arms, his hair hiding his eyes, his lips soft to her touch.

“Goodbye, my beloved, sleep tight.” She kissed him gently on one temple, and whispered into his hair. It would be noon before he awoke, and she would be far from him by then. In a different world, chasing dragons, making choices.

Chapter 6

“Good morning, Miss Saint Martin. I’ll tell Mr. Simpson you’re here.”

“Thanks, Pat. How’ve you been?”

“Busy, crazy. Seems like everyone has a new idea for a book after the summer. Or a new manuscript, or a royalty check that got lost.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.” Kezia smiled ruefully, thinking of her own plans for a book.

The secretary took a quick look at her desk, gathered up some papers, and disappeared behind a heavy oak door. The literary agency of Simpson, Wells, and Jones did not look very different from Edward’s law firm, or Whit’s office, or the brokerage house that had the bulk of her account. This was serious business. Long shelves of books, wood paneling, bronze door handles, and a thick carpet the color of Burgundy wine. Sober. Impressive. Prestigious. She was represented by a highly reputable firm. It was why she had felt comfortable sharing her secret with Jack Simpson. He knew who she was, and only he and Edward knew of her numerous aliases. And Simpson’s staff, of course, but they were unfailingly discreet. The secret had remained well guarded.

“Mr. Simpson will see you now, Miss Saint Martin.”

“Thank you, Pat.”

He was waiting for her on his feet behind the desk, a kindly man close to Edward’s age, balding and gray at the temples, with a broad fatherly smile, and comforting hands. They shook hands as they always did. And she settled into the chair across from him, stirring the tea Pat had provided. It was peppermint tea today. Sometimes it was English Breakfast and in the afternoon it was always Earl Grey. Jack Simpson’s office was a haven for her, a place to relax and unwind. A place for excitement about the work she had done. She was always happy there.

“I have another commission for you, my dear.”

“Lovely. What?” She looked up expectantly over the gold-rimmed cup.

“Well, let’s talk for a moment first.” There was something different in his eyes today. Kezia wondered what it was. “This is a little different from what you usually do.”

“Pornography?” She sipped the tea and half suppressed a smile. Simpson chuckled.

“So that’s what you want to do, is it?” She laughed back at him and he lit a cigar. These were from Dunhill, not Cuba. She sent him a box every month. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you then. It’s definitely not pornography. It’s an interview.” He watched her eyes carefully. She so easily got the look of a hunted doe. There were some zones of her life where even he would not dare to tread.

“An interview?” Something closed in her face. “Well, then I guess that’s that. Anything else on the agenda?”

“No, but I think we ought to talk about this a little further. Have you ever heard of Lucas Johns?”

“I’m not sure. The name says something to me, but I can’t place it.”

“He’s a very interesting man. Mid-thirties, spent six years in prison in California for armed robbery, and served his sentence in Folsom, San Quentin—all the legendary horror spots one hears about. Well, he lived through them, and survived. He was among the first to organize labor unions inside the prisons, and make a lot of noise about prisoners’ rights. And he still keeps a hand in it now that he’s out. I gather that’s his whole life; he lives for the cause of abolishing prisons, and bettering the prisoners’ lot in the meantime. Even refused his first parole because he hadn’t finished what he’d started. The second time they offered him parole, they didn’t give him a choice. They wanted him out of their hair, so he got out and got organized on the outside. He’s had a tremendous impact on the public awareness in terms of what really happens in our prisons. Matter of fact, he wrote a very powerful book on the subject when he first got out a year or two ago, can’t quite remember when. It got him a lot of speaking engagements, television appearances, that sort of thing. And it’s all the more amazing that he’d do that, since he’s still on parole. I imagine it must be risky for him to remain controversial.”

“I would think so.”

“He served six years of his sentence, but he’s not a free man. As I understand it, they have some sort of system in California called the indeterminate sentence, which means you get sentenced rather vaguely. I think in his case the sentence was five years to life. He served six. I suppose he could have served ten or twenty, at the discretion of the prison authorities, but I imagine they got tired of having him around. To say the least.”

Kezia nodded, intrigued. Simpson had counted on that.

“Did he kill anyone in the robbery?”

“No, I’m fairly certain he didn’t. Just hell-raising, I think. He had a rather wild youth, from what I gathered in his book. Got most of his education in prison, finished high school, got a college degree, and a master’s in psychology.”

“Industrious in any case. Has he been in trouble since he got out?”

“Not that kind of trouble. He seems to be past that now. The only trouble I’m aware of is that he is dancing a tightrope with the publicity he gets for his agitation on behalf of prisoners. And the reason for this interview now is that he has another book coming out, a very uncompromising exposé of existing conditions, and his views on the subject are sort of a follow-up to the first book, but a good deal more brutal. It’s going to create quite a furor, from what I hear. This is a good time for a piece about him, Kezia. And you’d be a good one to write it. You did those two articles on the prison riots in Mississippi last year. This isn’t unfamiliar territory to you, not entirely.”

“This isn’t a documented piece on a news event either. It’s an interview, Jack.” Her eyes sought his and held them. “And you know I don’t do interviews. Besides, he’s not talking about Mississippi. He’s talking about California prisons. And I don’t know anything more about them than what I read in the paper, just like everyone else.” It was a weak excuse, and they both knew it.

“The principles are the same, Kezia. You know that. And the piece we’ve been offered is about Lucas Johns, not the California prison system. He can tell you plenty about that. You can read his first book for that matter. That’ll tell you all you need to know, if you can stomach it.”

“What’s he like?”

Simpson restrained a smile at the question. Maybe … maybe … He frowned and replaced his cigar in the ashtray. “Strange, interesting, powerful, very closed and very open. I’ve seen him speak, but I’ve never met him. One gets the impression that he’ll tell anyone anything about prisons, but nothing about himself. He’d be a challenge to interview. I’d say he’s very guarded, but appealing in an odd way. He looks like a man who fears nothing because he has nothing to lose.”

“Everyone has something to lose, Jack.”

“You’re thinking of yourself, my dear, but some don’t. Some have already lost all they care about. He had a wife and child before he went to prison. The child died in a hit-and-run accident, and the wife committed suicide two years before his release. Maybe he’s one of those who has already lost…. Something like that can break you. Or give you an odd kind of freedom. I think he has that. He’s something of a god to those who know him well. You’ll hear a lot of conflicting reports about him—warm, loving, kind, or ruthless, brutal, cold. It depends on whom you speak to. In his own way, he’s something of a legend, and a mystery. No one seems to know the man underneath.”

“You seem to know a lot about him.”

“He interests me. I’ve read his book, seen him speak, and I did a little research before I asked you to come in and discuss this with me, Kezia. It’s just the kind of piece I think you might be brilliant with. In his own way, he’s as hidden as you are. Maybe it’ll teach you something. And it’s going to be a piece that will be noticed.”

“Which is precisely why I can’t do it.” She was suddenly firm again, but for a little while she had wavered. Simpson still had hope.

“Oh? Obscurity is now something you desire?”

“Not obscurity, discretion. Anonymity. Peace of mind. None of this is new to you. We’ve gone over it before.”

“In theory. Not in practice. And right now you have a chance to do an article that would not only interest you, but would be an extremely good opportunity for you professionally, Kezia. I can’t let you pass that up. Not without telling you why I think you ought to do it, in any case. I think you’d be a fool not to.”

“And a bigger fool yet if I did it. I can’t. I have too much at stake. How could I even interview him without causing a certain ‘furor’ myself, as you call it. From what you’re telling me, he’s not a man who passes unnoticed. And just how long do you think it would take for someone else to notice me? Or Johns himself, for that matter. He’d probably know who I am.” She shook her head with certainty now.

“He’s not that sort of man, Kezia. He doesn’t give a damn about the social register, the debutante cotillions or anything else that happens in your world. He’s too busy in his own. I’d be willing to bet he’s never even heard your name. He’s from California, he bases himself in the Midwest now, he’s probably never been to Europe, and you can be damn sure that he doesn’t read the social pages.”

“You can’t be sure of that.”

“I’d almost swear to it. I can sense what he is, and I already know what he cares about. Exclusively. He’s a rebel, Kezia. A self-educated, intelligent, totally devoted rebel. Not a playboy. For God’s sake, girl, be sensible. This is your career you’re playing with. He’s giving a speech in Chicago next week, and you could cover that easily, and quietly. An interview with him in his offices the next day, and that’s it. No one at the speech will know you, and I’m certain that he won’t. There’s no reason at all why K. S. Miller won’t cover you adequately. And that’s all he’ll know or care about. He’ll be much more interested in the kind of coverage you’re giving him than in what you do with your private life. That’s just not the sort of thing he thinks about.”

“Is he a homosexual?”

“Possibly, I don’t know. I don’t know what a man does during six years in prison. Nor does it matter. The point is what he stands for, and how he stands for it. That’s the crux here. And if I thought, even for a moment, that writing this piece would cause you embarrassment, I wouldn’t suggest it. You should know that by now. All I can tell you is that I am emphatically sure that he won’t have the faintest idea about, or interest in, your private life.”

“But there’s no way you can be sure of that. What if he’s an adventurer, a sharp con man, who picks up on who I am, and figures out some angle where that could be useful to him? He could turn right around and have me all over the papers just for interviewing him.”

Simpson began to look impatient. He stubbed out the cigar.

“Look, you’ve written about events, places, political happenings, psychological profiles. You’ve done some excellent work, but you’ve never done a piece like this. I think you could do it. And do it well. And I think you should. It’s a major opportunity for you, Kezia. And the point is: are you a writer or not?”

“Obviously. But it just seems terribly unwise to me. Like a breach of my personal rules. I’ve had peace for seven years because I’ve been totally, utterly, and thoroughly careful. If I start doing interviews now, and if I do this one … there will be others, and … no. I just can’t.”

“Why not at least give it some thought? I have his last book, if you want to read it. I really think you should at least do that much before you make up your mind.”

She hesitated for a long moment and then nodded carefully. It was the only concession she would make; she was still sure she wouldn’t do the piece. She couldn’t afford to. Maybe Lucas Johns had nothing left to lose, but she did; she had everything to lose. Her peace of mind, and the carefully guarded secret life she had taken so long to build. That life was what kept her going. She wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize it, not for anyone. Not for Mark Wooly, not for Jack Simpson, and not for some unknown ex-con with a hot “cause.” To hell with him. No one was worth it.

“All right, I’ll read the book.” She smiled for the first time in half an hour, then shook her head ruefully. “You certainly know how to sell your arguments. Wretch!”

But Simpson knew he had not yet convinced her. All he could hope was that her own curiosity and Lucas Johns’ written words would do the job. He felt in his bones that she had to do this one, and he was seldom wrong.

“Simpson, you really are a first-water wretch! You make it sound like my whole career depends on this … or my life even.”

“Perhaps it does. And you, my dear, are a first-water writer. But I think you’re getting to a point when you have to make some choices. And the fact is that they’re not going to be easy whether you make them now, over this particular article, or later, over something else. My main concern is that you make those choices, and don’t just let life, and your career, pass you by.”

“I didn’t think that ‘life’ or my career was passing me by.” She raised an eyebrow cynically, amused. It was unlike him to be so concerned, or so outspoken.

“No, you’ve done well until now. There has been a healthy progression, a good evolution, but only to a point. The crunch is bound to come sometime though. That moment when you can’t ‘get by’ anymore, when you can’t just ‘organize’ everything to suit all your needs. You’ll have to decide what you really want, and act on it.”

“And you don’t think I’ve been doing that?” She was surprised when he shook his head.

“You haven’t had to. But I think it’s time you did.”

“Such as?”

“Such as who do you want to be? K. S. Miller, writing serious pieces that could really further your career, or Martin Hallam tattling on your friends under a pseudonym, or the Honorable Kezia Saint Martin sweeping in and out of debutante balls and the Tour d’Argent in Paris? You can’t have it all, Kezia. Not even you.”

“Don’t be absurd, Simpson.” He was making her distinctly uncomfortable, and all over this article about an ex-convict labor agitator. Nonsense. “You know perfectly well that the Hallam column is a joke to me,” she said, annoyed. “I never really took it seriously, and certainly not in the last five years. And you also know that my career as K. S. Miller is what really matters to me. The deb parties and dinners at the Tour d’Argent, as you put it,” she glowered at him pointedly, “are something I do to pass time, out of habit, and to keep the Hallam column lively. I don’t sell my soul for that way of life.” But she knew too well that that was a lie.

“I’m not sure that’s true, and if it is you might well find that sooner or later the price you will have to pay is your soul, or your career.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.”

“Not dramatic. Honest. And concerned.”

“Well, don’t be ‘concerned,’ not in that area. You know what I have to do, what’s expected of me. You don’t change hundreds of years of tradition in a few short years at a typewriter. Besides, lots of writers work under pseudonyms.”

“Yes, but they don’t live under pseudonyms. And I disagree with you about changing traditions. You’re right on one score, you don’t change traditions in a few years. You change them suddenly, brutally, with a bloody revolution.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“Or ‘civilized,’ is that it? No, you’re right, it’s not civilized. Revolution never is, and change is never comfortable. I’m beginning to think you ought to read Johns’ book for your own sake. In your own way, you’ve been in prison for almost thirty years.” His voice softened as he looked into her eyes. “Kezia, is that how you want to live? At the expense of your happiness?”

“It isn’t a question of that. And sometimes there’s no choice.” She looked away from him, partly annoyed, partly hurt.

“But that’s precisely what we’re discussing. And there is always a choice.” Or didn’t she see that? “Are you going to live your life for an absurd ‘duty,’ to please your trustee ten years after you come of age? Are you going to cater to parents who have been dead for twenty years? How can you possibly expect that of yourself? Why? Because they died? That’s not your fault for God’s sake, and times have changed; you’ve changed. Or is this what that young man you’re engaged to expects of you? If that’s the case, perhaps the time will come when you’ll have to choose between him and your work, and maybe you’d best face that now.”

What man? Whit? How ridiculous. And why was Simpson bringing all of this up now? He had never mentioned any of this before. Why now? “If you mean Whitney Hay-worth, I’m not engaged to him, and never will be. He could never cost me anything except a very dull evening. So you’re worrying for naught on that score.”

“I’m glad to hear it. But then what is it, Kezia? Why the double life?” She sighed deeply and looked down at her hands folded in her lap.

“Because somewhere along the way they convince you that if you drop the Holy Grail for even one instant, or put it aside for a day, the entire world will collapse, and it will all be your fault.”

“Well, I’ll tell you a well-hidden secret, it won’t. The world will not end. Your parents will not haunt you; your trustee won’t even commit suicide. Live for yourself, Kezia. You really have to. How long can you live a lie?”

“Is a pseudonym a lie?” It was a weak defense, and she knew it.

“No, but the way you handle it is. You use your pseudonyms to keep two lives totally estranged from each other. Two sides of you. One is duty and the other is love. You’re like a married woman with a lover, prepared to give up neither. I think that’s an awesome burden to carry. And an unnecessary one.” He looked at his watch and shook his head with a small smile. “And now, I apologize. I’ve railed at you for almost an hour. But these are things I’ve wanted to discuss with you for a very long time. Do what you want on the Johns article, but give a little thought to what we’ve said. I think it’s important.”

“I suspect you’re right.” She was suddenly exhausted. The morning had drained her. It was like watching her whole life pass before her eyes. And how insignificant it looked in review. Simpson was right. She didn’t know what she’d do about the Johns piece, and that wasn’t the point The point went a great deal deeper than that. “I’ll read the Johns book tonight.”

“Do that, and call me tomorow. I can hold the magazine off till then. And will you forgive me for preaching?”

She smiled at him, a warmer smile. “Only if you’ll let me thank you. You didn’t say anything I wanted to hear, but I think I needed to hear it. I’ve been thinking along those lines myself lately, and this morning arguing with you was like arguing with myself. Sweet schizophrenia.”

“Nothing as exotic as that. And you’re not unique; others have fought the same battle before you. One of them should have written a book on how to survive it.”

“You mean others have survived it?” She laughed over a last sip of her tea.

“Very nicely in fact.”

“And then what did they do? Run off with the elevator man to prove their point?”

“Some. The stupid ones. The others find better solutions.”

She tried not to think of her mother.

“Like Lucas Johns?” She didn’t know why, but it had just slipped out. The idea was absurd. Almost funny.

“Hardly. I wasn’t suggesting that you marry him, my dear. Only interview him. No wonder you made such a fuss.” Jack Simpson knew the real reasons for the fuss. She was afraid. And in his own way, he had tried to calm her fears. Only one interview … once. It could change so much for her—broaden her horizons, bring her out in the open, make her a writer. If only all went well. It was only because he knew the chances of her being “found out” were so unlikely that he’d even encouraged it. She would hide forever if she got burned on this one, and he knew it. Neither of them could afford that. He had thought it all over with great care, before suggesting the article to her.

“You know, you made a great deal of sense today, Jack. I must admit, lately the ‘mystery’ has been wearing thin. It loses its charm after a while.” And what he had said had been true. She was like a married woman with a lover. She had just never thought of it that way…. Edward, Whit, the parties, the committees; and then Mark and SoHo and picnics on magical islands; and separate from all that her work. Nothing fit. It was all separate and hidden, and had long since begun to tear her apart. To what and to whom did she owe her first allegiance? To herself, of course, but it was so easy to forget that. Until someone reminded her, as Jack Simpson had just done. “Will you tolerate a hug, kind sir?”

“Not tolerate—appreciate, my dear. I would thoroughly enjoy it.” She gave him a brief squeeze and a smile as she prepared to leave.

“It’s a damn shame you didn’t make that speech ten years ago. It’s almost a little late now.”

“At twenty-nine? Don’t be foolish. Now go away, and read that book, and call me tomorrow morning.” She left him with a last wave of a brown-kid-gloved hand, and a flurry of long suede coat.

The book jacket in her hand looked unimpressive as she perused it in the elevator. There was no photograph of Lucas Johns on the back, only a brief biography which told her less about him than Simpson had. It was odd, though; from what she had heard that morning, she already had a clear picture of the man. She anticipated something mean in his face, was sure he was short, stocky, hard, and perhaps overweight—and pushy as hell. Six years in prison had to do strange things to a man, and it surely couldn’t add to his beauty. Armed robbery too … a little fat man in a liquor store with a gun. And now he was respected, and she was being offered a chance to interview him. Still, despite all the talk with Simpson, she knew she couldn’t do that. He had made some good points about her life … but an interview with Lucas Johns, or anyone, was still out of the realm of the possible, or the wise.

She did something foolish then. She went to lunch with Edward.

“I don’t think you should do it” He was emphatic.

“Why not?” It was almost like setting a trap for him; she knew what he’d say. But she couldn’t resist the urge to bait him.

“You know why not. If you start doing interviews, it’s only one step away from someone catching on to what you’re up to. You might get away with this one, Kezia. But sooner or later…”

“So you think I should hide forever?”

“You call this hiding?” He waved a hand demonstratively around the hallowed halls of La Caravelle.

“In a sense, yes.”

“In the sense you mean, I think that’s wise.”

“And what about my life, Edward? What about that?”

“What about it? You have everything you want. Your friends, your comfort, and your writing. Could you possibly ask for more, except a husband?”

“That isn’t on my list to Santa Claus anymore, darling. And yes, I could ask for more. Honesty.”

“You’re splitting hairs. And what you’d be risking for that kind of honesty would be your privacy. Remember the job you wanted so badly at the Times years ago?”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“I was younger. And that wasn’t a career, it was a job, and something I wanted to prove.”

“Isn’t this the same thing?”

“Maybe not Maybe it’s a question of my sanity.”

“Good Heavens, Kezia, don’t be ridiculous. You’re all wound up with whatever nonsense Simpson leveled at you this morning. Be reasonable, the man has a vested interest in you. He’s looking at it from his point of view, not yours. For his benefit, not yours.”

But she knew that wasn’t true. And what she also knew now was that Edward was afraid. Even more afraid than she was. But of what? And why? “Edward, no matter how you slice it, one of these days I’m going to have to make a choice.”

“Over an interview for a magazine? An interview with some jailbird?” He wasn’t afraid, he was terrified. Kezia almost felt sorry for him as she realized what it was he so feared. She was slipping away from the last of his grasp.

“This interview really isn’t the issue, Edward. We both know that. Even Simpson knows that.”

“Then what in God’s name is the issue? And why are you making all these strange noises about sanity and freedom and honesty? None of it makes any sense. Is someone in your life putting pressure on you?”

“No. Only myself.”

“But there is someone in your life I don’t know about, isn’t there?”

“Yes.” The honesty felt good. “I didn’t know you expected to be kept informed of all my doings.”

Edward looked away, embarrassed. “I just like to know that you’re all right. That’s all. I assumed that there was someone other than Whit.”

Yes, darling, but did you assume why? Surely not “You’re right, there is.”

“He’s married?” He seemed matter-of-fact about it.

“No.”

“He isn’t? I was rather sure he was.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re so … well, discreet I suppose. I just assumed he was married, or something of the sort.”

“Nothing of the sort. He’s free, twenty-three years old, and an artist in SoHo.” That ought to take Edward a while to digest “And just for the record, I don’t support him. He’s on welfare and he loves it.” She was almost enjoying herself now and Edward looked as though he might have a fit of the vapors.

“Kezia!”

“Yes, Edward?” Her voice was pure sugar.

“And he knows who you are?”

“No, and he couldn’t care less.” She knew that wasn’t entirely true, but she also knew he would never go to any trouble to snoop into the other side of her life. He was just curious in a boyish sort of way.

“Does Whit know about all this?”

“No. Why should he? I don’t tell him about my lovers and he doesn’t tell me about his. It’s an even exchange. Besides, darling, Whitney prefers boys.” She had not anticipated the look on Edward’s face; it was not one of total astonishment.

“Yes … I … I’ve heard. I wondered if you knew.”

“I do.” Their voices were quiet now.

“He told you?”

“No, someone else did.”

“I’m sorry.” He looked away and patted her hand.

“Don’t be, Edward. It didn’t matter to me. That sounds like a harsh thing to say, but I’ve never been in love with Whit. We’re merely a convenience to each other. That’s not very pretty to admit, but it’s a fact.”

“And this other man—the artist—is it serious?”

“No, it’s pleasant, and easy, and fun, and a relief from some of the pressures in my life. That’s all it is, Edward. Don’t worry, no one’s going to run off with the piggy bank.”

“That isn’t my only concern.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Why did she suddenly want to hurt him? What was the point of that? But he was appealing to her, tempting her, like an overzealous agent for a resort she had hated, who insisted on luring her back. And there was no way she would go.

He didn’t mention the article again until they were waiting for a cab outside the restaurant. This had been one of the rare times they had discussed her business matters in public.

“You’re going to do it?”

“What?”

“The interview Simpson discussed with you.”

“I don’t know. I want to give it some thought.”

“Give it a lot of thought. Weigh in your mind how much it means to you, and how high a price you’re willing to pay for doing it. You might not have to pay that price, or you might well have to. But at least be prepared, know the chances you’re taking.”

“Is it such a terrible chance, Edward?” Her eyes were gentle again as she looked up at him.

“I don’t know, Kezia. I really don’t know. But somehow, I suspect that no matter what I say, you’ll do it anyway. Or maybe I can only make matters worse.”

“No. But I may have to do it.” Not for Simpson. For herself.

“That’s what I thought.”

Chapter 7

The plane landed in Chicago at five in the afternoon, with less than an hour to spare before Lucas Johns’ speech. Simpson had arranged the loan of a friend’s apartment on Lake Shore Drive. The friend, an elderly widow whose husband had been a classmate of Simpson’s, was wintering in Portugal.

Now, as the cab circled the rim of the lake, Kezia began to feel a mounting excitement. She had finally chosen. Taken a first step. But what if it turned out to be more than she could handle? It was one thing to work over her typewriter and call herself K. S. Miller, and quite another to pull it off eye to eye. Of course, Mark didn’t know who she was either. But that was different. His farthest horizon was his easel, and even if he knew, he wouldn’t really care. It would make him laugh, but it wouldn’t matter. Lucas Johns might be different. He might try to use her notoriety to his advantage.

She tried to shrug off her fears as the cab pulled up in front of the address Simpson had given her. The borrowed apartment was on the nineteenth floor of a substantial-looking building across from the lake. The parquet floors in the foyer echoed beneath her feet. Above her head was an elaborate crystal chandelier. And the ghostly form of a grand piano stood silent beneath a dust sheet at the foot of the stairs. There was a long mirrored hall which led to the living room beyond. More dust sheets, two more chandeliers, the pink marble of a Louis XV mantel on the fireplace glowing softly from the light in the hall. The furniture beneath the sheets looked massive, and she wandered curiously from room to room. A spiral staircase led to another floor, and upstairs in the master bedroom she drew back the curtains and pulled up the creamy silk shades. The lake stretched before her, bathed in the glow of sunset, sailboats veering lazily toward home. It would have been fun to go for a walk and watch the lake for a while, but she had other things on her mind. Lucas Johns, and what sort of man he might prove to be.

She had read his book, and was surprised that she liked the sound of him. She had been prepared to dislike him, if only because the interview had become such a major issue between her and Simpson, and Edward. But the issue was herself, and she forgot the rest as she read the book. He had a pleasant way with words, a powerful way of expressing himself, and there were hints of humor throughout the book, and a refusal to take himself seriously, despite his passion for his subject. The style was oddly inconsistent with his history, though, and it was difficult to believe that a man who had spent most of his youth in juvenile halls and jails could be so literate now. Yet here and there he slipped consciously into prison jargon and California slang. He was an unusual combination of dogmas and beliefs and hopes and cynicism, with his own flavor of fun—and more than a faint hint of arrogance. He seemed to be many different things—no longer what he once was, firmly what he had become, a successful blending that he above all respected. Kezia had envied him as she read his book. Simpson had been right. In an indirect way, the book related to her. A prison can be any kind of bondage—even lunch at La Grenouille.

Her mental image of Johns was clearer now. Beady eyes, nervous hands, hunched shoulders, protruding paunch, and thin strands of hair covering a shiny balding forehead. She didn’t know why, but she knew that she knew him. She could almost see him speaking as she read the book.

A man of massive proportions was making an introduction to Lucas Johns’ speech, sketching in bold strokes the labor-union problems in prisons, the rough scale of wages (from five cents an hour, to a quarter in better institutions), the useless trades that were taught, the indecent conditions. He covered the subject easily, without fire.

Kezia watched the man’s face. He was setting the stage and the pace. Low-key, low-voiced, yet with a powerful impact. It was the matter-of-fact way that he discussed the horrors of the prisons that affected her most. It was almost odd that they would put this man on before Johns; it would be a tough act to follow. Or maybe not. Maybe Johns’ nervous dynamism would contrast well with the first speaker’s easier manner—easy, yet with an intense control. The fiber of this man intrigued her, so much so that she forgot to scan the room to assure herself that there was no one there to recognize her. She forgot herself entirely and was swept into the mood of the speech.

She took out her notebook and jotted quick notes about the speaker, and then began to observe the audience in general. She noticed three well-known black radicals, and two solid labor-union leaders who had shared their knowledge with Johns in the past, when he was getting started. There were a few women, and in the front row a well-known criminal attorney who was often in the press. It was a group that already knew the business at hand for the most part, and one that was already active in prison reform. She was surprised at the large turnout as she watched their faces and listened to the last of the introduction. The room was surprisingly still. There were no rustlings, no little movements in seats, no noisy gropings for cigarettes and lighters. Nothing seemed to move. All eyes stayed fixed on the man at the front of the room. She had been right the first time; this would be tough for Lucas Johns to follow.

She looked at the speaker again. He had the coloring of her father. Almost jet black hair, and fiery green eyes that seemed to fix people in their places. He sought eyes he knew, and held them, speaking only to them, and then moving on, covering the room, the voice low, the hands immobile, the face taut. Yet something about the mouth suggested laughter. Something about the hands suggested brutality. He had interesting hands, and an incredible smile. In a powerful, almost frightening way, he was handsome, and she liked him. She found herself watching him, probing, observing, hungry for details—the shoulders impacted into the old tweed jacket, the long legs stretched lazily out before him. The thickness of his hair, the eyes that roved and stopped, and then moved on again, until they finally sought her out.

She saw him watching her as she watched him. He held her long and hard in the grasp of his eyes, and then dropped her and let his glance move away. It had been a strange sensation, like being backed against the wall with a hand at your throat, and another stroking your hair; you wanted to cringe in fear, and melt with pleasure. She felt warm suddenly, in the room full of people, and quietly looked around, wondering why this man was taking so long. It was hardly an introduction. He had been speaking for almost half an hour. Almost as though he intended to upstage Lucas Johns. And then it dawned on her, and she had to fight not to laugh in the quiet room: this had never been an introduction. The man whose eyes had so briefly stroked hers was Johns.

Chapter 8

“Coffee?”

“Tea, if possible.” Kezia smiled up at Lucas Johns as he poured a cup of hot water, and then handed her a tea bag.

The suite showed signs of frequent guests—half-filled paper cups of coffee and tea, remains of crackers, ashtrays overflowing with peanut shells and stale cigarette butts, and a well-used bar in the corner. It was an unassuming hotel, and the suite was not large, but it was easy and comfortable. She wondered how long he had been there. It was impossible to tell if he’d made his home there for a year, or if he’d moved in that day. There was plenty to eat and drink, but nothing was personal, nothing seemed his, as though he owned the clothes on his back, the light in his eyes, the tea bag he had handed her, and nothing more.

“We’ll order breakfast from downstairs.”

She smiled again over her tea, and watched him quietly. “To tell you the truth, I’m not really very hungry. No rush. And by the way, I was very impressed by your speech last night. You seem so at ease on the stage. You have a nice knack for bringing a difficult subject down to human proportions without sounding self-righteous about what you know firsthand and your listeners haven’t experienced. That’s quite an art.”

“Thank you. That’s a nice thing to say. I guess it’s just a question of practice. I’ve been doing a lot of speaking to groups. Is the subject of prison reform new to you?”

“Not entirely. I did a couple of articles last year on riots in two Mississippi prisons. It was an ugly mess.”

“Yeah, I remember. The real point about the whole subject of “reform’ is not to reform. I think that abolition of prisons as we know them now is the only sensible solution. They don’t work like this anyway. I’m working on the moratorium on the construction of prisons right now, along with a lot of good people who organized it. I’ll be heading down to Washington next.”

“Have you lived in Chicago long?”

“Seven months, as a sort of central office. I work out of the hotel when I’m here, lining up speaking engagements, and some of the other stuff I do. I wrote my new book here, just holed up for a month and got down to work. After that, I lugged the manuscript around with me and wrote the rest on planes.”

“Do you travel a lot?”

“Most of the time. But I come back here when I can. I can dig my heels in and relax here.”

Nothing about him suggested that he did that very often. He didn’t seem the sort of man who would know how to stop, or when. For all the stillness, one sensed a driving force inside him. He had a very quiet way of just sitting, barely moving, his eyes watching the person he spoke to. But it was more like the cautious stance of an animal sniffing the air for signs of attack or approach, ready to spring in a moment. Kezia could sense too that he was wary of her, and not totally at ease. The humor she had seen in his eyes the night before was carefully screened now.

“You know, I’m surprised they sent a woman out to do the piece.”

“Chauvinism, Mr. Johns?” The idea amused her.

“No, just curiosity. You must be good or they wouldn’t have sent you.” There was the hint of arrogance she had sensed in his book.

“I think it’s mostly that they liked those two pieces I did for them last year. I suppose you could say I’ve skirted the subject of prisons before … if you’ll pardon the pun.”

He grinned and shook his head. “That’s a hell of a way to put it.”

“Then call it ‘a view from the sidelines.’”

“I’m not sure that’s an improvement. You can never see from the sidelines … or is it that you see more clearly? But with less life. To me, it always feels better to be right in the gut of things. You either get into it, or you don’t. The sidelines … that’s so safe, such a dead way to do anything.” His eyes sparkled and his mouth smiled, but it had been a heavy message. “Come to think of it, I’ve read some of your articles, I think … could it have been in Playboy?” He was momentarily bewildered; she didn’t look the type for Playboy, not even in print, but he was sure he remembered an article not very long ago.

She nodded assent with a grin. “It was a piece on rape. In sympathy with the man’s side, for a change. Or rather on false accusations of rape, made by neurotic women who have nothing better to do except take a guy home and then chicken out, and later yell rape.”

“That’s right. That’s the piece I remember. I liked it.”

“Naturally.” She tried not to laugh.

“Now, now. It’s funny though, I thought a man had written it. Sounded like a man’s point of view. I guess that’s why I expected a man to do this interview. I’m not really the kind of guy they usually send women out to talk to.”

“Why not?”

“Because sometimes, dear lady, I behave like a shit.” He laughed a deep, mellow laugh, and she joined him.

“So that’s what you do, is it? Is it fun?”

He looked boyishly embarrassed suddenly and took a swallow of coffee. “Yeah, maybe. Sometimes anyway. Is writing fun?”

“Yes. I love it. But ‘fun’ makes it sound rather flimsy. Like something you do as a hobby. That’s not the way I see it. Writing is important to me. Very. It’s for real, more so than a lot of other things I know.” She felt strangely defensive before his silent gaze. It was as though he had quietly turned the tables on her, and was now interviewing her.

“What I do is important to me too. And real.”

“I could see that in your book.”

“You read it?” He seemed surprised, and she nodded.

“I liked it.”

“The new one is better.”

And so modest, Mr. Johns, so modest. He was a funny sort of man.

“This one is less emotional, and more professional. I dig that.”

“First books are always emotional.”

“You’ve written one?” The tables turned again.

“Not yet. Soon, I hope.” It irked her suddenly. She was the writer, had worked hard at her craft over the past seven years, and yet he had written not one but two books. She envied him. For that, and a lot of things. His style, his courage, his willingness to follow his guts and jump into what he believed in … but then again, he had nothing to lose. She remembered the dead wife and child then, and felt a tremor for something tender in him which must have been hidden somewhere, down deep.

“I have one more question, and then you can get into the piece. What’s the ‘K’ for? Somehow ‘K. S. Miller’ doesn’t sound like a name.”

She laughed at him, and for the briefest of moments was about to tell him the truth: Kezia. The “K” is for Kezia, and the Miller is a fake. He was the sort of man to whom you gave only the truth. You couldn’t get away with less, and you wouldn’t have wanted to. But she had to be sensible. It would be foolish to throw it all away for a moment of honesty. Kezia was an unusual name after all, and he might see a picture of her, somewhere, someday, and the next thing you’d know….

“The ‘K’ is for Kate.” Her favorite aunt’s name.

“Kate. Sensible name. Kate Miller. Kate Sensible Miller.” He grinned at her, lit another cigarette, and she felt as though he were laughing at her, but not unkindly. The look in his eyes reminded her again of her father. In odd ways they were similar … something about the way he laughed … about the uncompromising way he looked at her, as though he knew all her secrets, and was only waiting for her to give them up, to see if she would, as though she were a child playing a game and he knew it. But what could this man possibly know? Nothing. Except that she was there to interview him, and her first name was Kate.

“Okay, lady, let’s order breakfast and get to work.” The fun and games were over.

“Fine, Mr. Johns, I’m ready if you are.” She pulled out the pad with the scribbled notes from the evening before, drew a pen from her bag, and sat back in her chair.

He rambled on for two hours, talking at length, and with surprising openness, about his six years in prison. About what it was like to live under the indeterminate sentence, which he explained to her: a California phenomenon which condemned men to sentences of “five years to life” or “three to life,” leaving the term served to be determined by the parole board or the prison authorities. Even the sentencing judge had no control over the length of time a man spent in prison. Once committed to the claws of the indeterminate sentence, a man could languish in prison literally for life, and a lot of men did, forgotten, lost, long past rehabilitation or the hope of freedom until they no longer cared when they might be set free. There came a time when it didn’t matter anymore.

“But me,” he said with a lopsided grin, “they couldn’t wait to get rid of me. I was the ultimate pain in the ass. Nobody loves an organizer.” He had organized other prisoners into committees for better working conditions, fairer hearings, decent visiting conditions with their wives, broader opportunities for study. He had, at one time, been spokesman for them all.

He told her too of what had gotten him sent to prison, and spoke of it with surprisingly little emotion. ‘Twenty-eight years old, and still stupid. Looking for trouble, I guess, and bored with the life I had. I was piss-eyed drunk and it was New Year’s Eve, and well … you know the rest. Armed robbery, not too cool to say the least. I held up a liquor store with a gun that didn’t even shoot, and got away with two cases of bourbon, a case of champagne, and a hundred bucks. I didn’t really want the hundred but they handed it to me, so I took it. I just wanted the hooch to have a good time with my buddies. I went home and partied my ass off. Till I got hauled off to jail, a little after midnight…. Happy New Year!” He grinned sheepishly and then his face grew serious. “It sounds funny now, but it wasn’t. You break a lot of hearts when you do something like that.”

It seemed all wrong to Kezia. Admittedly it was an outrageous thing to do. But six years and his wife’s life for three cases of liquor? Her stomach turned over slowly as her mind flashed back to scenes of La Grenouille and Lutèce and Maxim’s and Annabel’s. Hundred-dollar lunches and fortunes spent on rivers of wine and champagne. But then, at those exalted watering holes, no one ordered his champagne with a shotgun.

Luke passed gracefully over his youth in Kansas. An uneventful period, when his worst problems were his size and his curiosity about life, both of which were out of proportion with his age and his “station in life.” Despite Simpson’s warning that Luke might be closed to personal probing, Kezia found him open and easy to talk to. By the end of the morning, she felt as though she knew all about him, and she had long since stopped taking notes. It was easier to hear the soul of the man just by listening—the political views, the interests, the causes, the experiences, the men he respected and those he abhorred. She would recapture it all later from memory with more depth.

What surprised her most was his lack of bitterness. He was determined, angry, pushy, arrogant, and tough. But he was also passionate in his beliefs, and compassionate about the people he cared about. And he liked to laugh. The baritone laughter rang out often in the small living room in his suite, as she questioned him and he regaled her with stories of years long since past. It was well after eleven before he stretched and rose from his chair.

“I hate to say this, Kate, but we’re going to have to stop. I’m addressing another group at noon, and I have a few things to take care of first. Can I interest you in another speech? You’re a good audience. Or do you have to get back to New York?” He circled the room, putting papers and pens in his pockets, and looked over his shoulder at her with the look one reserves for a friend.

“Both really. I should get back. But I’d like to hear you talk. What’s the group?”

“Psychiatrists. The subject is a firsthand report on the psychological effects of being in prison. And they’ll probably want to hear how real the threat of psychosurgery in prison is. They always ask about that.”

“You mean like frontal lobotomies?”

He nodded.

“Is there a lot of that?” She was momentarily stunned.

“Even a little ‘of that’ is too much. But I don’t think it happens often. Maybe occasionally. Lobotomies, shock treatment, a lot of ugly shit.”

She nodded somberly and looked at her watch.

“I’ll go pick up my things and meet you there.”

“Are you staying at a hotel around here?”

“No, my agent got me someone’s apartment.”

“That’s convenient.”

“Very.”

“Want a ride?” He said it easily as they walked toward the door.

“I … no … thanks, Luke. I’ve got a few other stops to make on the way. I’ll meet you at your speech.”

He didn’t press the point, but nodded absently as they waited for the elevator. “I’ll be interested to see this piece when it comes out.”

“I’ll have my agent send you tear sheets as soon as we get them.”

He left her in front of the hotel and she walked to the corner and hailed a cab. It was a nice day to walk, and if she had had more time, she would have walked all the way back to the apartment on Lake Shore Drive. It was a warm autumn day with a bright sky overhead, and when she reached the apartment building, she could see sailboats skimming over the lake.

The ghostly apartment echoed her footsteps as she ran up the stairs for her suitcase, pulled the dust sheet over the tidily made bed, and pulled down the shade. She laughed, wondering what Luke would have said if he’d seen it. It didn’t fit the image of Kate. Something told her he would not have approved. Or maybe he would have been amused, and together they might have pulled the sheets from all the furniture, lit the fire, and she could have played honky-tonk on the grand piano downstairs—put a little life in the place. Funny to think of doing something like that with Luke. But he looked like a good man to have fun with, to giggle at and tease and chortle with and chase. She liked him, and he had no idea who she was. It was a safe, happy feeling, and the makings of the article already felt good in her head.

Luke’s speech was interesting, and the group was receptive. She made a few notes, and nibbled absently at the steak on her plate. Luke was sitting at a long, flower-strewn table at the front of the room, and she had been seated nearby. He looked over at her now and then, with mischievous laughter in the emerald green eyes. Once, silently raising his glass toward her, he winked. It made her want to laugh in the midst of the psychiatrists’ general sobriety. She felt as though she knew Luke better than anyone there, maybe even better than anyone else. He had shared so much of his story with her all morning; he had given her the peek into the inner sanctum that Simpson had prophesied she’d never get. It was a shame she could not reciprocate.

Her flight was at three, and she had to leave the luncheon at two. He had just finished speaking when she rose. He had taken his seat at the dais, the usual crowd of admirers around him. She thought about just leaving quietly, without troubling him with thanks and goodbyes, but it didn’t feel right. She wanted to say at least something to him before leaving. It seemed so unkind to pry into a man’s head for four hours, and then simply vanish. But it was nearly impossible to get through the crowd near his table, and when she finally did, she found herself standing directly behind him, as he spoke animatedly to someone from his seat. She put a light hand on his shoulder and was surprised when he jumped. He didn’t seem the kind of man to be frightened.

“That’s a heavy thing to do to someone who spent six years in the joint.” His mouth smiled, but his eyes looked serious, almost afraid. “I get nervous about who stands behind me. By now it’s a reflex.”

“I’m sorry, Luke. I just wanted to say goodbye. I have to catch my plane.”

“Okay, just a sec.” He rose to walk her out to the lobby, and she went back to her table to pick up her coat. But Luke was waylaid on the way, and he was locked into another cluster of men as she fidgeted near the door, until she couldn’t wait any longer. Unkind or not, she had to go. She didn’t want to miss her plane. With a last look in his direction, she slipped quietly out of the room, crossed the lobby, and retrieved her valise from the doorman as he opened the door to a cab.

She settled back against the seat, and smiled to herself. It had been a good trip, and it was going to be a beautiful piece.

She never saw Lucas standing beneath the awning behind her, a look of storm clouds and disappointment on his face.

“Damn!” All right, Ms. Kate Miller. We’ll see about that. He smiled to himself as he strode back inside. He had liked her. She was so vulnerable, so funny … the kind of tiny little woman you wanted to toss up in the air and catch in your arms.

“Did you catch the young lady, sir?” The doorman had seen him run.

“No.” He broke into a broad grin which bordered on laughter. “But I will.”

Chapter 9

“Called me? What do you mean he called me? I just walked in the door. And how did he know how to get hold of you?” Kezia was almost livid with rage at Simpson.

“Calm down. Kezia. He called over an hour ago, and I assume that the magazine referred him to me. There’s no harm in that. And he was perfectly civil.”

“Well, what did he want?” She was stepping out of her clothes as she spoke, and the bath was already running. It was five minutes to seven, and Whit had said he’d pick her up at eight. They were due at a party at nine.

“He said he didn’t feel the article would be complete unless you covered the meeting for that moratorium against prisons tomorrow in Washington. And he’d appreciate it if you’d hold off turning the piece in until you’ve added that to the rest. It sounds reasonable, Kezia. If you went to Chicago, you can certainly go to Washington for an afternoon.”

“When is this thing he wants me to go to?” Goddamn Lucas Johns. He was being a pest, or at least egocentric. She had written the outline for the piece on the plane, and enough was enough. Her sense of triumph was evaporating rapidly now. A man who called scarcely before she’d stepped off the plane could hardly be trusted not to pry.

“The moratorium meeting is tomorrow afternoon.”

“Hell. And if I go by plane, I’m liable to get spotted by some asshole society reporter who’ll think I’m going down there for a party, and he’ll try to catch a quick bit of news. And then I’m liable to end up with the paparazzi down my back.”

“That didn’t happen on the way to Chicago, did it?”

“No, but Washington is a lot closer to home, and you know it. I never go to Chicago. Maybe I should drive down tomorrow, and … oh God, the tub! Hang on!”

Simpson waited while she went to turn off the water. She sounded nervous, and he assumed that the trip had been hectic. But it had been good for her. There was no doubt about that. She had braved it out, done the interview, and no one had recognized her, thank God. If they had, he’d never have heard the end of it. Now there were any number of interviews she could do. And Johns had certainly sounded pleased with her work. He had mentioned spending almost four hours with her. She must have handled it well, and Johns’ casual references to “Miss Miller” showed that he hadn’t the faintest idea who she was. So what was her problem? Why so jumpy? She came back on the line with a sigh. “Are you drowning over there?”

“No.” She laughed tiredly then. “I don’t know, Jack, I’m sorry I jumped on you, but it really makes me nervous to do this kind of thing so close to New York.”

“But the interview today went well, didn’t it?”

“Yes. Very. But do you think the moratorium is really important to the piece, or is it that Luke Johns is on a star trip now and wants more attention?”

“I think he made a valid point when he called. It’s another sphere of his action, and could add a lot of strength to the piece. Atmosphere, if nothing else. It’s up to you, but I don’t see any harm in your going. And I know what you’re worried about, but you saw for yourself in Chicago that there was no problem with that. No paparazzi, and he hasn’t the faintest idea that you’re anyone but K. S. Miller.”

“Kate.” She smiled to herself.

“What?”

“Nothing. Oh, I don’t know. Maybe you’re right. What time does the meeting start? Did he say?”

“Noon. He’ll be flying in from Chicago in the morning.” She thought about it for a minute, and then nodded at the phone.

“All right, I’ll do it. I suppose I could fly down on the shuttle. That’s innocuous enough. And I could be back easily by tomorrow night.”

“Fine. Do you want to call Johns yourself to confirm it, or shall I? He wanted confirmation.”

“Why? So he could line up another biographer if I didn’t go?”

“Now, now, let’s not be nasty.” Simpson chuckled in spite of himself. There were times when she needed a good boot in the ass. “No, he said something about picking you up at the plane.”

“Shit.”

“What?” Simpson sounded faintly shocked. He was much less used to that from her than Edward, who was of a comparable vintage but a little less proper.

“Sorry. No, I’ll call him myself. And I don’t want to be met at the plane. Just in case.”

“I think that’s wise. And do you want me to arrange someplace for you to stay? If you want to stay at a hotel we could bill it to the magazine, along with your plane fare.”

“No, I’d rather come home. And that place you got me in Chicago was fabulous. Must be quite a home when it’s in full swing.”

“Used to be … used to be. I’m glad you liked it. I had some good times there, many years ago.” He drifted for a moment and then reverted to his business voice. “So you’ll come home tomorrow night then?”

“Damn right.” She wanted to get down to SoHo, and Mark. It had been days! And tonight she had that damn party at the El Morocco to go to with Whit. Hunter Forbishe and Juliana Watson-Smythe were announcing their engagement, as though everyone didn’t already know. Two of the dullest, richest people in town, and worse luck yet, Hunter was her second cousin. The party was sure to be shitful, but at least the El Morocco was fun. She hadn’t been since before the summer.

And not only were the dumb bastards getting engaged, but they had decided to have a theme for their party. Black and White. What fun it would have been to appear with George, her dancer friend from SoHo. Black and White … or Lucas for that matter, with his black hair to match Kezia’s, and their equally white skin. How absurd—and worth a mountain of news for a year. No, she’d have to settle for Whitney, but it was a shame. Luke might have been fun at a party like that. Fun and outrageous. She laughed aloud as she sank into her bath. She would call him after she dressed, to tell him that she’d meet him in Washington tomorrow. But first she had to dress, and she needed time for a party like the one they were going to. She had long since decided what to wear for their charming soiree in black and white. The creamy lace dress was already laid out on her bed, fiercely décolleté and gently empire, with a black moire cape, and the new David Webb choker and earrings she’d bought herself last Christmas: an onyx set with a generous supply of handsome stones, diamonds of course. At twenty-nine she had stopped waiting for someone else to buy that sort of thing for her. She bought them herself.

“Lucas Johns, please” She waited while they rang his room. He sounded sleepy when he answered. “Luke? Kee … Kate.” She had almost said it was Kezia.

“I didn’t know you stuttered.”

She laughed and his own laughter answered.

“I don’t. I’m just in a hurry. Jack Simpson called me. I’ll come down to cover that moratorium thing tomorrow. Why didn’t you mention this morning that you thought I should be there?”

“I didn’t think of it till after you left” He smiled to himself as he spoke. “I think you’ll need it, though, to round out the rest. Want me to pick you up at the plane?”

“No, thanks. I’ll be fine. Just tell me where to meet you.” He did and she wrote down the address, standing at her desk in the white lace dress and the black moire cape, delicate black silk sandals on her feet and one of her mother’s diamond bracelets on each arm. And then she started to laugh.

“What’s funny?”

“Oh, nothing really. It’s just what I’m wearing.”

“And just what are you wearing, Ms. Miller?” He sounded vastly amused.

“Something terribly silly.”

“Sounds very mysterious to me. I’m not sure if you mean leather hip boots and a whip, or a rhinestone-studded peignoir.”

“A little of both. See you tomorrow, Luke.” She hung up on a last gurgle of laughter as the doorbell rang, and Whitney appeared, as crisp and elegant as ever. For him, of course, the black and white had been easy. He was wearing a dinner jacket and one of the shirts he had made four times a year in Paris.

“Where were you all day? And my … don’t you look splendid!” They exchanged their standard dry little kiss, and he held out her hands. “Is that something new? I don’t remember seeing that dress before.”

“Sort of. I don’t wear it often. And I spent the whole day with Edward. We did up my new will.” They smiled at each other and she picked up her bag. Lies, Lies, lies. It had never been like this before. But she knew as she swirled out to the hall that it was going to get worse. Lying to Whit, lying to Mark, lying to Luke. “Is that why you write, Kate? For fun?” She remembered Luke’s question as the elevator swept them down to the lobby, and her brows knit as she thought of the look in his eyes. It had not been accusing, only curious. But no, dammit! She didn’t just write for fun. It was real. But how real could anything be, when whatever you did, you draped in lies?

“Ready, darling?” Whit was waiting for her outside the elevator, and she had stood there for a moment, not moving, just looking at him, but seeing Luke’s eyes, hearing his voice.

“Sorry, Whit. I must be tired.” She squeezed his arm as they walked out to the waiting limousine.

By ten she was drunk.

“Christ, Kezia, are you sure you can walk?” Marina was watching her pull her stockings up and her dress down as they stood in the ladies’ room at the El Morocco.

“Of course I can walk!” But she was weaving badly and couldn’t stop laughing.

“What happened to you?”

“Nothing since Luke. I mean, Duke … I mean breakfast dammit.” She had hardly had time to touch her lunch before catching the plane at O’Hare, and she hadn’t bothered with dinner.

“Kezia, you’re a nut. Want some coffee?”

“No, tea. No … coffee. No! Chaaaaamppagggne.” She dragged the word out and Marina laughed.

“At least you’re a friendly drunk. Vanessa Billingsley is crocked out of her mind and just called Mia Hargreaves a raving bitch.” Kezia giggled and Marina lit a cigarette and sat down, while Kezia tried desperately to remember what Marina had just said. Mia called Vanessa a … no, Vanessa called Mia … if she could just hang on to it, it would be good for the column. And what had she heard earlier about Patricia Morbang being pregnant? Or was that right? Was it someone else who was pregnant? It was all so hard to remember.

“Oh Marina, it’s so hard to remember it all.”

Marina looked at her with a half smile and shook her head.

“Kezia, my love, you are smashed. Well, hell, who isn’t? It must be after three.”

“Christ, is it really? And I have to get up so early tomorrow. Crap.”

Marina laughed again at the sight of Kezia sprawled on the white wall-to-wall in the ladies’ boudoir, looking like a child just home from school, the white lace dress frothed around her like a nightgown, the diamonds glittering on her wrists, like something borrowed from her mother to dispel the boredom of a rainy day.

“And Whit’s going to be very cross if I’m drunk.”

“Tell him it’s the flu. I don’t think the poor bastard would know the difference.” They both laughed at that, and Marina helped her to her feet. “You really ought to go home.”

“I think I’d much rather dance. Whit dances very nicely, you know.”

“He ought to.” Marina looked at her hard and long, but the implication of the message was lost on Kezia. She was too drunk to hear, or to care.

“Marina?” Kezia looked still more childlike as she stood watching her friend.

“What, lover?”

“Do you really love Halpern?”

“No, baby. I don’t. But I love the peace of mind he could give me. I’ve about had it with trying to make it on my own with the kids. And in another six months I’d have had to sell the co-op.”

“But don’t you love him a little?”

“No. But I like him a lot” Marina looked cynical and amused.

“But don’t you love anyone? A secret lover maybe? You have to love someone.” Don’t you?

“Do you? Well, fancy that. Do you love Whit?”

“Of course not” Some small alarm went off in her head then. She was talking too much.

“Then who do you love, Kezia?”

“You, Marina. I love you lots and lots and lots and lots!” She threw her arms around her friend’s neck and started to giggle. And Marina laughed back and gently untwined her from her neck.

“Kezia sweet, you may not love Whitney, but if I were you, I’d get him to take me home. I think you’ve about had it.” They walked out of the ladies’ room arm in arm. Whitney was waiting just outside. He had noticed the ominous sway in Kezia’s walk as she left the room half an hour before.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m wonderful!” Whit and Marina exchanged glances, and Whitney winked.

“You certainly are wonderful. And I don’t know about you, darling, but I’m also wonderfully tired. I think we’ll call it a night.”

“No, no, no! I’m not tired at all. Let’s call it a morning!” Kezia found everything suddenly terribly funny.

“Let’s call it a get-your-ass-out-of-here, Kezia, before you wind up in Martin Hallam’s column tomorrow: ‘Kezia Saint Martin, drunk as a skunk as she left El Morocco last night with….’ Wouldn’t that be lovely?” Kezia roared with glee at Marina’s warning.

“That couldn’t happen to me!” Whitney and Marina laughed again and tears began to slide down Kezia’s face as she giggled.

“Oh, couldn’t it? It could happen to any of us.”

“But not to me. I’m … I’m a friend of his.”

“And so is Jesus Christ, I’ll bet.” Marina patted her on the shoulder and went back to the party, while Whitney put an arm around Kezia and piloted her slowly toward the door. He had draped her black cape over his arm, and was carrying her small black beaded bag.

“It’s really my fault, darling. I should have taken you to dinner before we came here.”

“You couldn’t.”

“Of course I could. I left the office early today to play squash at the Racquet Club.”

“No you couldn’t. I was in Chicago.” He rolled his eyes and placed the cape over her shoulders.

“That’s right, darling. That’s right. Of course you were.” She went into another fit of giggles as he gently led her outside. She patted his cheek sweetly then and looked at him strangely.

“Poor Whitney.” He was not paying attention. He was far more concerned with getting her into a cab.

* * *

He deposited her in her living room, and gave her a gentle slap on the bottom, hoping to propel her into her bedroom. Alone.

“Get some sleep, mademoiselle. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Late! Very late.” She had just remembered that she would be in Washington all day. With a terrible hangover.

“You bet ‘late’! I wouldn’t dare call you before three.”

“Make it six!”

She giggled at him as he closed the door behind him, and she sank into one of the blue velvet living room chairs. She was drunk. Hopelessly, totally, wonderfully drunk. And all because of a stranger named Luke. And she was going to see him tomorrow.

Chapter 10

The print was blurred and the features were indistinct but it was definitely Kate. The way she carried herself was unmistakable, the tilt of her head, her size. The Honorable Kezia Saint Martin in what looked like some sort of black-and-white outfit by Givenchy, the paper said, and wearing her late mother’s famed diamond bracelets. Heiress to several fortunes; in steel, oil, etc. No wonder she had laughed when she called him and said she was wearing “something funny.” It looked pretty funny to Luke too. But she looked beautiful. Even in the papers. He had seen her in the papers before, but now he paid close attention to what he saw. Now that he knew her, it mattered to him. And what an odd life she must lead.

He had sensed the turmoil beneath the poise and perfection. The bird in the gilded cage was dying inside, and he knew it. He wondered if she knew it too. And what he knew most acutely was that he wanted to touch her, before it was too late.

Instead they had that damn meeting to go to, and he would have to go on playing her game. He knew that she would have to be the one to end the game of “K. S. Miller” between them. Only she could do that. All he could do was give her the chance. But how many more chances? How many more excuses could he dream up? How many more towns? How many more meetings? All he knew was that he had to have her, however long it took. The problem was that he didn’t have much time. Which made it all the more crazy.

When Kezia arrived, she found Luke in an office, surrounded by unfamiliar faces. Phones were ringing, people were shouting, messages were flying, the smoke was thick, and he hardly seemed to know she was there. He waved once and didn’t look at her again all afternoon. The press conference had been rescheduled for two o’clock, and the rooms were chaotic all day long. It was six before she found a place to sit down, shoved her notebook into her bag, and gladly accepted the other half of a stranger’s ham sandwich. What a day to survive with a hangover. Her head had gotten worse by the hour. Phones, people, speeches, statistics, photographs. It was all too much. Action, emotion, and pressure. She wondered how he stood it as a regular diet, with or without a hangover.

“Want to get out of here?”

“That’s the best offer I’ve had all day.” She smiled up at him and his face softened for the first time in hours.

“Come on, I’ll get you something decent to eat.”

“I really ought to get out to the airport.”

“Later. You need a break first. You look like you were hit by a truck.” And she felt it. Rumpled, tired, disheveled. Lucas did not look much better. He looked tired and he had worn a scowl for most of the afternoon. He had a cigar in one hand, and his hair looked as though he had been running his hands through it for hours.

But he had been right. The day had been a total contrast to the two meetings she had seen in Chicago. This was the meat of it, the gut, as he called it. Impassioned, frenzied, fervent. This was more intense, less polite, and far more real. Luke seemed totally in charge here. He was almost a kind of god. There was a fierceness about him she’d only glimpsed in Chicago. The air was electric with his special kind of energy, and the toughness in him was no longer muted. But his face gentled a little as he looked at her on their way out.

“You look tired, Kate. Too much for you?” It wasn’t a put-down; he looked concerned.

“No, I’m fine. And you were right. It was an interesting day. I’m glad I came down to see it.”

“So am I.” They were walking down a long busy corridor, among streams of homebound people. “I know a quiet place where we can have an early dinner. Can you spare the time?” But his tone told her he expected her to.

“Sure. I’d like that.” Why rush back? For what? For Whitney? … or for Mark? But suddenly even that didn’t seem so important. They walked out onto the street, and he took her arm.

“What did you do last night, by the way?” He wondered if she’d tell him.

“As a matter of fact, I got drunk. And I haven’t done that in years.” It was crazy, this urge to tell him everything, without really doing so. She could have told him the whole of it, but she knew she wasn’t going to.

“You got drunk?” He looked down at her with amusement all over his face. So she had gotten drunk in that black-and-white number with her mother’s diamond bracelets … and with that faggoty-looking dude she was with no doubt scowling his disapproval. He could just see her. Drunk on champagne. Was there any other way to go?

They were walking briskly, side by side now, and she looked up at him pensively after a brief silence.

“You really care about the prison thing, don’t you? I mean, in your gut.”

He nodded carefully. “Can’t you tell?”

“Yes. I can. It just amazes me a little, how much of yourself you pour into it. Seems like a lot of energy expended in one place.”

“It’s worth it to me.”

“It must be. But aren’t you taking a hell of a chance just being involved in these issues, and being so outspoken about them? Seems to me I’ve heard they can revoke a parole for less.”

“And if they do, what have I lost?”

“Your freedom. Or doesn’t that matter to you?” Maybe after six years in prison it no longer mattered to him, although it seemed to her that that would only make freedom more dear.

“You miss the point. I never lost my freedom, even when I was in the joint. Oh sure, for a while, but once I found it again I kept it. It sounds corny, but no man can take your freedom from you. They can limit your mobility, but that’s about all they can do.”

“All right, then let’s say they try and limit your mobility again. Aren’t you taking a heavy chance with the kind of agitating you do on the outside—speeches, conferences, your books, the prison labor-union issues? Seems to me like you’re walking a tightrope.” Unconsciously, she was echoing Simpson’s speech to her.

“Seems to me that a lot of people are. In prison and out. Maybe you’re even walking a tightrope, Miss Miller. So what? It’s cool as long as you don’t fall off.”