Passion's Promise

“And no one pushes you off.”

“Lady, all I know is how fucked up that whole system is. I can’t keep my mouth shut about it. If I did, my life wouldn’t mean a damn thing to me. It’s as simple as that. And if I pay a price in the end, it was my own choice. I’m willing to take that chance. Besides, I’d say the California Department of Corrections is not exactly dying to invite me back for a return engagement. I gave them one giant, jumbo, A-Number-One pain in the ass.”

“You’re really not afraid of getting revoked?”

“Nah. Never happen.” But he didn’t look at her as he said it, and something about him seemed to stiffen. “You like Italian food, Kate?”

“Sounds lovely. I’m not sure, but I think I’m starving.”

“Then pasta it is. Come on, let’s catch that cab.” He raced across the street holding her hand, and dutifully held open the door for her, before following her inside and cramping his legs into the narrow back seat. “Man, they must build these for midgets. And Jesus, you look so comfortable. You should thank God you’re a pygmy.” He gave the driver the address of the restaurant over her outraged protests.

“Just because you’re a freak of nature, Lucas Johns, does not mean you vent your problems on …”

“Aww, now now. Nothing wrong with being a pygmy.”

She looked at him awesomely and sniffed. “I ought to punch you in the eye, Mr. Johns, but I’m afraid I might hurt you.”

That set the tone for the evening. Light, playful, companionable. He was easy to be with. And it wasn’t until the espresso was served that they both grew more pensive.

“I like this town. Do you come down here often, Kate? I would if I lived in New York.”

“I come down once in a while.”

“What for?” He wanted her to tell him the truth. They couldn’t even begin till she did.

And she wanted to tell him that she came down for parties, for balls, for dinners at the White House. For inaugurations. For weddings. But she couldn’t say any of it. No matter what.

“I come down on stories occasionally, like this. Or just to see friends.” She caught a glimpse of something disappointed in his eyes, but it was fleeting. “Don’t you get tired of traveling so much, Luke?” She was once again the poised Miss Saint Martin. He was beginning to think it was hopeless.

“No, traveling is a way of life for me by now, and it’s for a good cause. How about some brandy?”

“Oh God, not tonight!” She cringed at the memory of the headache that had finally left her at dinner.

“Tied one on that bad last night, huh?”

“Worse!” She smiled and took another sip of coffee.

“How come? Having a good time?”

“No. Trying to numb myself through a lousy one, and I guess I had a lot on my mind. Everything kind of got away from me.”

“Like what did you have on your mind?”

You, Mr. Johns…. She smiled at her own thought “Can I blame it on you and say it was the interview?” A look of sheer female teasing danced in her eyes.

“Sure, you can blame it on me if you want I’ve been accused of a lot worse.” So she had to “numb” herself to get through the party. Interesting. Very interesting. At least she wasn’t in love with that asshole. “You know something, Katie? I like you. You’re a very nice woman.” He sat back and smiled, looking deep into her eyes.

“Thank you. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed the last couple of days. And should I make a terrible confession?”

“What? You flushed your notebook down the toilet back at the office? I wouldn’t blame you a bit, and we could start all over. I’d like that.”

“God forbid. No, my ‘terrible confession’ is that this was my first interview. I’ve always done more general pieces. But this was a new experience for me.” She wondered if all writers fell a little bit in love with the first person they interviewed. Inconvenient if the first person happened to be the tattooed lady at Ringling’s.

“How come you’ve never done an interview before?” He was intrigued.

“Scared to.”

“Why would you be scared? You’re a good writer, so that doesn’t make any sense. And you’re not shy.”

“Yes, I am. Sometimes. But you’re difficult to be shy with.”

“Is that something I should correct?”

She laughed and shook her head. “No, you’re just fine the way you are.”

“So what’s so scary about interviews?”

“It’s a long story. Nothing you’d want to hear. What about you? What frightens you, Luke?”

Damn. She just wouldn’t give. He wanted to stand up and shake her. But he had to look cool. “Is this part of the interview? What frightens me?”

She shook her head, and wondered what he was thinking.

“A lot of things frighten me. Fears can create a lot of confusion. Cowardice frightens me, it can cost someone a life … usually someone else’s. Waste frightens me, because time is so short. Otherwise, nothing much. Except women. Oh yeah, women scare me to death.”

After a moment of tension, there was laughter in his eyes again, and Kezia was relieved. For a minute she had felt him coming at her with both barrels, but she decided that was only her own paranoia. He didn’t know she was lying. He couldn’t possibly know, or he would have let on by now if he did. He wasn’t a man to play games. She was sure of it.

“Women frighten you?” She was smiling at him again.

“They terrify me.” He tried to cower in his seat.

“Like hell they do.” She started to laugh.

“Yeah, okay. You’re right.” They laughed and talked easily for another hour, as the brief tension between them eased again. She succumbed to a glass of brandy at last, and then followed it with another espresso. She wanted to sit there with him forever.

“There’s a place I go to in SoHo in New York. The atmosphere reminds me of this. It’s called The Partridge, and it’s a funny little hangout for poets and artists and just nice people.” Her face lit up as she told him about it, and he watched her talk.

“Is it an ‘in’ placer?”

She laughed out loud at the thought. “Oh no, it’s an ‘out’ place. Very ‘out.’ That’s why I love it.”

So, the lady had her haunts, did she? The places where she went to get away, where no one knew who she was, where…. “Then I’d probably like it, Kate. You’ll have to take me there sometime.” He slipped the suggestion in casually as he lit another cigar. “What do you do with yourself in New York?”

“Write. See friends. Go to parties sometimes, or the theater. I travel a bit too. But mostly, I write. I know a lot of artists in SoHo, and sometimes I hang out with them.”

“And the rest of the time?”

“I see other people … depends on my mood.”

“You’re not married, are you?”

“No.” She shook her head decisively, as though to confirm it.

“I didn’t think so.”

“How come?”

“Because you’re careful, the way women are who’re used to taking care of themselves. You think about what you do and say. Most married women are used to having someone else do that kind of thinking, and it shows. How’s that for a classic male chauvinist remark?”

“Not bad. But it’s also a very perceptive thing to say. I’d never thought of it that way, but I think you might be right.”

“Okay. Back to you now. My turn to interview.” He seemed to be enjoying it. “Engaged?”

“Nope. Not even in love. I have a virgin soul.”

“I’m overwhelmed. If I had a hat, I’d take it off.” They both laughed again. “But I’m not sure I believe you,” Luke went on. “Are you trying to tell me that you don’t even have an old man?” What about the faggot in the newspaper picture, baby? But he could hardly ask her about that.

“Nope. No old man.”

“Is that true?”

Her eyes rose to his then, and she looked almost hurt. “Yes, it’s true. There’s someone I enjoy a lot, but I … I just kind of visit him … when I can.”

“Is he married?”

“No … just sort of in another world.”

“In SoHo?”

Lucas was quick to pick up on things left unsaid. She nodded again. “Yes. In SoHo.”

“He’s a lucky guy.” Luke’s voice was oddly quiet.

“No, he’s a funny guy actually. A nice guy. I like him. Sometimes I even like to imagine that I love him, but I don’t. It’s not very serious between us, and never will be. For a lot of reasons.”

“Like what?”

“We’re just very different, that’s all. Different goals, different views. He’s quite a bit younger than I am, and headed in another direction. It really doesn’t matter. Mostly, it’s just that we’re different.”

“Is that so bad? Being different?”

“No, but there are different kinds of ‘different.’” She smiled at her own words. “In this case, different backgrounds, different interests … just different enough to make it too different, but I still like him. And what about you? An ‘old lady’?” The term always seemed funny to her, as though it should refer to someone’s grandmother, and not his inamorata.

“Nope. No old lady. I move around too much. A few good women here and there. But I put my energy into the cause, not into my relationships. I haven’t put out that kind of effort in a long time. I think the time for that is past for me. And you pay a price for the kind of work that goes into shit-kicking like this. You can’t have it all ways. You have to make choices.” He said a lot of things like that. In his own way, he was a purist. And his cause came first. “I meet a lot of good people to talk to, traveling around. That means a lot to me.”

“It means a lot to me too. People you can talk to, in depth, are a rarity.” And he was one of those rare people.

“You’re right. Which brings up a question. I’d like to look you up when I come to New York sometime, Kate. Would that be okay? We could go to The Partridge.” She smiled at him; it would be nice to see him. She felt as though she had made a new friend, and it was incredible how much of her soul she had shown him at dinner. She hadn’t planned to; in fact she had planned to be rather guarded. But one forgot to be guarded with Luke. That was a very dangerous thing, and she reminded herself of it now.

“It would be fun to see you again sometime.” She was purposely vague.

“Will you give me your number?” He held out a pen and the back of an envelope. He didn’t want to give her time to back off. But she made no move to retreat. In a sense, he had her cornered, and she knew it. She took the pen and wrote down her number, but not her address. There was no harm in his having the phone number.

He pocketed the envelope, paid the check, and helped her on with her jacket.

“Can I take you to the airport, Kate?” She seemed to take a long time buttoning her jacket, without looking up, and then at last she met his gaze, looking almost shy.

“That wouldn’t be too much trouble?”

He pulled gently at a loose wisp of her hair, and shook his head at her. “I’d like to.”

“That’s really very nice.”

“Don’t be a jerk, you’re good company.”

He watched her leave, and she turned to give him a last wave at the gate. Her hand rose high above her head and impulsively she blew him a kiss as she walked away down the ramp. It had been a beautiful evening, a great interview, a marvelous day. She was feeling sentimental about the success of it, and strange about Luke.

She boarded the plane and took a seat at the front, accepting the New York and Washington papers from a passing tray. Then she settled back in her seat and switched on the light. There was no one next to her whom she might disturb as she read. It was the last flight to New York, and it would be past one when she got in. She had nothing to do the following day. Work on the Lucas Johns article maybe, but that was all. She had wanted to go to SoHo to see Mark tonight, but now she wasn’t in the mood. It wasn’t too late. Mark would still be up. But she didn’t want to see him. She wanted to be alone.

She felt a gentle sadness wash slowly over her. An unfamiliar, bittersweet feeling of having touched someone who had moved on. She knew she wouldn’t see Lucas Johns again. He had the number, but he probably wouldn’t have the time, and if he ever did come through town, she would probably be in Zermatt or Milan or Marbella. He would be busy for the next hundred years with his unions and his cause and inmates and moratoriums … and those eyes … he was such a good man, such a likable man … so gentle … it was hard to imagine him in prison. Hard to imagine that he’d been tough or mean, had perhaps stabbed a man in a fight in the yard. She had met a different man. A different Luke. A Luke who haunted her all the way home. He was gone for good, from her now, so she could allow herself the luxury of turning him over in her mind … just for tonight.

The flight was too short and she almost hated to get off the plane and fight her way through the terminal to a cab. Even at that hour La Guardia was busy. So busy that she never saw the tall, dark-haired man follow her to within yards of the cab. He watched her slide into the taxi from only a few feet away. And then, turning away to conceal his face, he looked at his watch. He had time. It would take her half an hour to get home.

And then he would call her.

Chapter 11

“Hello?”

“Hi, Kate.” She felt a warm rush come over her at the sound of his voice.

“Hello, Lucas.” Her voice was tired and smoky. “I’m glad you called.”

“Did you get home all right?”

“I did. It was a quiet flight. I was going to read the paper, but I didn’t even bother.” He wanted to say “I know,” but he didn’t, and stifled the urge to laugh.

“What are you up to now, Ms. Miller?” There was mischief in his voice.

“Not much. I was just going to take a hot bath and go to bed.”

“Can I talk you into a drink at The Partridge? Or P.J. Clarke’s?”

“Bit of a ride from your hotel in Washington, wouldn’t you say? Or did you plan to walk?” She was amused at the thought.

“Yeah, I could. But it’s not a bad ride from La Guardia.”

“Don’t be silly. I took the last flight in.” What a madman he was to consider flying all the way up to New York for a drink.

“I know you took the last flight. But as it happens, so did I.”

“What?” And then she understood. “You wretch! And I didn’t even see you!”

“I should hope not. I almost broke my shoulder once, ducking down in my seat.”

“Lucas, you’re crazy.” She laughed into his ear and lay her head on the back of the chair. “What a perfectly nutty thing to do.”

“Why not? I have a free day tomorrow, and I was going to take it easy anyway. Besides, I felt lousy watching you leave.”

“I felt pretty lousy leaving. I don’t know why, but I did.”

“And now we’re both here, and there’s no reason to feel lousy. Right? So what’ll we do? P. J.’s or The Partridge, or somewhere else? I’m not all that familiar with New York.”

She was still laughing and shaking her head. “Luke, it’s one-thirty in the morning. There isn’t all that much we can do!”

“In New York?” He was not going to be put off that easily.

“Even in New York. You are too much. Tell you what, I’ll meet you at P. J.’s in half an hour. It’ll take you that long to get into the city, and I want to take a quick shower and change clothes at least. You know something?”

“What?”

“You’re a nut.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Possibly.” She smiled gently at the phone.

“Good. I’ll met you at P. J.’s in half an hour.” He was pleased with himself for what he had done. It was going to be a beautiful night. He didn’t care if all she did was shake his hand. It was going to be the best night of his life. Kezia Saint Martin. It was impossible not to be impressed. But in spite of the fancy label, he liked her. She intrigued him. She was nothing like what he had imagined those women to be. She wasn’t aloof and secretly ugly. She was warm and gentle and lonely as hell. He could read it all over her.

And half an hour later, there she was, in the doorway at P. J.’s, and in jeans. Not even tailor-made ones, just good old regular Levi’s, with her silky black hair in two long little-girl braids. More than ever, she looked like a very young girl to him.

The bar was jammed, the lights were bright, the sawdust was thick on the floor, and the jukebox was blaring. It was his kind of place. He was having a beer, and she came over with a gleam in her eye.

“My God, you’re sneaky! No one’s ever followed me onto a plane in my life. But what a neat thing to do!” That wasn’t entirely true but she was laughing again.

She ordered a Pimm’s Cup, and they stood at the bar for half an hour while Kezia glanced over his shoulder at the door. There was always the chance that someone she knew would wander in, or a group of late-night partygoers would arrive after a stop at Le Club or El Morocco, and blow the “Kate Miller” story to pieces.

“Expecting someone, or just nervous?”

She shook her head. “Neither. Just stunned, I guess. A few hours ago we had dinner in Washington, said goodbye at the airport, and now here you are. It’s a bit of a shock.” But a pleasant one.

“Too much of a shock, Kate?” Maybe he had gone too far, but at least she didn’t look angry.

“No.” She was careful with the word. “What do you want to do now?”

“How about taking a walk?”

“That’s funny, I thought of that on the plane. I wanted to go for a walk along the East River. I do that once in a while, late at night. It’s a nice way to think.”

“And get killed. Is that what you’re trying to do?” The idea of her walking along the river unprotected unnerved him.

“Don’t be so silly, Lucas. You shouldn’t believe all the myths you hear about this town. It’s as safe as any other.” He glowered and finished his beer.

They began to walk slowly up Third Avenue, past restaurants and bars, and the clatter of occasional late-night traffic on Fifty-seventh Street. New York was not in any way like any other town. Not like any American city. Like a giant Rome maybe, with its thirst for life after dark. But this was bigger, more, wilder, crueler, and far less romantic. New York had its own romance, its own fire. Like a bridled volcano, waiting for its chance to erupt. They both felt the vibes of the town as they wandered its streets, out of step with its mood, refusing to feel pushed or shoved; they felt oddly at peace. They passed little groups of people, and male streetwalkers carrying pug dogs and French poodles, and wearing tight sweaters and crotch-clutching jeans. Women walked lap dogs, and men lurched drunkenly toward cabs. It was a city that stayed alive round-the-clock.

They cut east on Fifty-eighth Street, and walked through the slumbering elegance of Sutton Place, sitting like a dowager next to the river. Kezia wondered for a moment if they would meet Whit, leaving his lover’s apartment—if he still left it.

“What are you thinking about, Kate? You look all dreamy.”

She looked up at him and smiled. “I guess I am. I was just letting my mind wander … thinking about some people I know … you … nothing much really” He took her hand and they walked quietly next to the river, making their way slowly north, until a question interrupted her thoughts. “I just thought of something. Where are you going to sleep tonight?”

“I’ll work it out. Don’t worry about it. I’m used to arriving in cities in the middle of the night.” He looked unconcerned.

“You could sleep on my couch. You’re a bit tall for it, but it’s comfortable. I’ve slept there myself.”

“That sounds fine to me.” Better than fine, but he couldn’t let her see how happy he was, or how surprised. It was all so much easier than even his wildest dreams.

They exchanged another smile and kept walking. She felt comfortable with him, and hadn’t felt this peaceful in years. It didn’t matter if she let him sleep on her couch. So what if he knew where she lived? In the end, what did it really matter? How long could she hide—from him, from herself, from strangers and friends? The precautions were becoming an unbearable burden. At least for one night, she wanted to set the burden aside. Luke was her friend; he wouldn’t harm her, even if he knew her address.

“Do you want to go home now?” They were at Seventy-second and York.

“Do you live near here?” The neighborhood surprised him. It was middle-class ugly.

“Not too far from here. A few blocks over and a couple more blocks up.” They headed west on Seventy-second Street, and the neighborhood began to improve.

“Tired, Kate?”

“I must be, but I don’t feel it.”

“You’re probably still numb from the drunk you tied on last night.” He grinned.

“What a rotten thing to bring up! Just because I get drunk once a year …”

“Is that all?”

“It certainly is!”

He pulled one of the pigtails and they crossed the deserted street. Downtown, traffic would still be blaring, but here there was no one in sight. They had reached Park Avenue now, divided by neat flower beds and hedges.

“I wouldn’t say you live in the slums, Katie Miller.” For a while, as they had strolled along York, he wondered if she’d take him to a different apartment to keep secret the place where she lived. Thank God, she wasn’t as frightened as that. “You must do well with your articles.” A look of open teasing passed between them, and they both started to laugh.

“I can’t really complain.”

She was playing it right till the end. She wasn’t going to cop to a thing. It amazed him. So secretive, and what in hell for? He pitied her for the agonies of her double life. Or maybe she didn’t spend enough time on his side of the tracks to make it a strain. But there was SoHo, the place she went to “get away.” From what? Herself? Her friends? He knew her parents were dead. What could she have to get away from? Surely not the guy he’d seen with her in the paper.

They turned a corner onto a tree-lined street, and she paused with a smile at the first door. An awning, a doorman, an impressive address.

“This is it.” She pressed the bell, and the doorman fought with the lock. He looked sleepy and his hat was tilted back on his head. It was a relief man, she observed, and all he ventured was a vague, “Good evening.” Providentially, he couldn’t remember her name.

Luke smiled to himself in the elevator. She turned the key to her apartment and pushed open the door. There was mail neatly stacked on the hall table, the cleaning woman had been there, and the place looked impeccably neat and smelled of fresh wax.

“Can I offer you some wine?”

“Champagne, I presume.”

She turned to look at him, and he was smiling gently at her, mischief in his eyes. “It’s quite a pad, baby. Class, by the barrel.” But he didn’t say it cruelly; it was more like a question.

“I could tell you it’s the home of my parents … but I wouldn’t want to do that.”

“Is it … or was it?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Nope, it’s mine. I’m old enough to put together something like this for myself now.”

“As I said, you must do well with your work.”

She shrugged and smiled. She wanted to make no excuse. “What about that wine? It’s pretty lousy actually. Would you rather have a beer?”

“Yes. Or a cup of coffee. I think I’d rather have that.” She left him to put on the kettle, and he ambled after her, his voice reaching her from the doorway as she clattered cups in the kitchen. “Hey, do you have a roomie?”

“A what?” She wasn’t paying attention; she would have grown pale if she had.

“A roommate. Do you have one?”

“No. Why? Do you take cream and sugar?”

“No, thanks. Black. No roommate?”

“Nope. What makes you ask?”

“Your mail.” She paused with the kettle in her hand, and looked around at him.

“What about my mail?” She hadn’t thought of that.

“It’s addressed to a Miss Kezia Saint Martin.” Time seemed to stand still between them. Neither moved.

“Yes. I know.”

“Anyone you know?”

“Yeah.” The weight of the world seemed to fall from her shoulders with one word. “Me.”

“Huh?”

“I’m Kezia Saint Martin.” She attempted a smile but looked almost stricken, and he tried to feign shock. Had she known him a little bit better she’d have laughed at the look in his eyes.

“You mean you’re not Kate S. Miller?”

“Yeah, I’m K. S. Miller too. When I write.”

“Your pen name. I see.”

“One of many. Martin Hallam is another.”

“You collect aliases, my love?” He walked slowly toward her.

She put the kettle down on the stove, and turned deliberately away. All he could see was the dark hair and her narrow shoulders bent over.

“Yes, aliases. And lives. There are three of me, Luke. Four actually. No, five now, counting ‘Kate.’ K. S. Miller never needed a first name before. It’s all more than a little schizophrenic.”

“Is it?” He was right behind her now, but he did not reach out to touch her. “Why don’t we go sit down and talk for a while?”

His voice was low and she turned to face him with a barely perceptible nod. She needed to talk, and he’d be a good man to talk to. She had to talk to someone before she went mad. But now he knew she was a liar … or maybe that didn’t matter with Luke. Maybe he’d understand.

“Okay.” She followed him into the living room, sat primly on one of her mother’s blue velvet chairs, and watched him lean back on the couch.

“Cigarette?”

“Thanks.” He lit it for her and she took a long, deep pull at the unfiltered cigarette, collecting her thoughts.

“It sounds sort of crazy when you tell someone about it. And I’ve never tried to tell anyone before.”

“Then how do you know it sounds crazy?” His eyes were unwavering.

“Because it is crazy. It’s an impossible way to live. I know, I’ve tried. ‘My Secret Life,’ by Kezia Saint Martin.” She tried to laugh, but it was a hollow sound in the silence.

“Sounds like it’s time you got it off your chest, and I’m handy. I’m sitting here and I’ve got nowhere to go and no time to be there. And all I know is that it’s an insane life you seem to lead, Kezia. You deserve better than that.” Her name sounded unfamiliar on his lips, and she looked at him through the smoke. “Worse than crazy, this must be a mighty lonely way to live.”

“It is.” She felt tears well up at the back of her throat. She wanted to tell Luke all of it now. K. S. Miller, Martin Hallam, Kezia Saint Martin. About the loneliness and the hurt and the ugliness of her world draped in gold brocade, as though they could hide it by making it pretty outside, or make their souls smell better by drenching them in perfume … and the intolerable obligations and responsibilities, and the stupid parties, and the boring men. And the victory of her own byline on her first serious article, and no one to share it with except a middle-aged lawyer and a still older agent. She had a lifetime to show him, a lifetime she had hidden deep in her heart, until now.

“I don’t even know where to begin.”

“You said there are five of you. Pick one, and take it from there.”

Two lone tears slid down her face and he stretched out a hand to her. She took it, and they sat that way, their hands reaching across the table, the tears running slowly down her face.

“Well, the first me is Kezia Saint Martin. The name you saw on the letters. Heiress, orphan … isn’t that a romantic vision?” She smiled lopsidedly through her tears. “Anyway, my parents both died when I was a child, and left me a great deal of money and an enormous house, which my trustee sold and turned into a large co-op on Eighty-first Street and Park, which I eventually sold to buy this. I have an aunt who’s married to an Italian count, and I was brought up by my trustee and my governess, Totie. And of course, the other thing my parents left me was a name. Not just a name. But a Name. And it was carefully impressed on me before they died, and after they died, that I wasn’t just ‘anybody.’ I was Kezia Saint Martin…. Hell, Luke, don’t you read the papers?” She brushed the tears away and pulled back her hand to blow her nose on a mauve linen handkerchief, edged in gray lace.

“What in God’s name is that?”

“What?”

“That thing you’re blowing your nose in?” She looked at the bit of pale purple in her hand and laughed.

“A handkerchief. What do you think it is?”

“Looks like a vestment for a pint-sized priest for chris-sake. Talk about fancy. Now I know you’re an heiress!”

She laughed and felt a little bit better.

“And yes, I do read the papers, by the way. But I’d rather hear this story from you. I don’t like to just read about people I care about.”

Kezia was momentarily confused. People he cared about? But he didn’t even know her … but he had flown up from Washington to see her. He was there. And he looked as though what she had to say mattered to him.

“Well, every time I set foot anywhere, I get my photograph taken.”

“It didn’t happen tonight.” He was trying to show her something, that she was freer than she knew.

“No, but it could have. That was just luck. That’s why I was watching the doors—that, and the fact that I was afraid I’d see someone I knew, and they’d call me Kezia instead of Slate.”

“Would that have mattered so much, Kezia? If someone had blown your cover? So what?”

“So … I would have felt like a fool. I would have felt …”

“Frightened?” He finished for her, and she looked away.

“Maybe.” Hers was a small voice now.

“Why, love? Why would it frighten you if I knew who you really were?” He wanted to hear it from her. “Were you afraid that I’d hurt you then? Pursue you for your money? Your name? What?”

“No … it’s well, possibly. Other people might want me for those things, Lucas, but I’m not worried about that with you.” Her eyes sought his squarely and she made sure he understood her. She trusted him, and she wanted him to know that. “But the worst of it is something else. Kezia Saint Martin isn’t just me. She’s ‘someone.’ She has something to live up to. When I was twenty, I was considered the most eligible girl on the market. You know, sort of like Xerox stock. If you bought me, your investment was bound to go up.” He watched her eyes as she spoke and there were years of hurt embedded in them. Lucas was silent, his hand gently holding hers. “And there was more to it than just being noticed. There was history … good history, bad history, grandparents, my mother….” She paused and seemed to forget to go on. Lucas’ voice finally stirred her.

“Your mother? What about your mother?”

“Oh … just … things….” Her voice was trembling and her eyes avoided his. She seemed to be having trouble continuing.

“What kind of things, Kezia? How old were you when she died?”

“I was eight. And she … she drank herself to death.”

“I take it ‘things’ got to her too?” He sat back for a moment and watched Kezia, whose eyes now rose slowly to his with a look of unfathomable sorrow and fear.

“Yeah. Things got to her too. She was The Lady Liane Holmes-Aubrey before she married my father. And then she was Mrs. Keenan Saint Martin. I’m not sure which must have been worse for her. Probably being Daddy’s wife. At least in England she knew how it all worked. Here, things were different for her. Quicker, sharper, brasher. She talked about it sometimes. She felt more ‘public’ here than she had at home as a girl. They didn’t jump all over her the way they do me. But then, she didn’t have Daddy’s fortune either.”

“Was she rich too?”

“Very. Not as rich as my father, but directly related to the Queen. Fun, isn’t it?” Kezia looked away bitterly for a moment.

“I don’t know, is it fun? It doesn’t sound like it yet.”

“Oh, it gets better. My father was very rich and very powerful and very envied and very hated, and occasionally very loved. He did crazy things, he traveled a lot, he … he did whatever he did. And Mummy was lonely, I think. She was constantly spied on, written about, talked about, followed around. When she went to parties, they reported what she wore. When Daddy was away, and she danced with an old friend at a charity ball, they made a thing of it in the papers. She got to feeling hunted. Americans can be brutal that way.” Her voice trailed off for a moment.

“Only Americans, Kezia?”

She shook her head. “No. They’re all as bad. But they can be more direct about it here. They’re gutsier, or less embarrassed. They show less ‘deference,’ I don’t know … maybe she was just too frail. And too lonely. She always looked as though she didn’t quite understand ‘why.’”

“She left your father?” He was interested now. Very. He was beginning to feel something for the woman who had been Kezia’s mother. The frail British noblewoman.

“No. She fell in love with my French tutor.”

“Are you kidding?” He looked almost amused.

“Nope.”

“And it made a big stink?”

“I guess so. It must have. It killed her.”

“That, directly?”

“No … who knows? That and a lot of other things. My father found out, and the young man was dismissed. And I guess it got to her after that. She was a traitor, and she sentenced herself to death. She drank more and more, and ate less and less, and finally she got what she wanted out of it. Out.”

“You knew? About the tutor, I mean.”

“No, not then. Edward, my trustee, told me later. To be sure that the ‘sins of the mother would never be visited on the daughter.’”

“Why do you call it a ‘betrayal’? Because she cheated on your father?”

“No, that would have been forgivable. The unforgivable was that she betrayed her ancestry, her heritage, her class and her breeding by falling in love—and having an affair—with a ‘peasant.’” She tried to laugh, but the sound was too brittle.

“And that’s a sin?” Lucas looked confused.

“That, my dear, is the cardinal sin of all! Thou shalt not screw the lower classes. That applies to the women of my set anyway. For the men it’s different.”

“For them it’s okay to screw the ‘lower classes’?”

“Of course. Gentlemen have been balling the maid for hundreds of years. It’s just that the lady of the house is not supposed to get laid by the chauffeur.”

“I see.” He tried to look amused but he wasn’t.

“That’s nice. My mother didn’t see. And she committed an even worse crime. She fell in love with him. She even talked about running away with him.”

“How in hell did your father find out? Did he have her followed?”

“Of course not. He never suspected. No, Jean-Louis simply told him. He wanted fifty thousand dollars from my father not to make a scandal, not very much, all things considered. My father paid him twenty-five and had him deported.”

“Your trustee told you all this?” Lucas looked stormy now.

“Of course. Insurance. It’s meant to keep me in line.”

“Does it?”

“In a way.”

“Why?”

“Because in a perverted way I’m afraid of my destiny. It’s sort of ‘damned if you do, and damned if you don’t.’ I think that if I lived my life the way I’m supposed to, I’d hate it enough to drink myself to death like my mother. But if I betray my ‘heritage,’ then maybe I’ll end up like her anyway. A betrayer betrayed, in love with a two-bit low-class jerk who blackmailed her husband. Pretty, isn’t it?”

“No. It’s pathetic. And you really believe that crap about betrayal?”

She nodded. “I have to. I’ve seen too many stories like that. I’ve … in small ways it has happened to me. When people know who you are they … they treat you differently, Lucas. You’re no longer a person to them. You’re a legend, a challenge, an object they must have. The only ones who understand you are your own kind.”

“Are you telling me they understand you?” He looked stunned.

“No. That’s the whole trouble. For me, none of it works. I’m a misfit. I can’t bear what I’m supposed to be. And I can’t have what I want … I fear it anyway. I … oh hell, Lucas, I don’t know.” She looked distraught as she folded a matchbook between her fingers.

“What happened to your father?”

“He had an accident, and not because he was heartsick over my mother. He had a healthy number of women after she died. Even though I’m sure he missed Mummy. But he was very bitter then. It seemed as though he didn’t believe in anything anymore. He drank. He drove too fast. He died. Very simple really.”

“No, very complicated. What you’re telling me is that a ‘betrayal,’ as you call it, of your ‘heritage,’ your world, leads to suicide, death, accidents, blackmail and heartbreak. But what does following the rules lead to? What happens if you play it straight, Kezia, and never ‘betray your class,’ as you’d put it? What happens if you just go along with their rules … I mean you, Kezia. What would it do to you?”

“Kill me slowly.” Her voice was very soft but she sounded very certain.

“Is that what’s been happening to you?”

“Yes. I think so, in a small way. I still have my escapes, my freedoms. They help. My writing is my salvation.”

“Stolen moments. Do you ever take those freedoms openly?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Lucas. How?”

“Any way you have to. Just do what you want to, openly for a change?”

“I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Edward. The press. Whatever I did that was even the least out of line, would be all over the papers. And I mean something as simple as going out with someone ‘different,’” she looked at him pointedly, “going somewhere ‘inappropriate,’ saying something unguarded, wearing something indiscreet.”

“All right, so you get bad press. And then what? Chicken Little, the sky would not fall in.”

“You don’t understand, Lucas. It would.”

“Because Edward would raise hell? So what?”

“But what if he’s right … and … what … what if I end up …” She couldn’t say it but he could.

“Like your mother?”

She looked up, her eyes swimming in tears, and nodded.

“You wouldn’t, babe. You couldn’t. You’re different. You’re freer, I’m sure. You’re probably more worldly, and maybe even more intelligent than she was. And hell, Kezia, what if you did fall in love with the tutor, or the butler, or the chauffeur, or me for that matter? So fucking what?”

She didn’t answer the question. She didn’t know how. “It’s a special world, Lucas,” she said finally, “with its own special rules.”

“Yeah. Like the joint.” He looked suddenly bitter.

“You mean prison?”

He nodded quietly in answer. “I think you may be right. A silent, invisible prison, with walls built of codes and hypocrisies and lies and restrictions, and cells padded with prejudice and fear, and all of it studded with diamonds.”

He looked up at her suddenly and laughed.

“What’s funny?”

“Nothing, except that nine-tenths of the world are out there beating each other over the head to get into that elite little world of yours, and from the sound of it, they won’t dig it when they get there. Not much.”

“Maybe they will. Some do.”

“But what happens to the ones who don’t, Kezia? What happens to the ones who can’t live with that bullshit?” He held tightly to her hand as he spoke, and her eyes rose slowly to his.

“Some of them die, Lucas.”

“And the others? The ones who don’t die?”

“They live with it. They make peace with it. Edward is like that. He accepts the rules because he has to. It’s the only way he knows, but it’s ruined his life too.”

“He could have changed all that.” Luke sounded gruff and Kezia shook her head.

“No, Lucas, he couldn’t have. Some people can’t.”

“Why not? No balls?”

“If you want to call it that. Some people just can’t stomach the unknown. They’d rather go down with a familiar ship than drown in unfamiliar seas.”

“Or get saved. There’s always the chance that they’d find a lifeboat, or wash up on an island paradise. How about that for a surprise?”

But Kezia was thinking of something else. It was minutes before she spoke again, her eyes closed, her head resting on the back of the chair. She sounded very tired, and almost old. She wasn’t entirely sure Luke understood. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe no outsider could. “When I was twenty-one, I wanted to have a life of my own. So I tried to get a job at the Times. I swore to Edward that I could pull it off, that no one would bother me, that I wouldn’t disgrace my name, all that bullshit. I lasted for seventeen workdays, and I almost had a nervous breakdown. I heard every joke, was the butt of every kind of hostility, curiosity, envy and obscenity. They even had paparazzi in the ladies’ room when I had to pee. It amused them to hire me and watch the fun. And I tried, Luke, I really tried, but there was no way I could stick with it. They didn’t want me. They wanted my fancy name and then to try and bring me down, just for kicks, to see if I was human too. I never came out in the open again. That was the last job anyone knew about, the last glimpse of the real me that the world out there had. From then on it was all underground, with pseudonyms, hiding behind agents, and … well, it’s all been just the way it was when I met you. And this is the first time I’ve taken a chance on being found out.”

“Why did you?”

“Maybe I had to. But as far as anyone knows, I go to all the right parties, am on all the right committees, vacation in all the right places, know all the right people, and everyone thinks I’m lazy as hell. I have a reputation for partying all night and sleeping till three in the afternoon.”

“And don’t you?” He couldn’t suppress a grin.

“No, I do not!” She wasn’t amused, she was angry. “I work my bloody ass off, as a matter of fact. I take every decent article I can get, and I have a good name in my field. You don’t get that by sleeping till three.”

“And that doesn’t fit with all the ‘right’ people? Writing isn’t ‘right’ either?”

“Of course not. It’s not respectable. Not for me. I’m supposed to be looking for a husband and having my hair done, not snooping around prisons in Mississippi.”

“Or ex-cons in Chicago.” There was a hint of sadness in his eyes. She had made it all so clear now.

“Their objection would not be to whom I write about, it would be the fact that I’m betraying my heritage.”

“That again. Jesus, Kezia, isn’t that notion a little out-of-date? A lot of your kind of people work.”

“Yes, but not like this. Not for real. And … there’s more.”

“I figured that much.” He lit another cigarette and waited, and was surprised when she smiled.

“Aside from everything else, I’m a traitor. Have you ever read the Martin Hallam column? It’s syndicated so you might have seen it.”

He nodded.

“Well, I write that. I started it as a kind of a fun thing, but it worked, and …” She shrugged and threw up her hands as he started to laugh.

“You mean you write that crazy goddamn column?”

She nodded, grinning sheepishly.

“And you rat on all your fancy friends like that?”

She nodded again. “They lap it up. They just don’t know that I’m the one who writes it. And to tell you the truth, in the last couple of years it’s gotten to be a drag.”

“Talk about being a traitor! And no one suspects it’s you?”

“Nope. No one ever has. They don’t even know it’s written by a woman. They just accept it. Even my editor doesn’t know who writes it. Everything goes through my agent, and of course I’m listed as K. S. Miller on the agency roster.”

“Lady, you amaze me.” Now he looked stunned.

“Sometimes I even amaze myself.” It was a moment of light-hearted laughter after the painful start of the conversation.

“I’ll say one thing, you certainly keep yourself busy. The K. S. Miller articles, the Hallam column, and your ‘fancy life.’ And no one even suspects?” He seemed dubious.

“No. And that part hasn’t been easy. That’s why I panicked at the idea of interviewing you. I thought you might have seen my photograph somewhere, and would recognize me, as me, not as ‘Kate Miller’ obviously. All it would take to blow my whole trip would be one person seeing me at the wrong place at the wrong time, and zap, the whole house of cards would go down. And the truth of it is that the writing part of my life, the serious work, is the only part I respect. I won’t jeopardize that for anyone, or anything.”

“But you did. You interviewed me. Why?”

“I told you. I had to. And I was curious, too. I liked your book. And my agent pressured me. He was right, of course. I can’t go on hiding forever if I want a serious literary career. There are times when I’ll have to take chances.”

“You took a big one.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Are you sorry?” He wanted an honest answer.

“No. I’m glad.” They smiled at each other again, and she sighed.

“Kezia, what if you told the world, that world, to go screw, and just openly did what you want for a change? Couldn’t you at least be K. S. Miller out front?”

“How? Look at the stink it would make, what they’d say in the papers. Besides, it would muddy the waters. People would be requesting articles not because of K. S. Miller, but because of Kezia Saint Martin. I’d be back where I was eight years ago, as a gofer on the Times. And my aunt would have fits, and my trustee would be heartbroken, and I’d feel as though I had betrayed everyone who came before me.”

“For chrissake, Kezia. All those people are dead, or as good as.”

“The traditions aren’t. They live on.”

“And all on your shoulders, is that it? You have the sole responsibility of holding up the world? Don’t you realize how insane that is? This isn’t Victorian England, and Jesus, that’s your life you’re hiding in the closet. Yours, one shot at it and it’s s gone. If you respect what you’re doing, why not take your chances, drag it out of the closet and live it with pride? Or is it that you’re too fucking scared?” His eyes burned holes in hers.

“Maybe. I don’t know. I’ve never felt I had the choice.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. You always have a choice. About anything you do. Maybe you don’t want a choice. Maybe you’d rather hide like a neurotic and live ten different screwed-up lives. It doesn’t look worth a damn to me though, lady, I’ll tell you that much.”

“Maybe it isn’t It doesn’t look like much to me either right now. But what you don’t understand is the matter of duty, obligation, tradition.”

“Duty to whom? What about yourself, dammit? Didn’t you ever think of that? Do you want to sit around alone here for the rest of your life, writing in secret, and then going out to those asinine parties with that faggoty asshole?” He stopped suddenly and she frowned.

“What faggoty asshole?”

“The one I saw you with in the paper.”

“You mean you knew?”

He eyed her squarely and nodded. “I knew.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Her eyes blazed for a moment. She had let him so far into the inner sanctum of her life, a traitor already?

“How could I tell you? ‘Hey, lady, before you do the next interview I’d like to tell you that I know your real name because I read about you in the paper’? So what? And I figured that you’d tell me when you were ready to, or maybe never. But if I slapped you in the face with it, you’d have run like the devil and I didn’t want that.”

“Why? Afraid I might not write the article? Don’t worry, they’d have sent someone else out to do it. You wouldn’t have lost your story.” She almost sneered at him, and he grabbed her arm so suddenly it stunned her.

“No, but I might have lost you.”

She waited a long moment before speaking, and he still held her arm. “Would it have mattered?”

“Very much. And what you have to decide now is whether or not you want to live lies for the rest of your days. Seems like a bummer to me … terrified about who’s going to see you when and where and with whom and doing what. Who gives a shit? Let them see you! Show them who you really are, or don’t you even know, Kezia? I think that’s the crux of it. Maybe K. S. Miller is as big a phony as Martin Hallam or Kezia Saint Martin.”

“Oh to hell with you, dammit!” she shouted, wresting her arm free. “It’s so goddamn easy for you to sit there and make speeches. You have absolutely nothing to lose. No one expects a damn thing of you, so how can you know what it’s like? You can do anything you bloody well please.”

“Really?” His voice was quiet again and the texture of satin. “Well, let me tell you something, Miss Saint Martin. I know about duty one hell of a lot more than you do. Only mine isn’t to a bunch of upper-class mummies. My duty is to real people, guys I served my time with who have no one to speak out for them, no families to hire lawyers or remember them or give a damn. I know who they are, I remember them, sitting on their ass waiting for freedom, locked up in the hole, forgotten after years in the joint, some of them for as long as you’ve been alive, Kezia. And if I don’t have the fucking balls to go out and do something for them, then maybe no one else will. They’re my ‘duty.’ But at least they’re real, and I guess I’m lucky, because I care about them. I don’t just do it because I have to, or because I’m scared not to. I do it because I want to. I gamble my own ass for theirs, because every time I shoot my mouth off, I run the risk of winding up right back in there with them. So tell me about duty, and having something to lose. But I’ll tell you one more thing before you do. And that’s that if I didn’t give a shit about them, if I didn’t like them, or even love them, I’d say ‘Goodbye, Charlie’ and tell them all to go fuck themselves. I’d get married again, have a bunch of kids, and go live in the country.

“Kezia, if you don’t believe in the life you’re leading, don’t live it. It’s as simple as that. Because the price you’re trying to avoid paying, you’re going to wind up paying anyway. You’re going to wind up fucking hating yourself for wasting the years and playing games you should have outgrown years ago. If you dug that life, that would be fine. But you don’t, so what are you still doing there?”

“I don’t really know. Except I don’t think I’m as ballsy as you are.”

“You’re as ballsy as you want to be. That’s bullshit. You’re just waiting for an easy way out. A petition that gives you your freedom, a man to come and take you by the hand and lead you away. Well, maybe it’ll happen like that, but it probably won’t. You’ll probably have to do it all yourself, just like everyone else.”

She was silent in answer, and he found himself wanting to hold her. He had given her a lot to swallow in one dose, but he couldn’t help himself. Now that she had opened the doors, he had to tell her what he saw. For both their sakes. But mainly for hers.

“I didn’t mean to trample all over you, babe.”

“It needed to be said.”

“You could probably level some things at me that need to be said too. I see what you’re going through, and you’re right in a sense, it is a lot easier for me. I have an army of people waiting in the wings all the time to tell me how terrific I am. Not the parole board, mind you, but people, friends. That makes a big difference, it makes it kind of an ego trip. What you’re trying to do is a lot harder. Causes carry a lot of glory, breaking away from home never does … until later. Much later. But you’ll get there. You’re already more than halfway there, you just don’t know it yet.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. You’ll make it. But we all know it’s a rough road.” As he watched her, he was once again stunned by all that he’d heard. The secrets from the depths of her soul, the confessions about her family and the insane theories about tradition and treason. It was all more than a little new to him, but intriguing nonetheless. She was the product of a strange and different world, yet a hybrid in her own way. “Where do you think that road to freedom is going to take you, by the way—to SoHo?” He wanted to know, but she laughed at him.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I have a pleasant time down there, but that’s not the real thing. Even I know that. It just helps get me through the rest of the bullshit. You know, the only thing that isn’t bullshit is K. S. Miller.”

“That’s a byline, not a human being. You’re the human being, Kezia. I think that’s what you forget. Maybe on purpose.”

“Maybe I’ve had to. Just look at my life, Luke. It’s nowhere, and the games are getting harder and harder to play. It’s all one big long game. The game of the parties, the committees, the balls and the bullshit, the game of ‘artist’s old lady in SoHo,’ the game of the gossip column. It’s all a game. And I’m tired of living in a world that’s so limited it can only bring itself to include about eight hundred people. And I don’t fit in a scene like SoHo.”

“Why? Not your class?”

“No. Just not my world.”

“Then stop poaching on other people’s worlds. Make your own. A crazy one, a good one, a bad one, whatever you want, just make it one that suits you, for a change. You make the rules. Be quiet about it if you think you have to, but at least try to respect your own trip. Don’t sell out, Kezia. You’re too smart for that. I think you realize yourself that you’ve gotten to a point where you’re going to have to make some choices.”

“I know that. I think that’s why I had the courage to invite you here. I had to. You’re a good man, I respect you. I couldn’t insult you with more lies and evasions. I couldn’t insult myself like that. Not again. It’s a question of trust.”

“I’m honored.” She looked up to see if he was making fun of her, and was touched when she saw that he wasn’t “And that makes four,” he announced.

“Four what?”

“You said there were five of you. You’ve just covered four. The heiress, the writer, the gossip columnist, and the tourist in SoHo. Who’s number five? I’m beginning to like this.” He smiled easily again, and stretched out his legs.

“So am I. And I am not a gossip columnist, by the way. It’s a ‘Society Editorial.’” She grinned primly.

“Forgive me, Mr. Hallam.”

“Indeed. The fifth me is your doing. ‘Kate.’ I’ve never told all this to anyone before. I think this marks the beginning of a new me.”

“Or the end of all the old ones. Don’t just tack another role onto the list, another game. Do it straight.”

“I am.” There was tenderness in her eyes as she watched him.

“I know you are, Kezia. And I’m glad. For both of us. No … for you.”

“You’ve given me a kind of freedom tonight, Luke. That’s a very special thing.”

“It is, but you’re wrong about my giving it to you. I told you before that no one can take your freedom from you… and no one can give it back either. You manage that one all by yourself. Keep it safe.” He leaned over and kissed her on the top of her head and then moved to whisper in her ear. “Which way’s your john?”

She laughed as she looked up into his face. He was such a beautiful man.

“The john’s down the hall to your left. You can’t miss it, it’s pink.”

“I’d be disappointed if it weren’t.” His laugh was a slow rumble as he disappeared down the hall, and she went back to the kitchen to see about their coffee. Three hours had passed.

“Still want that coffee, Luke?” He was back and stretching lazily in the kitchen doorway.

“Could I trade it in for a beer?”

“Sure could.”

“Terrific, and you can keep the glass clean, thanks. No class. No class at all. You know how it is with the peasants.” He pulled the tab off the can and took a long swallow. “Man, that tastes good.”

“It’s been a long night I’m sorry to have chewed your ear off like that, Luke.”

“No, you’re not, and neither am I.” They smiled at each other again, and she sipped at a glass of white wine.

“I’ll get you set up on the couch.” He nodded and took a long swig of beer, as she stepped easily under the arm he had propped in the doorway.

She had the couch made up as a bed in a matter of moments.

“That ought to keep you till morning. Do you need anything else before I trot off to bed?”

What he needed would have shocked her. She was crisp and matter-of-fact again now. The lady of the house. The Honorable Kezia Saint Martin.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do need something before you ‘trot off to bed.’ I need a glimpse of the woman I sat here and talked to all night. You’ve got a poker up your ass again, my love. It’s a lousy habit. I’m not going to hurt you, or rape you, or plunder your mind. I won’t even blackmail you.”

She looked surprised and a little hurt as she stood across the room. “I didn’t feel you had plundered my mind. I wanted to talk to you, Lucas.”

“So what’s different now?”

“I just wasn’t thinking.”

“So you closed up.”

“Habit, I guess.”

“And I told you, a lousy one. Aren’t we friends?”

She nodded at him, tears bright in her eyes again. It had been an emotional evening. “Of course we’re friends.”

“Good, because I think you’re very special.” He crossed the room in three long strides, and gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Good night, babe. Have a good sleep.” She stood on tiptoe and returned the kiss to his cheek.

“Thanks, and you too, Lucas. Sleep tight.”

He could hear a clock ticking somewhere in the darkened house, and there was no sound from her room. He had only been lying there for about ten minutes, and he was too keyed up to sleep. It felt as though they had talked for days, and he had been so afraid of frightening her away, of doing something to make her close the door again. That was why he was lying on the couch, and had settled for a kiss on the cheek. She was not a woman you could rush at—not unless you wanted to lose her before you began. But they had come a long way in one night. He was content merely with that. He ran over the hours of talking in his mind … the expressions on her face … the words … the tears … the way she reached out for his hand….

“Luke? Are you sleeping?” He had been so intent on his thoughts that he hadn’t heard her bare feet pad across the carpeted floor.

“No. I’m awake.” He propped himself up on one elbow and looked at her. She was wearing a soft pink nightgown and her hair fell loose past her shoulders. “Is anything wrong?”

“No, I can’t sleep.”

“Neither can I.”

She smiled and sat down on the floor near the couch. He didn’t know what to make of her reappearance. She was not always easy to read. Luke lit a cigarette and handed it to her. She took it, inhaled, and returned it.

“You did a nice thing for me tonight, Lucas.”

“What’s that?” He was lying down again, gazing up at the ceiling.

“You let me talk out a lot of things that have been bothering me for years. I needed that so badly.”

And that wasn’t all she needed, but the idea of dealing with that almost frightened him. He didn’t want to screw up her life; she had enough on her hands.

“Luke?”

“Yeah?”

“What was your wife like?” There was a long silence and she began to regret having asked him.

“Pretty, young, crazy, like me in those days … and afraid. She was afraid to go it alone. I don’t know, Kezia … she was a nice girl, I loved her … but it seems like a long time ago. I was different then. We did things, we never said things. It got all fucked up when I went to the joint. You have to be able to talk when something like that happens, and she couldn’t. She couldn’t even talk when our little girl was killed. I think that’s what killed her. It all knotted up inside her till she strangled on it and died. In a way she was dead before she committed suicide. Maybe like your mother.”

Kezia nodded, watching his face. He wore a faraway look, but his voice showed no emotion other than respect for the passing of time.

“What made you ask?”

“Curious, I guess. We talked a lot about me tonight.”

“We talked a lot about me yesterday in the interview. I’d say we’re even. Why don’t you try and get some sleep?”

She nodded and he stubbed out the cigarette they had shared, as she stood up.

“Good night, Luke.”

“Night, babe. See you tomorrow.”

“Today.”

He grinned at her correction, and then swatted one long paw lazily in the direction of her bottom. “Back-talker. Get your ass to bed now, or you’ll be too tired to show me the town tomorrow.”

“Can you spend the day?”

“I plan to, unless you have something better to do.” He had never thought to ask her.

“Nope. I’m free as a bird. G’night, Lucas.” She turned quickly in a flurry of pink silk then, and he watched her go, wanting to reach out and stop her. And then it was out, before he could swallow the words.

“Kezia!” His voice was soft but urgent.

“Yes?” She turned with a look of surprise on her face.

“I love you.”

She stood very still, and neither of them moved. He lay twisted on the couch, watching her face. And she looked awed by his words.

“I … you’re very special to me, Luke. I …”

“Are you afraid?”

She nodded, lowering her eyes. “A little.”

“You don’t have to be, Kezia. I love you. I won’t hurt you. I’ve never known a woman like you.”

She wanted to tell him that she had never known a man like him, but somehow she couldn’t. She couldn’t say anything. She could only stand there, wishing for his arms, and not knowing how to find them.

It was Lucas who went to her, quietly, wrapping himself in the sheet she’d used for his bed. He walked slowly toward her and put his arms around her, holding her close.

“Everything’s okay, babe. Everything’s just fine.”

“It is, isn’t it?” She gazed up at him with a sunny look on her face. This was different from anything she had known. It mattered, it was serious, and to the core of her soul he knew who she was.

“Lucas …”

“Yeah, Mama?”

“I love you. I … love … you….” He swept her up in his arms then, gently, easily, and carried her back to her room in the dark. And as he set her down, she looked up at him and smiled. It was the smile of a woman, mischievous, mysterious, and tender. “You know something funny, Luke? I’ve never made love in my own bedroom before.”

“I’m glad.”

“So am I.” Their voices had sunk to whispers.

Her shyness fell away from her as she held out her arms to him, and he carefully pulled the pink silk nightgown down past her shoulders. She unraveled the sheet from his waist. His hands spent the dawn learning her body, and at last she fell asleep in his arms, as the sky was turning pale gray.

Chapter 12

“Good morning, my love. What do you want to do today?” She grinned at him with her chin on his chest.

“Oh, you know, the usual … tennis, bridge, whatever we’re supposed to do on Park Avenue.”

“Up your nose.”

“My nose? Why my nose?”

“I love your nose. It’s gorgeous.”

“You’re crazy. Stark staring cuckoo, Miss Saint Martin. Maybe that’s why I love you.”

“Are you sure you love me?” She was playing a game that women only play when they’re sure.

“Absolutely certain.”

“How do you know?” She ran a finger along his neck pensively and then let it float down his chest.

“Because my left heel itches. My mother told me I’d know it was true love when my left heel itched. It itches. So you must be the one.”

“Crazy nut.” He silenced her with a kiss, and she tucked herself into his arms, and they lay side by side, enjoying the morning.

“You’re beautiful, Kezia.”

“So are you.” He had a lean, powerful body that rippled with healthy muscles, covered by the smoothest of skin. She bit gently at his nipple, and he swatted her small white behind.

“Where’d you get the expensive-looking tan?”

“Marbella, of course. And in the South of France. ‘In seclusion.’”

“You’re shitting me.” He looked vastly amused.

“I shit you not. The papers said I was ‘in seclusion.’ Actually I went off on my own on a boat I hired in the Adriatic, and just before Marbella I did some research for a story in North Africa. That was terrific!” Her eyes shone with the memory.

“You sure do get around.”

“Yup. I did a lot of work this summer too. Gee, Luke, wouldn’t it be neat if we could go to Europe together sometime? I mean the good places like Dakar and Marrakech, Camargue in France, and Brittany, and Yugoslavia. Maybe Scotland too.” She looked up at him dreamily and nibbled his ear.

“Sounds delightful, but unfortunately it’ll never happen. Not for a while anyway.”

“Why not?”

“Can’t. My parole.”

“What a bore.”

He threw back his head and laughed, pulling her away from his ear carefully, and looking for her lips with his mouth. They kissed hungrily and long, and when it was over he chuckled again.

“You’re right, my parole is a bore. I wonder what they’d say if I told them that.”

“Let’s tell them and find out.”

“I have a sneaking suspicion you would.”

She grinned wickedly at him and he pulled the sheet from her body to look at her again.

“You know what I love?”

“My bellybutton?”

“Better than your big mouth anyway. At least it’s quiet. No, be serious for a minute….”

“I’ll try.”

“Shut up.”

“I love you.”

“Oooh, woman, don’t you ever stop talking?” He kissed her fiercely and tugged at a lock of her hair.

“I haven’t had anyone to talk to in so long, never like this … it just feels so good I can’t stop.”

“I know what you mean.” He ran a hand gently up the inside of her thigh with a passionate look in his eyes.

“What were you going to tell me?” She lay watching him matter-of-factly.

“Sweetheart, your timing is lousy. I was about to ravish your body again.”

“No, you weren’t. You were going to tell me something.” She looked almost angelic.

“Don’t be a tease. And I was going to tell you something before you interrupted me. What I was going to say is that it’s incredible how last week I didn’t even know you, and three days ago you appeared at one of my speeches, and two days ago I told you the story of my life. By yesterday, I had fallen in love with you. And now here we are. I didn’t think things like this happened.”

“They don’t. But I know what you mean. I feel like I’ve known you forever.”

“That’s what I mean. Feels like we’ve been hanging out together for years. And I love it.”

“Have you ever felt like this before?”

“Women! What an impertinent question. But for your information, no, I have not. One thing’s for damn sure, I’ve never fallen head over heels in love in three days before… and never with an heiress.”

He grinned at her and lit a cigar. Kezia reflected gleefully that her mother would have died. A cigar in the bedroom? Before breakfast? Good lord.

“Lucas, you know what you’ve got?”

“Bad breath?”

“Aside from that. You’ve got style.”

“What kind of style?”

“Gorgeous style, sexy style, courageous style, ballsy style … I think I’m crazy about you.”

“Crazy, for sure. About me, in that case I’m damn lucky.”

“So am I. Oh Lucas, I’m so glad you’re here. Imagine if I hadn’t given you my phone number!” The thought appalled her.

“1’d have found you anyway.” He sounded totally confident.

“How?”

“I’d have found a way. Bloodhounds, if I’d had to. I wasn’t about to let you slip out of my life in one breath. I couldn’t keep my eyes off you all night at that first speech. I couldn’t figure out if you were the writer who was coming to interview me.” It was delicious sharing the secrets of their first feelings, and Kezia was smiling as she hadn’t in years.

“You scared me that first morning.”

“Did I? Jesus, and I tried so hard not to. I was probably ten times as scared as you were.”

“But you didn’t look it. And you looked at me so pointedly, I kept thinking that you could see whatever I thought.”

“I wish to hell I could have. It was all I could do not to jump up and grab you.”

“Masher.” She rolled closer to him, and they kissed again. “You taste of cigar.”

“Want me to go brush my teeth?”

“Later.” He smiled and rolled onto his stomach, the pink nightgown still tangled near his feet. He kissed her again and held her close in his arms, his body slowly taking hold of hers, his feet pressing her legs wide apart.

“Okay, lady, you said you’d show me the town.” He sat naked in one of the blue velvet chairs, smoking his second cigar of the day, and drinking his first beer. They had just finished breakfast. And she looked at him and started to laugh.

“Lucas, you look impossible.”

“I do not I look extremely possible. And I feel better than hell. I told you, babe, no class.”

“You’re wrong.”

“About what?”

“Having no class. Class is a question of dignity, and pride, and caring, and you happen to have lots of all three. I’m related to an absolute horde of people who have no class at all. And I met some people in SoHo who had tons of it. It’s a very strange thing.”

“It must be.” He didn’t seem to care one way or the other. “So what are we doing today? Besides making love.”

“Hmm … all right, I’ll show you the town.”

And she did. She arranged for a limousine, and they toured Wall Street and the Village, drove up the East River Drive and crossed Forty-second Street to Broadway, pausing at the Stage Delicatessen for cream cheese and bagels. Then they followed their route north to Central Park and swooped past the Plaza, where they stopped for a drink at the Oak Room. Back down Fifth, and up Madison past all the boutiques, and all the way uptown again, where they halted the chauffeur at the Metropolitan Museum and got out and walked in the park. It was six o’clock when they wound up at the Stanhope for drinks, fighting the pigeons for peanuts at the sidewalk cafe.

“You give a good tour, Kezia. Hey, I just thought of something. Want to meet one of my friends?”

“Here?” She looked surprised.

“No, not here, silly girl. Uptown. In Harlem.”

“Sounds interesting.” She looked at him with a long, slow smile. The idea intrigued her.

“He’s a beautiful guy. Nicest dude I know. I think you’d like him.”

“I probably would.” They exchanged a sweet sunny look which reflected the warmth of the day.

“It wouldn’t be too cool to go up in the limo though, would it?”

He shook his head in answer, and picked up the check. “We can send Jeeves home, and catch a cab up.”

“Bullshit to that.”

“You want to go in the limo?” He hadn’t counted on that. Certainly not for a trip up to Harlem, but maybe she didn’t know how to travel any other way.

“Of course not, you dummy. We can go up on the subway. It’s faster, and smarter. A lot more discreet.”

“Well, listen to her. ‘Discreet.’ You mean you take the subway?” He stood up and looked down at her face as they laughed. She was full of surprises.

“How do you think I used to go down to SoHo? By jet?”

“Your own private Lear, I would think.”

“But of course. Come on, Romeo, let’s get rid of Jeeves, and go for a walk.” The chauffeur tipped his hat and was instantly gone, and they strolled leisurely toward the subway, where they descended into the bowels of the world, bought tokens, and shared pretzels and a Coke.

They reached the 125th Street station, and Luke held her hand as they climbed the stairs to the street.

“It’s just a few blocks.”

“Come to think of it, Luke, are you sure he’ll be home?”

“Nope. We’re going to the place where he works, and I’m sure that hell be there. You can hardly drag him out of the damn place to feed him.”

Luke seemed broader suddenly as they walked along, and more sure of himself than he had appeared all day. His shoulders seemed to spread, his walk almost rolled, while his eyes kept careful watch on passersby. He was wearing his familiar tweed jacket, and she was in jeans. But this was still Harlem. A long way from home. For her. To him, it appeared to be something he knew. He was wary, but only he knew of what.

“You know something, Lucas? You walk differently here.”

“You’d better believe it. Brings back memories of Q.”

“San Quentin?” He nodded and they turned a corner, as Lucas looked up at a building and stopped.

“Well, baby, this is it.” They were standing in front of a decaying brownstone with a half-burnt-away sign: Armistice House. But it didn’t look to Kezia as though it had been much of a truce.

He let go her hand and put an arm around her shoulders as they walked up the stairs. Two raucous teen-age black boys and a Puerto Rican girl came roaring out of the door, laughing and shrieking, the girl running away from the boys, but not very hard. Kezia smiled and looked up at Luke.

“So what’s so different up here?”

Luke didn’t smile back. “Junkies, pushers, hookers, pimps, street fights, shankings. Same stuff that goes on anywhere in town, in any town in the world these days … except the neighborhood you live in. And don’t get any fancy ideas. If you decide that you like Alejandro, don’t come up here to visit after I’m gone. Give him a call, and he can come to see you. This isn’t your world.”

“But it’s yours?” She was almost annoyed at the speech. She was a big girl. She had survived before Luke. Though admittedly not in the middle of Harlem. “And this is your world, I suppose?” she repeated. He didn’t look like he fit any better than she did. Well, not much better.

“Used to be. But not anymore. I can deal with it though. You can’t. It’s as simple as that.” He held the door open for her and his tone of voice told her he meant business.

The corridor, lined with- faded posters, smelled of stale urine and fresh grass. Graffiti doubled as artwork between the posters, the glass shades around light bulbs had been broken, and paper flowers hung limply from fire extinguishers. A tired sign said “Welcome to Armistice House! We love you!” And someone had crossed out the “love” and written “fuck.”

Luke wove his way up a narrow staircase, keeping one hand in Kezia’s, but the tenseness was leaving him now. The once-upon-a-time street fighter had come for a visit. A social call. She laughed, suddenly reminded of the legends of the Old West.

“What’s so funny, Mama?” He looked at her from his great height as she came up the stairs behind him, light on her feet, smiling and happy.

“You are, Marshal Dillon. Sometimes you’re an absolute riot.”

“Oh, is that so?”

“Yes, that’s so.” She leaned her face toward him and he bent down to kiss her.

“I like that. I like it a lot.” He ran his hand across her behind as she joined him on the landing, and he gave her a gentle push toward a badly scarred door.

“Are you sure he’s here?” Kezia felt suddenly shy.

“I’m sure, babe. He’s always here, the dumb asshole. He spills his guts in this shithouse. His guts and his heart and his soul. You’ll see.” The name on the door said “Alejandro Vidal.” No promises, no slogans, and this time no graffiti. Only a name.

Kezia waited for Luke to knock, but he didn’t. He kicked brutally at the door, and then opened it at lightning speed as he entered.

“Qué …” A slight Latino man behind a desk rose to his feet with a look of astonishment, and then began laughing.

“Luke, you bastard, how are you? I should have known it was you. For a second, I thought they were finally coming to get me.”

The small, blue-eyed, bearded Mexican looked ecstatic to see him, as Luke strode across the room and threw his arms around his friend.

It was several minutes before Luke remembered Kezia, or Alejandro even took notice, and it was just as long again before Kezia got more than a glimpse of the man, lost in Luke’s bear hugs. There had been a wealth of ¿ Qué pasa, hombre?’s and a fast flurry of Mexican curses. Alejandro’s pure Spanish, and the pidgin Luke had picked up in the joint. Jokes about “twice pipes” and someone’s “short,” and a variety of unintelligible dialects that were part Mexican, part prison, and pure Californian. The patois was a mystery to Kezia. And then suddenly it all stopped, and the kindest smile and softest eyes imaginable settled on Kezia’s face. The smile was a slow spread from the eyes to the mouth, and the eyes were the softest blue velvet. Alejandro Vidal had the kind of face you brought your troubles to, and your heart. Almost like a Christ, or a priest. He looked shyly at Kezia and smiled.

“Hello. This rude sonofabitch will probably never remember to introduce us. I’m Alejandro.” He held out a hand and she met it with hers.

“I’m Kezia.” They shook hands with ceremony and then laughter, and Alejandro offered the room’s only two chairs as he perched on his desk.

He was a man of average height, but of slight build, and next to Luke he was instantly dwarfed. But it wasn’t his frame that caught one’s attention. It was his eyes. They were tender and knowing. They didn’t reach out and grab you; you went to them gladly. Everything about him was warm. His laughter, his smile, his eyes, the way he looked at them both. He was a man who had seen a great deal, but there was not a trace of the cynic about him. Only the understanding of the sorely tried, and the compassion of a gentle man. His sense of humor allowed his soul to survive what he saw. And while Luke and he made jokes for an hour, Kezia watched him. He was an odd contrast to Luke, but she liked him instantly, and knew why he was Luke’s closest friend. They had met long ago in L.A.

“How long have you been in New York?” It was the first time she’d addressed him since they’d met. He had given her tea, and then succumbed to gossip and nonsense with Luke. It had been a year since they’d seen each other and there was much to catch up on.

“I’ve been here about three years, Kezia.”

“Seems like long enough to me,” Luke broke into the exchange. “How much shit you gonna take around this dump, AI, before you get smart and go home? Why don’t you go back to L.A.?”

“Because I’m working on something here. The only problem is that the kids we treat are outpatient instead of live-in. Man, if we had a resident facility, I could take this shabby operation a long, long way.” His eyes lit up as he spoke.

“You’re treating kids with drug problems?” Kezia was interested in what he had to say. If nothing else, it might make a good story. But more than the story, she was intrigued by the man. She liked him. He was the sort of person you wanted to hug, and she had only just met him.

“Yes, drug and minor criminal histories. The two are almost always related.” He came alive as he explained the services the facility offered, showed her charts, graphs, histories, and outlines of future plans. But the real problem remained: lack of control. As long as the kids went back on the streets at night, back to broken homes where a mother was turning tricks on the room’s only bed, or a father was beating his wife, where brothers shot dope in the John, and sisters took reds or sold yellows, there wasn’t a lot they could do. “The whole point is to get them out of their environment. To change the whole life pattern. We know that now, but here it’s not easy.” He waved dimly at the peeling walls and amply made his point. The place was in very bad shape.

“I still think you’re nuts.” But Luke was, as always, impressed with his friend’s determination, his drive. He had seen him beaten, mugged, rolled, kicked, laughed at, spat on, and ignored. But no one could ever keep Alejandro down. He believed in his dreams. As Luke did his.

“And you think you’re any saner, Luke? You’re going to stop the world from building prisons? Hombre, you die before you see that one happen.” He rolled his eyes and shrugged, but the respect was entirely mutual. It amused Kezia to listen to them talk. To Kezia, Alejandro spoke perfect English, but with Luke he fell into the language of the streets. A put-on, a remnant, a joke, or a bond, she wasn’t quite sure. Maybe a combination of them all.

“Okay, smartass, you’ll see. Thirty years from now there won’t be a prison functioning in this state, or in any other state for that matter.” She caught “loco” and “cabeza” in answer and then Luke flipped up one finger on his right hand.

“Please, Luke, there’s a lady present.” But it was all in good fun, and Alejandro seemed to have accepted her. There was the faintest hint of shyness about him. Still, he joked with her, almost as he did with Luke. “And you, Kezia? What do you do?” He looked at her with wide-open eyes.

“I write.”

“And she’s good.”

Kezia laughed and gave Luke a shove. “Wait until you see the interview before you decide. Anyway, you’re prejudiced.” They shared a smile three ways and Alejandro looked pleased for his friend. He had known immediately that this was no light-hearted fling, no one-night stand or casual friend. It was the first time he had seen Luke with a woman. Luke kept his women in bed, and went home when he wanted some more. This one had to be special. She seemed different from the others too. Worlds different. She was intelligent, and she had a certain style. Class. He wondered where Luke had met her.

“Want to come downtown for dinner?” Luke lit a cigar and offered one to his friend. Alejandro took it eagerly and then looked surprised when he lit it.

“Cubano?”

Luke nodded. Kezia laughed.

“The lady’s well-supplied.”

Alejandro whistled and Luke looked momentarily proud. He had a woman who had something no one else on their block had: Cuban cigars. “How about dinner, big Al?”

“Lucas, I can’t. I’d like to, but …” He waved at the mountain of work on his desk. “And at seven tonight we’re having a group for the parents of some of our patients.”

“Group therapy?”

Alejandro nodded. “Getting to the parents helps. Sometimes.”

Kezia suddenly had the feeling that Alejandro was emptying a tidal wave with a thimble, but you had to give him credit for trying.

“Dinner another time maybe. How long will you be in town?”

“Tonight. Tomorrow. But I’ll be back.” Alejandro smiled again and patted his friend on the back.

“I know you will. And I’m happy for you, man.” He gazed warmly at Kezia and then smiled at them both. It felt like a blessing.

It was obvious that Alejandro hated to see them leave as much as Lucas hated to go. And Kezia felt it too.

“You were right.”

“About what?”

“Alejandro.”

“Yeah. I know.” Lucas had been lost in his own thoughts all the way to the subway. “That sonofabitch is going to get himself killed up here one of these days with his goddamn groups and his fucking ideals. I wish he’d get the hell out.”

“Maybe he can’t.”

“Oh yeah?” Lucas was pissed. He was worried about his friend.

“It’s kind of like a war, Luke. You fight yours, he fights his. Neither of you really cares if you get sacrificed in the process. It’s the end result that matters. To both of you. He’s not so different from you. Not in the way he thinks. He’s doing what he has to do.”

Lucas nodded, still looking disgruntled, but he knew she was right. She was very perceptive. It surprised him sometimes. For someone as dumb as she was about her own life, she had a way of putting her finger right on the spot for others.

“You’re wrong about one thing, though.”

“What?”

“He isn’t like me at all.”

“What makes you say that?”

“There isn’t a mean bone in his body.”

“But there is in yours?” A smile started to light in her eyes. Mr. Macho was talking.

“You better believe it, Mama. Lots of them. You don’t live through what I did, six years in the California prison system, if you’re made like him. Someone turns you into a punk, and if you don’t dig it, you die the next day.” Kezia was silent as they started their journey back into the subway.

“He was never in prison then?” She had assumed that he had been, because Luke was.

“Alejandro?” Luke let out a hearty bass laugh. “Nope. All his brothers were, though. He was visiting one of his brothers at Folsom. And I dug him. When I switched to another joint, he got special permission to come and see me. We’ve been brothers since then. But Alejandro’s not on the same trip, never was. He went the other way from the rest of his family. Magna cum laude at Stanford.”

“Christ, he’s so unassuming.”

“That’s why he’s beautiful, babe. And the dude has a heart of pure gold.”

The arriving train swallowed their words, and they rode home in silence. She tugged at his sleeve at the Seventy-seventh Street stop.

“This is us.” He nodded, smiled, and stood up. He was back to himself again, she could see it. The worry for Alejandro had faded from his face. He had other things on his mind now.

“Baby, I love you.” He held her in his arms as the train pulled away, and their lips met and held. And then suddenly he looked at her, worried again. “Is this uncool?”

“Huh?” She didn’t know what he meant, as he pulled away from her looking embarrassed.

“Well, I can dig your not wanting to wind up in the papers. I made you a lot of speeches last night, but I do understand how you feel. Being yourself is one thing, making page one is another.”

“Thank God I never do that. Page five maybe, page four even, but never page one. That’s reserved for homicides, rapes, and stock market disasters.” She laughed up at him again. “It’s okay, Luke. It was ‘cool.” Besides …” there was mischief in her eyes … “remarkably, very few of my friends ride the subway. It’s silly of them, actually. This is such a marvelous way to travel!” There was pure debutante in her voice as she fluttered her eyelashes at him, and he gave her a severe look from the top of his height.

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.” He took her hand and swung it as they walked along with matched smiles.

“Want to pick up something to eat?” They were passing a store that sold barbecued chickens.

“No.”

“Aren’t you hungry?” She was suddenly famished. It had been a long day.

“Yes. I’m hungry.”

“Well?” He was hurrying her along the street and she didn’t understand, and then with a look at his face she understood. Perfectly. “Lucas, you’re awful!”

“Tell me that later.” He took her by the hand, and laughing, they ran over the subway grate, and then turned the corner toward home.

“Lucas! The doorman!” They looked like disheveled children, running helter-skelter down the street hand in hand. They came to a screeching halt outside the door to her building. He followed her decorously inside, as they both fought to stifle giggles. They stood in the elevator like altar boys, and then collapsed in laughter in the hallway as Kezia dug for her key.

“Come on, come on!” He ran a hand smoothly under her jacket, and slid it inside her shirt.

“Stop it, Luke!!” She laughed and searched harder for the elusive key.

“If you don’t find the damn thing at the count of ten, I’m going to …”

“No, you’re not!”

“Yes, I am. Right here in the hall.” He smiled and ran his mouth over the top of her head.

“Stop that! Wait … got it!” She pulled the key triumphantly from her bag.

“Nuts. I was beginning to hope you wouldn’t find it.”

“You’re a disgrace.” The door swung open and he lunged for her as they stepped inside, and swept her into his arms to carry her to their bed. “No, Lucas, stop!”

“Are you kidding?”

She arched her neck regally, perched in his arms, looked him in the eye and bristled, but there was mirth in her eyes. “I am not kidding. Put me down. I have to go wee-wee.”

“Wee-wee?” Luke’s face broke into broad lines of laughter. “Wee-wee?”

“Yes, wee-wee.” He put her down and she crossed her legs and giggled again.

“Why didn’t you say so. I mean if I’d known that …” His laughter filled the hall as she disappeared toward the pink bathroom.

She was back in a minute, and tenderness had replaced the spirit of teasing. She had kicked off her shoes on the way, and stood barefoot before him, her long hair framing her face, her eyes large and bright, and something happy in her face that had never been there before.

“You know something? I love you.” He pulled her into his arms and gave her a gentle hug.

“I love you too. You’re something I’ve imagined, but never thought I’d find.”

“Neither did I. I think I’d resigned myself to not finding it, and just going on as I was.”

“And how was that?”

“Lonely.”

“I know that trip too.”

They walked silently into the bedroom and he turned down the bed as she stepped out of her jeans. Even the Porthault sheets no longer embarrassed her, they were lovely for Luke.

Chapter 13

“Lucas?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you all right?” It was a dark in the bedroom and she was sitting up, looking down at him, with a hand on his shoulder. The bed was damp around them.

“I’m fine. What time is it?”

“Quarter to five.”

“Christ.” He rolled over on his back, and looked up at her, groggy. “What are you doing up, babe?”

“I wasn’t. But you had a bad dream.” A very bad dream.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m sorry I woke you.”

He stroked one breast tenderly with his eyes half-closed, and she smiled. “My snoring’s worse, though. You got off lucky.”

But she was worried. The bed was drenched from his thrashings.

“I think I’d rather you snored. You sounded so upset. Frightened, I think.” At the last, he’d been trembling.

“Don’t worry about it, Mama. You’ll get used to it.”

“Do you have dreams like that often?” He shrugged in answer, and reached for his cigarettes.

“Smoke?” She shook her head.

“Do you want a glass of water?”

He laughed as he flicked out the match. “No, Miss Nightingale, I don’t. Cut it out, Kezia. What do you expect? I’ve been a lot of funny places in my life. They leave their mark.”

But like that? She had watched him for almost twenty minutes before waking him. He acted as though he were being tortured.

“Is that … is that from when you were in prison?” She hated to ask, but he only shrugged again.

“One thing’s for sure. It isn’t from making love to you. I told you, don’t worry about it.” He propped himself up on one elbow and kissed her. But she could still see terror in his eyes.

“Luke?” Something had just occurred to her.

“What?”

“How long are you staying here?”

“Till tomorrow.” “That’s all?”

“That’s all.” And then, as he saw the look on her face, he stubbed out his cigarette and drew her into his arms. “There’ll be more. This is just the beginning. You don’t think I want to lose you, after it took me all these years to find you, do you?” She smiled in answer, and they lay side by side in the dark, silent, until at last they fell asleep. Even Luke slept peacefully this time, which was rarer than Kezia knew. Lately, since they had started following him again, he had nightmares every night.

“Breakfast?” She was pulling on the white satin robe and smiled at him crookedly as she stretched.

“Just coffee, thanks. Black. I hate to rush through breakfast and I don’t have much time.” He had leaped from the bed and was already pulling on his clothes.

“You don’t?” She remembered again. He was leaving.

“Don’t look like that, Kezia. I told you, there’ll be more. Lots more.” He patted her bottom and she slipped easily into his arms.

“I’ll miss you so much when you go.”

“And I’ll miss you too. Mr. Hallam, you’re a very beautiful woman.”

“Oh, shut up.” She laughed, but it embarrassed her when he reminded her of the column. “What time’s your plane?”

“Eleven.”

“Shit.” He laughed at her, and ambled slowly down the hall, his large frame rolling easily in his own special gait. She watched him silently, leaning in the bedroom doorway, reflecting that it seemed as if they had been together forever—teasing, laughing, riding subways, talking late into the night, watching each other sleep and wake, and sharing a cigarette and early morning thoughts before coffee.

“Lucas! Coffee!” She set a steaming cup down on the sink for him, and tapped his shoulder through the shower curtain. It all felt so natural, so familiar, so good.

He reached around the curtain for the cup, leaned his head out and took a sip. “Good coffee. Are you coming in?”

She shook her head. “No, thanks. I’m a bath person myself.”

Given her choice, she always preferred bathing. It was less of a shock first thing in the morning. It was all part of a ritual. Dior Bath Oil, the perfumed water just warm enough and just high enough to cover her chest in the deep pink marble tub, then emerging into warm towels and her cozy white satin dressing gown, and favorite satin slippers with the ostrich plumes and the pink velvet heels. Luke grinned at her as she stood watching him, and extended an arm to invite her to join him.

“Come on in.”

“No, Luke. Really. I’ll wait.” She was still in a slow, sleepy mood.

“Nope. You won’t wait.” And then with an unexpected, swift, one-handed motion he slipped the robe from her shoulders, and before she could protest, he had lifted her from her feet in the crook of his arm, and deposited her in the cascade of water beside him.

“I was missing you, babe.” He grinned broadly as she spluttered and pulled the strands of wet hair from her eyes. She was naked, save for the ostrich-plumed slippers.

“Oh! You … you … bastard!” She pulled the slippers from her feet, tossed them out of the tub, and hit him in the shoulder with the flat of her hand. But she was fighting laughter too, and he knew it. He silenced her with a kiss and her arms went around him as he leaned down to kiss her. He shielded her from the sheets of steaming water, and she found her hands traveling down from his waist to his thighs.

“I knew you’d like it once you got in.” His eyes were bright and teasing.

“You’re a miserable, rotten, oversized bully, Lucas Johns, that’s what you are.” But the tone did not match the words.

“But I love you.” He oozed male arrogance and a sort of animal sensuality, mixed with a tenderness all his own.

“I love you too,” and as he closed his eyes to kiss her, she ducked him and directed the shower head full in his face, ducking down to nip playfully at one thigh.

“Hey, Mama, watch that! Next time you might miss!” But where he feared she would bite him, she kissed him, as the shower rippled through her hair and down her back, warming them both. He pulled her up slowly, his hands traveling over her body, and their lips met as he pulled her high into his arms and settled her with legs wrapped around his waist.

“Kezia, you’re crazy.”

“Why?” They were comfortably ensconced in a rented limousine, and she looked totally at ease.

“This isn’t the way most people travel, you know.”

“Yeah. I know.” She smiled sheepishly at him, and nibbled his ear. “But admit it, it’s fun.”

“It certainly is. But it gives me one hell of a guilt complex.”

“Why?”

“Because this isn’t my style. I don’t know, it’s hard to explain.”

“Then just shut up and enjoy it.” She giggled, but she knew what he meant. She had seen other worlds too. “You know, Luke, I’ve spent half of my life trying to deny this way of life, and the other half giving in to it and hating it, or hating myself for being self-indulgent. But all of a sudden, it doesn’t bother me, I don’t hate it, it doesn’t even own me anymore. It just seems like a hell of a funny thing to do, and why not?”

“In that light, it isn’t so bad. You surprise me, Kezia. You’re spoiled and you’re not. You take this stuff for granted, and then again you laugh at it like a little kid. I dig it like this. You make it fun.” He looked pleased as he lit a cigar. She had armed him with a box of Romanoff Cubans.

“I dig it like this, too. Like this, my love, it’s a whole other trip.”

They held hands in the back of the limousine and JFK Airport appeared much too soon. The glass window had been up between them and the chauffeur, and Kezia pressed the button to lower the window, to remind him which terminal they wanted. Then she buzzed the window back into place.

“Sweetheart, you’re a bitch.”

“That’s a nice contradiction.”

“You know what I mean.” He looked briefly at the window.

“Yeah. I do.”

They exchanged the supercilious smile of people born to command, one by her heritage, the other by his soul. They rode the rest of the way in silence, holding hands. But something inside Kezia quivered at the thought of his leaving. What if she never saw him again? What if it had all been a fling? She had bared her soul to this stranger, and left her heart unguarded, and now he was going.

But in his own silence, Luke had the same fears. And those weren’t his only fears. He had felt it in his gut. Cop cars were all the same, pale blue, drab green, dark tan, with a tall shuddering antenna on the back He could always feel them, and he had felt this one. And now it was tailing them at a discreet distance. He wondered how they had known he was at Kezia’s. It made him wonder if they had followed him that night from Washington, if even on the late-night walk to her apartment, he had been tailed. They were doing that more and more lately. It wasn’t just near the prisons. It was getting to be everywhere now. The bastards.

The chauffeur checked Luke’s bags in for him, while Kezia waited in the car. It was only a few moments before Luke stuck his head back in the car.

“You coming to the gate with me, babe?”

“Is this like the shower or do I have a choice?” They grinned at each other with the memory of the morning.

“I’ll let you use your judgment on this one. I trust mine in the shower.”

“So do I.”

He looked at his watch and her smile disappeared.

“Maybe you’d better stay here, and just go back in to the city. It would be stupid for you to get into a lot of hassles.” He shared her concern. He knew what it would do to her to have a fuss made in the papers, in case someone saw them. And he was no Whitney Hayworth III. He was Lucas Johns, and newsworthy in his own right, but not in a way that would have been easy for Kezia. And what if the cops in the blue car approached him? It could ruin everything with her, might scare her off.

She held her arms out to kiss him, and he leaned toward her.

“I’m going to miss you, Lucas.”

“I’ll miss you too.” He pressed his mouth down hard on hers, and she stroked the hair on the back of his head. His mouth tasted of toothpaste and Cuban cigars; it was a combination that pleased her. Clean and powerful, like Luke.

Straightforward, and alive.

“God, I hate to see you go.” Tears crept close to her eyes, and suddenly he withdrew.

“None of that. I’ll call you tonight.” And in a flash, he was gone. The door thumped discreetly shut, and she watched his back as he strode away. He never turned back to look, as silent tears slid down her cheeks.

She left the window to the chauffeur as it had been. Closed. She had nothing to say to him. The drive back to the city was bleak. She wanted to be alone with the cigar smoke, and her thoughts of the day and two nights before. Her thoughts rambled back to the present. Why hadn’t she gone to the gate with him? What was she afraid of? Was she ashamed of him? Why hadn’t she had the balls to …

The window sped down abruptly and the driver looked in the rearview mirror in surprise.

“I want to go back.”

“Excuse me, miss?”

“I want to go back to the airport. The gentleman forgot something in the car.” She pulled an envelope from her handbag and clutched it importantly in her lap. A flimsy excuse, the guy had to think she was nuts, but she didn’t give a damn. She just wanted to get back there in time. A time for courage had come. There was no turning back now, and Luke had to know that. Right at the start.

“I’ll take the next exit, miss, and double back as soon as I can.”

She sat tensely in the back seat, wondering if they would get there too late. But it was hard to argue with the chauffeur’s driving, as he weaved in and out of lanes, passing trucks at terrifying speeds, all but flying. They pulled up outside the terminal twenty minutes after they had left it, and she was out the door almost before the driver had brought the car to a full stop at the curb. She darted through traveling executives, old women with poodles, young women with wigs, and tearful farewells, and breathlessly she looked up to check the gate number for the flight to Chicago.

Gate 14 E. Damn … at the far end of the terminal, almost the last gate. She was racing, and her hair pulled free of its tight, elegant knot Talk about a story! She laughed at herself as she pushed through people and came close to knocking down children. The paparazzi would have a field day with this—heiress Kezia Saint Martin dashing through airport, knocking people down, for a kiss from ex-con agitator Lucas Johns. She choked on a bubble of laughter as she covered the last yards of the race and saw that she had made it in time. The vast expanse of his shoulders and back was filling the open doorway at the gate. She had just made it.

“Luke!”

He turned slowly, his ticket in hand, wondering who was in New York that he knew. And then he saw her, her hair falling free of its pins, hanging loosely over the bright red coat, her face glowing from the dash from the car. A broad grin swept over his face, and he carefully removed himself from the line of impatient travelers, and made his way to her side.

“Lady, you’re crazy. I thought you’d be back in the city by now. I was just standing here thinking about you as we got ready to board.”

“I was … halfway … back … to the … city …” She was happy and breathless as they stood looking into each others’ eyes. “But … I … had to … come back.”

“For chrissake, don’t have a heart attack on me now. You okay, babe?”

She nodded vigorously and folded into his arms. “Fine.”

He took the last of her breath away with a kiss that brought her to her toes, and a hug that threatened her shoulders and neck.

“Thank you for coming back, crazy lady.” He knew what it meant. And she glowed as she looked up at him. He knew what she was, and what the papers could do with a kiss like the one they’d just indulged in, in broad daylight, with a sea of people around them. She had come back. Out in the open. And at that moment, he knew what he had hoped, but not quite believed. She was for real. And now she was his. The Honorable Kezia Saint Martin.

“You took a hell of a chance.”

“I had to. For me. Besides, I happen to love you.”

“I knew that, even if you hadn’t come back…. But I’m glad you did.” His voice was gruff as he held her again. “And now I have to catch that plane. I have to be in a meeting in Chicago at three.” He pulled gently away.

“Luke …”

He stopped and looked at her for a long moment. She had almost asked him not to go back. But she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t ask for something like that. And he would never have stayed …

“Take good care!”

“You too. We’ll get together next week.” She nodded and he walked through the door at the gate. All she could see was one long-armed wave before he disappeared down the ramp.

For the first time in her life, she stayed at the airport, and watched the flight take off. It was a good feeling, watching the thin silver plane rise into the sky. It looked beautiful and she felt brand new. For the first time she could remember, she had taken her fate in her hands and publicly taken her chances. No more hiding in SoHo or vanishing somewhere near Antibes. No clandestine nothing. She was a woman. In love with a man. She had finally decided to gamble. The only hitch was that she was a novice, and she was playing with her life, without knowing how high the stakes had been set. She didn’t see the plain-clothesman stubbing out his cigarette near the gate. She looked straight at him, and then walked away, unaware of the threat he was to them both. Kezia was a child walking blindly into a jungle.

Chapter 14

“Where in God’s name have you been?” Whit sounded annoyed, a luxury he rarely allowed himself with Kezia.

“I’ve been here, and for Heaven’s sake, Whit, you sound like someone ripped ten inches out of your knitting.”

“I don’t think that’s amusing, Kezia. I’ve been calling you for days.”

“I had a migraine, and I put the phone on the service.”

“Oh darling, I am sorry! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I couldn’t speak to anyone.” Except Lucas. She had spent two days entirely alone since he’d left. Two glorious days. She had needed the time alone to absorb what had happened. He had called her twice a day, his voice gruff and full of laughter and loving and mischief. She could almost feel his hands on her as they spoke.

“And how are you feeling now, darling?”

“Wonderful.” Ecstatic. That new sound crept into her voice. Even with Whit.

“You certainly sound it. And I assume you remember tonight?” He sounded prissy and irritated again.

“Tonight? What’s tonight?”

“Oh for God’s sake, Kezia!”

Oh shit. Duty was calling. “Well, I can’t remember. Migraines do that to me. Remind me. What’s tonight?”

“The dinners for the Sergeant wedding start tonight.”

“Jesus. And which one is this?” Had she already missed some of the frivolous fetes? She hoped so.

“Tonight is the first one. Cassie’s aunt is giving a dinner in their honor. Black tie. Now do you recall, my love?”

Yes, but she wished to hell she didn’t And he spoke to her as though she were retarded. “Yes, Whit. Now I remember. But I don’t know if I’m up to it.”

“You said you felt marvelous.”

“Of course, darling. But I haven’t been out of bed for three days. The dinner might be quite a strain.” And it was also a must and she knew it She had to go, for the column if nothing else. She had had plenty of time off. She had even run roughshod over the column for the past few days. Now back to work, and reality. But how? How, after Luke? The idea was absurd. What reality? Whose? Whit’s? What utter bullshit. Luke was reality now.

“Well, if you’re not up to it, I suggest you explain it to Mrs. FitzMatthew,” Whit was saying petulantly. “It’s a sit-down dinner for fifty, and she’ll want to know if you’re planning to disrupt her seating arrangement.”

“I suppose I should go.”

“I think so.”

Asshole. “All right, darling. I will.” There was a hint of the martyr in her voice, as she stifled a giggle.

“You’re a good girl, Kezia. I was really awfully worried about where you were.”

“I was here.” And so was Luke, for a while.

“And with a migraine, poor thing. If I’d known, I’d have sent you flowers.”

“Jesus, I’m glad you didn’t.” It had slipped out.

“What?”

“The smell of roses makes the headache worse.” Reprieve.

“Oh. Then it’s just as well I didn’t know you were ill. Well, rest up for tonight. I’ll come and get you around eight.”

“Black tie or white tie?”

“I told you, black. Friday night is white tie.”

“What’s Friday?” Her whole social calendar had slipped her mind.

“Those headaches do make you forgetful, don’t they? Friday is the rehearsal dinner. You are going to the wedding, aren’t you?”

The question was purely rhetorical. But he was in for a shock. “Actually, I don’t know. I’m supposed to go to a wedding in Chicago this weekend. I don’t know which I should do.”

“Who’s getting married in Chicago?”

“An old friend from school.”

“Anyone I know?”

“No one you know, but she’s a very nice girl.”

“That’s nice. Well, do what you feel best.” But the annoyance was back in his voice again. She was so tiresome at times. “Just let me know what you decide. I had rather counted on your being at the Sergeants’.”

“We’ll work something out. See you later, love.” She blew him a glib kiss and hung up the phone, pirouetting on one bare foot, the satin robe hanging open to reveal still-suntanned flesh. “A wedding in Chicago.” She laughed over her shoulder as she walked down the hall to run her bath. Hell, it was better than a wedding. She was flying out to meet Luke.

“Good Lord, you look spectacular, Kezia!” This time even Whit looked impressed. She was wearing a filmy silk dress that draped over one shoulder à la grecque. It was a pale coral shade and the fabric seemed to float as she walked. Her hair was done in two long looped braids threaded with gold, and her sandals were a dull gold that barely seemed to hang on her feet. She moved freely like a vision, with coral and diamonds brilliant at her ears and throat. But there was something about the way she moved that troubled Whit as he watched her. She was so striking tonight that it was almost unsettling. “I’ve never seen you look so well, or so beautiful.”

“Thank you, darling.”

She smiled at him mysteriously as she whisked past him out the door. The scent of lily of the valley hung close to her. Dior. She looked simply exquisite. And it was more than just looks. Tonight she seemed more a woman than ever before. The change would have frightened him, had they not been such old friends.

There was a butler waiting for guests in the entrance to the house of Cassie’s aunt. Two parking attendants had been on hand to relieve them of Whit’s car, had he not brought the limousine. Beyond the indomitable butler, Georges, who had once worked for Pétain in Paris in the “good old days,” were two maids in starched black uniforms, waiting expressionlessly to collect wraps and direct ladies to the appropriate bedroom to tend to their faces and hair before making an “appearance.” A second butler intercepted them on their way, to begin the evening with a round of champagne.

Kezia had a white mink jacket to offer the black uniform that approached her, but no need or desire to “fix her face.”

“Darling?” Whit held a glass of champagne out to her, and that was the last time he saw her at close range. For the rest of the evening, he caught glimpses of her, laughing at the center of a circle of friends, dancing with men he hadn’t seen on the circuit in years, whispering into someone’s ear, and once or twice he thought he saw her alone on the terrace, looking out over the autumn night on the East River. But she was elusive tonight. Each time he approached, she floated away. It was damn annoying in fact, that feeling of watching a vision, or simply a dream. And people were talking about her. The men were, at least, and in an odd way that troubled him. It was what he wanted, though, or thought he did—“Consort to The Kezia Saint Martin.” He had planned it all carefully years ago but he didn’t like the taste of it lately, or the sound of her voice, or the remark she had made to him that morning. He thought they had an understanding, unspoken but mutually understood. Or was it that you had to put it to them after all? At least everyone thought he did. Kezia was good about that She didn’t care about that sort of thing anyway. Whit knew that. He was certain … or was it … Edward? Suddenly the idea shot into his mind and wouldn’t be banished. Kezia, sleeping with Edward? And the two of them making a fool of him?

“Good evening, Whit.”

The object of his newly formed suspicions had appeared at his side. “Evening,” he muttered.

“Beautiful party, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Edward, it is. Dear Cassie Sergeant is going out in style.”

“You make her sound like a ship. Though I must say the allusion is not entirely inept” Edward looked virtuous as their gazes fell on the more than slightly rotund form of the soon-to-be bride, poured like cement into pink satin.

“Mrs. FitzMatthew is certainly doing her best.” Edward smiled vaguely at the crowd around them. The dinner had been superb. Bongo Bongo Soup, Nova Scotia salmon, crayfish flown in from the Rockies, Beluga caviar smuggled in from France in appalling quantities (“You know, darling, France doesn’t have those absurd regulations about putting all that nasty salty stuff in it. Such a frightful thing to do to good caviar!”). The fish course had been followed by rack of lamb and an almost depressing number of vegetables, salade d’endives, and soufflé Grand Marnier—after the Brie, an enormous wheel of it from Fraser Morris on Madison, the only place in town to buy it “And only Carla FitzMatthew could possibly have a staff equal to organizing the task of ***souffié for fifty.”

“Hell of a dinner, wasn’t it, Whit?”

Whit nodded grimly. He’d had more than a bit too much to drink, and he didn’t like the new thoughts his mind had turned up.

“Where’s Kezia, by the way?”

“You ought to know.”

“I’m flattered that you think so, Whit. Matter of fact, I haven’t talked to her all evening.”

“Then save it for bed tonight.” Whitney spoke into his drink, but the words were not lost upon Edward.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sorry … I suppose she’s here somewhere. Flitting about. Looks rather handsome tonight.”

“I’d say you could do better than ‘handsome,’ Whitney.” Edward smiled into the last of his wine, musing about Whit’s comment. He didn’t like the tone of Whit’s voice, and he couldn’t have meant what it sounded like. Besides, he was obviously plastered. “The child looks quite extraordinary. I saw you two come in together.”

“And you won’t see us going out together. How’s that for a surprise?” Whitney was suddenly ugly as he leered a smile at Edward, turned on his heel and then stopped. “Or does that please rather than surprise you?”

“If you’re planning to leave without Kezia, I think you might tell her. Is anything wrong?”

“Is anything right? Good night, sir. I leave her to you. You can bid her good evening for me.”

He was instantly gone in the crowd, depositing his empty glass in Tiffany Benjamin’s hand as he left. She was conveniently standing in his path to the door, and gazed rapturously into the empty glass, waving it instantly for a refill, never noticing that she now had two in her hands.

Edward watched him go, and wondered what Kezia was up to. Whatever it was, it was clear that Whit didn’t like it, though why, he couldn’t imagine. Polite inquiries had confirmed years of suspicion. Whitney Hayworth III was determinedly gay, though not publicly. Bit of a shabby setup for Kezia, even if she did have that boy in the Village, not that that was a comforting thought. But Whitney … why did he have to … you just couldn’t tell with people anymore. Of course those things had gone on in his youth too, especially among the prep school boys. But it was never taken as seriously then. It was a stopgap measure, so to speak; no one thought of it as a way of life. Just a passing stage before everyone settled down, found a wife, and got married. But not anymore … not anymore….

“Hello, love. Why so gloomy?”

“Gloomy? Not gloomy, just thinking.” Edward roused a smile for Kezia’s benefit, and she was easy to smile for.

“And by the way, your escort just left. In his cups.”

“He’s been in a bad mood all day. Practically lost his temper with me on the phone this morning. He’s been in a pout because he hasn’t been able to reach me. He’ll get over it. Probably very quickly.” They both knew that Mrs. FitzMatthews’s home was within a few short blocks of Whit’s lover’s. Edward chose to ignore the suggestion.

“And what have you been up to?”

“Nothing much. Catching up with a few people here. Cassie’s wedding certainly dragged us all out of hiding. There are people here I haven’t seen in ten years. It’s really a beautiful night, and a very nice party.” She swirled around him, patted his arm, and planted a kiss on his cheek.

“I thought you didn’t like these gala events.”

“Once in a great while I do.” He looked at her sternly, and then felt irresistibly pulled into laughter. She was impossible, and so incredibly pretty. No, more than pretty. She was extravagantly beautiful tonight Whitney’s feeble “handsome” had been hopelessly inadequate as praise.

“Kezia…”

“Yes, Edward?” She looked angelic, artlessly keeping her eyes on his, and he tried to resist the urge to smile back.

“Where have you been lately? Whitney’s not the only one who hasn’t been able to reach you. I was a little bit worried.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“The artist? The young man in the Village?”

Poor thing, he actually looked worried. Visions of money fleeing from her frail little hands…. “Not the Village. SoHo. And no, it wasn’t that.”

“Something else? Or someone else, should I say?”

Kezia could almost feel her back begin to bristle. “Darling, you worry too much.”

“Perhaps I have reason to.”

“Not at my age, you don’t.” She tucked his hand into her arm, and walked him into a circle of his friends, curtailing the conversation, but not allaying his fears. He knew her too well. Something had happened. Something that had never happened before, and she was already subtly altered. He felt it. Knew it. She looked much too happy and much too calm, and as though she had finally flown free from his reach. She was gone now. She wasn’t even at Carla FitzMatthews’s elaborate party. And only Edward knew that. The only thing he didn’t know was where she really was. Or with whom.

It was half an hour later before Edward noticed that Kezia had left the party. An inquiry here and there told him that she had left alone. It disturbed him. She was not dressed to go gallivanting around the city alone, and he wasn’t sure that Whit had left her the car. Rotten little faggot, he could at least have done that much for her.

He said his goodnights and hailed a cab to take him to his own apartment on East Eighty-third but somehow he found himself giving the driver Kezia’s address. He was horrified. He had never done that before. Such foolishness … at his age … she was a grown woman … and perhaps she wasn’t alone … but … he simply had to.

“Kezia?” She answered on the first ring of the house-phone, as Edward stood in embarrassment next to the doorman.

“Edward? Is something wrong?”

“No. And I’m sorry to do this, but may I come up?”

“Of course.” She hung up and he was upstairs a moment later.

She was waiting for him in the open doorway, as he emerged from the elevator. She looked suddenly worried as she stood barefoot in her evening gown, her hair loose, and her jewelry put away. And Edward found himself feeling like a fool.

“Edward, are you all right?” He nodded and she let him into the apartment.

“Kezia … I … I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have come, but I had to make sure you’d gotten home all right. I don’t like to think of you dripping in diamonds and going home unescorted.”

“Darling, darling worrywart, is that all?” She laughed softly and her face broke into a smile. “Good God, Edward, I thought something dreadful had happened.”

“Maybe it did.”

“Oh?” Her face grew serious again for a moment.

“I think I finally became senile tonight. I suppose I should have called instead of dropping by.”

“Well, now that you’re here, how about a drink?” She didn’t deny that he should have called, but she was always gracious. “Some poire, or framboise?” She waved him into a chair and went to the Chinese inlaid chest where she kept the liquor. Edward remembered it well; he had been with her mother when she had bought it at Sotheby’s.

“Poire, thank you, dear.” He sank tiredly into one of the familiar blue velvet chairs, and watched her pour the potent transparent liqueur into a tiny glass. “You really are a good sport about your old Uncle Edward.”

“Don’t be silly.” She handed him the drink with a smile and sank to the floor near his feet.

“Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?” She waved the compliment away and lit a cigarette, as he sipped at his poire. She was beginning to wonder if he’d already had too much to drink. He seemed a bit doleful as the moments ticked on. And she was waiting for a phone call from Luke.

“I’m glad you’re all right” he began. And then he couldn’t stop himself anymore. “Kezia, what are you up to?” He simply had to know.

“Absolutely nothing. I’m sitting here next to you and I had been about to get undressed and do some work on the column. I want to phone it in in the morning…. I don’t think Carla’s going to like me when I do. She’s too easy to poke fun at. I couldn’t resist.”

Kezia was trying to keep things light but Edward looked older and more tired than she had ever seen him.

“Can’t you be serious for a moment? I didn’t mean what you were doing right now. I meant … well, you look different lately.”

“How lately?”

“Tonight.”

“Do I look worried, sick, unhappy, undernourished? What kind of different?” She didn’t like his questioning and now she was going to turn it around on him quickly. It was high time to stop this kind of nonsense. And she didn’t want any more unannounced late night visits.

“No, no, nothing like that. You look extremely well.”

“And you’re worried?”

“Yes, but … all right, all right, dammit. You know what I mean, Kezia. And you’re just like your bloody father. You don’t tell anyone anything until after the fact. And then everyone else has to pick up the pieces.”

“Darling, I assure you, you will never have to pick up any pieces, not for me. And since we both agree that I look rested, healthy, and well-fed, my account is not overdrawn, and I have not appeared naked at the Oak Room … what is there to worry about?” Her voice was only a trifle sharp.

“You’re being evasive.” He sighed. He didn’t have a chance and he knew it.

“No, darling. I’m enjoying the right to a little privacy, no matter how much I love you, or how good a father you’ve been to me. I’m all grown up now, love. I don’t ask if you sleep with your maid or your secretary, or what sort of things you do alone in the bathroom at night.” Something about Edward told her he’d perform rituals like that in the bathroom, where they “belonged.”

“Kezia! That’s shocking!” He looked angry and pained. Nothing went his way anymore. Not with her.

“It’s no more shocking than what you’re basically asking me. You just say it more gently than I do.”

“All right. I understand.”

“I’m glad.” It was high time. “But just to put your fidgety old soul to rest, I can honestly tell you that there’s nothing for you to worry about right now. Nothing.”

“Will you tell me when there is?”

“Would I cheat you of an opportunity to worry?”

He laughed and sat back in his chair. “All right. I’m impossible. I know it, and I’m sorry. No … I’m not sorry. I like knowing that all’s right with your life. And now I’ll let you finish your work. You must have gotten some good items for the column tonight.” The room had been ripe with gossip. And he was embarrassed at having probed, at being in her apartment at all, at this unsuitable hour. It wasn’t easy being a surrogate father. And even less so being in love with your surrogate child.

“I got some very good items, as a matter of fact, along with tales of Carla’s orgy of opulence. It really is a disgrace to spend thousands on a party.”

She sounded like the old Kezia again, the one who didn’t frighten him, the one he knew so well and who would always be his.

“And of course I’ll include me in the gossip,” she announced with a bright smile.

“Little wretch. What are you going to say about yourself? That you looked stunningly beautiful, I hope.”

“No, well, maybe a mention of the dress. But actually I’ve written up Whit’s charming exit.”

Was she angry? Could she possibly care? “But why?”

“Because, to put it bluntly, the time for fun and games is over. I think it’s time Whit went his way and I went mine. And Whit hasn’t got the balls to do it, and maybe neither have I, so if I run something embarrassing, his friend on Sutton Place will do it for us. If he’s anyone at all, he won’t tolerate Whit being publicly ridiculed.”

“My God, Kezia. What did you write?”

“Nothing indecent. I’m certainly not going to make scandalous accusations in the press. I wouldn’t do that to Whit or myself. The point is really that I haven’t time to play these games after all. And it isn’t good for Whit either. All I said in the column was that … here, I’ll read it to you.” She put on a businesslike voice and went to her desk. He watched her, feeling hunger in his heart.

“’The usual lovebirds were thick in the flock; Francesco Cellini and Miranda Pavano-Casteja; Jane Roberts and Bentley Forbes; Maxwell Dart and Courtney Williamson, and of course Kezia Saint Martin and her standby consort Whitney Hayworth III, although this couple was seldom seen together last night as they each appeared to take flight on their own. It was also noticed that in what appeared to be a fit of pique, Whitney made an early solo exit, leaving Kezia ‘midst the rest of the doves, hawks, and parrots. Perhaps the elegant Whitney grows tired of following in her wake? Heiresses can be such demanding people. Also of interest in Carla FitzMatthew’s baronial halls….’ Well, how does it sound?” She sounded suddenly chirpy and unaffected by what she had written; the business voice was put away with the column. And news was news and gossip was gossip, and Edward knew it all bored her anyway. He looked over at her with a dubious smile. “It sounds rather uncomfortable. Frankly, I don’t think he’ll like it.”

“He’s not meant to. It’s supposed to be somewhat demeaning. And if he doesn’t have the balls to tell me to go to hell after what I’m doing to his public image, then his boyfriend will tell him he has no guts. I think this will get to him.”

“Why don’t you just tell him it’s over?”

“Because the only good reason I have is the one I’m not supposed to know. That, and the fact that he bores me. And hell, Edward, I don’t know … maybe I’m cowardly. I’d rather leave it to him. With a good prod in the right direction from me. It seems as though anything I could say to him directly would be too insulting.”

“And what you said in the column is better?”

“Of course not. But he doesn’t know I said it.”

Edward laughed ruefully as he finished his drink and stood up. “Well, let me know if your plot has any effect.”

“It will. I’d bet on it.”

“And then what? You announce that in the column too?”

“No. I thank God.”

“Kezia, you confuse me. But on that note, my dear, I bid you good night. Sorry to have called on you so late.”

“I’ll forgive you this time.”

The phone rang as she walked him to the door and she looked suddenly excited.

“I’ll let myself out.”

“Thanks,” she smiled, pecked his cheek and ran back to her desk in the living room with a broad smile, leaving Edward to shut the door softly and wait for the elevator alone.

“Hi, Mama. Too late to call?” It was Luke.

“Of course not and I was just thinking about you.” She smiled, holding the phone.

“So was I. I miss the hell out of you, babe.”

She unzipped her dress and walked the phone into the bedroom. It was so good to hear his voice in the room again. It was almost as though he were there. She could still feel his touch … still…. “I love you and miss you. A whole bunch.”

“Good. Want to come to Chicago this weekend?”

“I was praying you’d ask.”

He laughed gruffly into her ear and took a puff on one of the Cuban cigars. He gave her the number of the flight he wanted her on, blew her a kiss and hung up.

She slipped happily out of the dress, and stood smiling for a moment before getting ready for bed. What a marvelous man Lucas was. Edward had fled entirely from her mind. As had Whit, whose call was the first she got the next morning.

Chapter 15

“Kezia? Whitney.”

“Yes, darling. I know.” She knew a lot more than he did.

“What do you know?”

“I know that it’s you, silly. What time is it?”

“Past noon. Did I wake you?”

“Hardly. I just wondered.” So, it had run in the morning’s second edition. She had gotten up at the crack of dawn to phone it in.

I think we ought to have lunch.” He sounded very crisp and very businesslike, and very nervous.

“Right this minute? I’m not dressed.” It was rotten but she was amused. He was so easy to play with.

“No, no, when you’re ready, of course. La Grenouille at one?”

“How delightful. I wanted to call you anyway. I’ve decided to go to that wedding in Chicago this weekend. I really think I should go.”

“I think you probably should. And Kezia …”

“Yes, darling, what?”

“Have you seen the papers today?”

Obviously, darling. I wrote them. At least the part you mean…. “No. Why? Is the nation at war? Actually, you sound quite upset.”

“Read the Hallam column. You’ll understand.”

“Oh dear. Something nasty?”

“We’ll discuss it at lunch.”

“All right, darling, see you then.”

As he hung up, he chewed on a pencil. Christ, he hoped she’d be reasonable. It was really getting to be a bit too much. Armand wasn’t going to put up with much more of this nonsense. He had thrown the front section at Whitney at breakfast, along with a terrifying ultimatum. Above all Whit couldn’t lose him. He couldn’t. He loved him.

Once settled at their table at La Grenouille, their conversation was staccato but direct. Or rather, Whit’s was direct, and Kezia kept quiet. It was simply that he had gotten far too attached to her, felt far too possessive about her, and knew he had no right to. She had made that much clear. And how did that make him look? And what’s more, he had so little to offer her at this point in his life; he wasn’t even a partner in the firm, and in light of who she was … and it was all getting so painful for him … and did she understand his position at all? It was just that he knew she would never marry him, and while she would always be the love of his life, he simply had to get married and have children, and she wasn’t ready and … oh God, wasn’t it awful?

Kezia nodded mutely and gulped her Quenelles Nantua. What was a girl to do? And yes, she understood perfectly, and he was quite right of course, she was light-years away from marriage, and possibly because of the death of her parents and being an only child, she’d probably never marry, to preserve her name. And children were not something she could even faintly imagine anyway, and she felt just awful if she’d hurt him, but this was probably all for the best. For both of them. She granted him the kindness of being right. And they would always remain the “dearest friends alive.” Forever.

Whitney made a mental note to have Effie send her flowers once a week until she was ninety-seven. Thank God, she had taken it well. And hell, maybe he had had the right idea when he suspected she had something going with Edward. You never knew with Kezia, you only sensed that there was a lot more to her than she let on to, underneath all the poise and perfection. But who gave a damn? He was free! Free of all those intolerable evenings being the man on her arm. And naturally, to recover from the “terrible pain of it all,” he wouldn’t be seen socially for months … and he could finally live a life on Sutton Place with Armand. It was about time too. Armand had made that much clear over breakfast. After three years of waiting, he had had it. And now with Whitney humiliated in the newspapers … Hallam had made him sound like a puppy nipping at Kezia’s skirts, and maybe it was a good thing after all. He had finally done it. No more pretense, no more Kezia. Not for him.

* * *

Kezia walked away from La Grenouille with a spring in her step and wandered down Fifth Avenue to peek in the windows at Saks. She was going to Chicago … Chicago … Chicago! And she was finally free of Whit, and she had done it in the best possible way. Poor bastard, he had been ready to cry with relief. She almost hated to look so somber about it. She wanted to congratulate him and herself. What they should have been doing was clinking champagne glasses and shouting with glee, after all the years they’d wasted putting on a show for their friends, and hell, they weren’t even married. But they had been a good front for each other. A front. Thank God, she had never married him. Jesus. The very thought made her tremble.

And then another tremor went through her. It had been days, a week … a long time … she didn’t even know how long. She hadn’t even thought of him. Mark. But all in one day? In one fell swoop like that? Clean slate? Both of them? Wasn’t that too much to handle? She cared a hell of a lot more about Mark than she did about Whit. Whit was in love. He had a man of his own. But Mark? God, it was like having two wisdom teeth pulled in one day.

But her feet carried her irreversibly toward the subway at Fifty-first Street and Lexington. She had to. She really had to. And she knew it.

The train bumped along on its route pointing south, and she wondered why. For Luke? But that was crazy. She hardly knew him. And what if he canceled the weekend and never saw her again? Or what if she went to Chicago for the weekend, but he never saw her again after that? What if … but she knew it wasn’t for Luke. It was for Kezia. She had to. She couldn’t play games anymore. Not with Whit, or Mark, or Edward, or anyone … or herself. The many skins of the snake that was Kezia Saint Martin were peeling away. Now there would be a piece for the column.

It was a lot harder with Mark. Because she cared.

“You’re going away?”

“Yes.” She held his eyes and wanted to stroke his hair, but she couldn’t do that to him. Not to Mark.

“But that didn’t make any difference this summer.” He looked hurt and confused and even younger than he was.

“It makes a difference now, though. Maybe I’ll stay away for a very long time. A year, two years, I don’t really know.”

“Kezia, are you getting married?” The question was suddenly blunt and she wanted to say yes, just to make it easier, but she didn’t want to tell him that either. It was enough to say that she was going away. That was simpler.

“No, baby. I’m not getting married. I’m just going. And in my own way, I love you. Too much to screw you up. I’m older than you are, we both have things to do with our lives. Different things, separate things. It’s time now, Marcus. I think you know that too.” He had finished the bottle of Chianti before she finished her second glass. They ordered another.

“Can I ask you something crazy?”

“What?”

He smiled at her, hesitating; the boyish half smile she loved so much was all over his face. But that was the trouble. She loved the smile, the hair, The Partridge, and the studio. She didn’t really love Mark. Not way down deep. Not the way she loved Luke. Not enough.

“Are you the chick I saw in the paper that time?”

She waited a long moment before answering. Something pounded in her ears, and then she looked at him. Straight in the eye. “Yes. Probably. So?”

“So, I was curious. What’s it feel like to be like that?”

“Lonely. Scary. Dull a lot of the time. It’s not so hot.”

“Is that why you kept coming down here? Because it was dull and you were bored?”

“No. Maybe originally, just to get away. But you’ve been someone very special to me, Mark.”

“Was I an escape?”

Yes. But how could she tell him that? And why tell him now? Oh, please, don’t let me hurt him … Not more than I have to.

“No. You’re a person. A beautiful person. A person I loved.”

“Loved? Not ‘love’?” He looked at her, tears swimming bleakly in the childlike eyes.

“Times change, Marcus. And we have to let them change, for both our sakes. It only gets ugly when people try to hang on. It’s too late then. For both our sakes, I have to go.”

He nodded sadly into his wine, and she touched his face for one last time before she stood up and walked away. She half ran once she got out the door. Mercifully, a cab was cruising down the street. She hailed it and slipped inside, so he couldn’t see the tears running down her face. Nor could she see the tears on his. He never saw her again. Only in the papers, now and then.

The phone was ringing as she came through the door. She felt wrung out. It had been like two wisdom teeth after all. Four wisdom teeth. Nine. A hundred. And now what? It couldn’t be Whit. Edward? Her agent?

“Hi, Mama.” It was Luke.

“Hi, love. Oh God, it’s good to hear your voice. I’m beat.” She had needed the sound of him so badly … his touch … his arms….

“What’d you do today?”

“Everything. Nothing. It was a horrible day.”

“Christ, you make it sound like it.”

“I just ‘took care of business,’ as you’d say. I planted a nasty little piece in the column last night, designed to make Whit’s lover jealous.” She had no secrets from Luke. He knew her whole life now. “Which it did, so we had lunch and got that squared away. No more Whitney to squire me to parties.”

“You sound upset. Is that the way you wanted it?”

“Yes, that’s why I did it. I just wanted to do it in some way that wouldn’t ruin his ego. I felt I owed him that after all these years. We played a game till the end. And then I went down to SoHo, and got that all cleared up. I feel like the bitch of the year.”

“Yeah. Those things never feel good. I’m sorry you had to deal with all that in one day.” But he didn’t sound sorry, and she knew that he was relieved. It made her glad she had done it.

“It had to be done. And it’s a relief. I’m just tired. And what about you, love? Busy day?”

“Not as busy as yours. What else you been up to, babe? No fancy benefit meetings?” He chuckled in the phone and she groaned. “Now what did I say?”

“The magic word … oh shit. You just reminded me. I’m due at a goddamn Arthritis meeting at five, and it’s already that now. Oh Fuck And Shit!” He laughed at her and she giggled.

“Martin Hallam should only hear that!”

“Oh shut up.”

“Well, I’ve got more good news for you. I hate to hit you with it on a day like today. You can’t come to Chicago this weekend, babe. Something came up and I have to go to the coast.”

“What coast?” What in hell did he mean?

“The West Coast, my love. Christ, Kezia, I hate to do this to you. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m terrific.”

“Now come on, be a big girl.”

“Does that mean I can’t see you?”

“Yes. It does.”

“Couldn’t I fly out to meet you out there?”

“No, babe, you can’t. It wouldn’t be cool.”

“Why not, for chrissake? Oh Luke, I had a perfectly horrible day, and now this … please let me come out.”

“Baby, I can’t. I’m going to be organizing a heavy little business deal, you might say. It’s touchy for me, and it’s not a scene I want you involved in. It’s going to be a rough couple of weeks.”

“That long?” She wanted to cry.

“Maybe. I’ll see.”

She took a deep breath, and swallowed, and tried to untangle her mind. What a bitch of a day.

“Luke, will you be all right?”

He hesitated for just a moment before he said, “I’ll be fine. Now you just go to your colitis meeting, or whatever the fuck it is, and don’t worry your pretty little head about me. This is one dude who can take care of himself. That much you should know.”

“Famous last words.”

“I’ll let you know as soon as I’m back. Just remember one thing.”

“What?”

“That I love you.” At least there was that.

They hung up and Luke paced the length of his suite in Chicago. Shit, he was crazy to get involved with her. And now of all times, when things were starting to get hot. She was starting to depend on him, and she wanted more than he could give. He had other things to think about, the commitments he had made, the men he wanted to help, and he had his own ass to think of now, and the fucking pigs who’d been following him for weeks. Days, years, it felt as though he had always had them on his tail, like vultures swooping down on him, coming just close enough to let him know they were there, and then disappearing again behind a cloud. But he always knew they were there. He could always feel it.

He walked to the bar and poured himself a long tall bourbon in a water glass. No water, no soda, no ice, and swallowed it without putting the glass down. And then, as though he had to know, he took three long strides to the door of his suite and yanked it open with a jerk that should have pulled it off its hinges, but didn’t. It shuddered briefly in his hand, and he stood there, and so did the man in the corner. He looked shocked to see Luke, and had jumped when the door opened. He was wearing a hat, and walked down the corridor trying to look like a man going somewhere, but he wasn’t. He looked every inch what he was, a cop on an assignment. The tail on Luke Johns.

Kezia’s feet felt like lead as she stepped into the cab. The meeting was being held on upper Fifth Avenue. With a view of the park. At Tiffany’s apartment. Three floors on Ninety-second and Fifth. And bourbon or scotch. No mickey-mousing around with lemonade or sherry at her place. There would also be gin and vodka for those who preferred that. At home, Tiffany stuck to Black Label.

She was standing near the door when Kezia arrived, with a double scotch on the rocks in one hand.

“Kezia! How divine! You look fabulous, and we were just getting started. You haven’t missed anything!” That was for sure.

“Goodie.” Tiffany was too far gone to notice the tone of Kezia’s voice or the blurry look around her eyes where her mascara had run when she’d cried. The day had taken its toll.

“Bourbon or scotch?”

“Both.”

Tiffany looked momentarily baffled. She was already drunk, and had been since noon.

“I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean to confuse you. Make it scotch and soda, but don’t bother. I’ll make it myself.” Kezia strode to the bar, and for this rare occasion she matched Tiffany drink for drink. It was the second time she had gotten drunk because of Luke, but at least the last time she’d been happy.

Chapter 16

“Kezia?” It was Edward.

“Hi, love. What’s new?”

“That’s what I wanted to ask you. Do you realize that I haven’t seen or heard from you in almost three weeks?”

“Don’t feel alone. No one has. I’ve been hibernating.” She was munching on an apple as she talked to him, with her feet on the desk.

“Are you ill?”

“No. Just busy.”

“Writing?”

“Yup.”

“I haven’t seen you anywhere. I was beginning to worry.”

“Well, don’t. I’ve been fine. I’ve been out a couple of times, just to keep my hand in the game for the column. But my ‘appearances’ have been brief and sporadic, I’m sticking pretty close to home.”

“Any particular reason?” He was probing again, and she continued to munch on her apple noncommittally.

“No particular reason. Just work. And I wasn’t in the mood to go out more than I absolutely had to.”

“Afraid to run into Whit?”

“No … well … maybe a little. I was more afraid to run into all the local big mouths. But actually, I’ve just been snowed under with work. I’m doing three articles, all with deadlines next week.”

“I’m glad you’re all right then. Actually, my dear, I was wondering if you wanted to have lunch.”

She made a face and put down the apple core. Shit “Well, love, I’ll tell you …” Then she started to laugh. “Okay. I’ll have lunch with you. But not at any of the usual spots.”

“My God, I do believe the girl’s becoming a recluse.” He laughed back but there was still a hint of worry in his voice. “Kezia, are you sure you’re all right?”

“Wonderful. Honest.” But she’d have been a lot happier if she could have seen Luke. They were still burning the long distance wires twice a day, but be couldn’t have her around. There was still too much happening. So she had been burying herself in her work.

“All right Then where do you want to have lunch?”

“I know a nice natural foods bar on East Sixty-third. How does that sound to you?”

“You want the truth?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Repulsive.”

She laughed at the sound of his voice. “Be a sport, darling. You’ll love it.”

“For you, Kezia … even a natural foods bar. But tell me the truth, is it dreadful?”

“What if it is! You order a baggie from Lutèce and bring it along.”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“Then give this a try. It’s really not bad.”

“Ahhh … youth.”

They agreed to meet at twelve-thirty, and she was already there when he arrived. He looked around, and it wasn’t as bad as he’d thought. The people at the small wooden tables were a healthy mix of midtown Eastsiders. Secretaries, art directors, hippies, pretty girls in blue jeans with portfolios at their sides, boys in flannel shirts and shoulder-length hair, and here and there a man in a suit. Neither he nor Kezia stood out in their midst, and he was relieved. It was certainly not La Grenouille, but thank God it wasn’t Horn & Hardart’s either … not that there was anything wrong with their food … but the people. The people! They just weren’t Edward’s style. And one never knew what Kezia had up her sleeve. The girl had a fiendish sense of humor.

She was sitting at a corner table when he approached, and he could see that she was wearing jeans. He smiled a long smile into her eyes and he leaned down to kiss her when he got to the table.

“I have missed you so, child.” He never realized quite how much until he saw her again. It was the same feeling he got every year at their first lunch after the summer. It had been almost a month this time too.

“I’ve missed you too, love. Hell, I haven’t seen you in ages. And it’s almost Halloween.” She giggled mischievously and he searched her face as he settled into a chair. There was something different about her eyes … that same something different he had noticed the last time he’d seen her. And she was suddenly thinner.

“You’ve lost weight.” It was a fatherly accusation.

“Yes, but not very much. I eat funny when I write.”

“You ought to make it a point to eat well.”

“At Le Mistral perhaps? Or is it healthier to feed one’s face at La Cote Basque?” She was teasing him again, not unkindly, but nevertheless with a new vehemence.

“Kezia, child, you’re really too old to consider becoming a hippie.” He was teasing her back. But not entirely.

“You’re absolutely right, darling. I wouldn’t even consider it. Just a hard-working slave to my typewriter. I suddenly feel as though I’ve come into my own with my work. It’s a beautiful feeling.”

He nodded silently and lit a cigar. He wondered if that’s what it was. Maybe she would eventually simply retire into her work. At least it was respectable. But it didn’t seem likely. And he was still troubled by the subtle alterations he sensed, but couldn’t quite see. He could see that she was thinner, more angular, more intense. And she spoke differently now, as though she had finally taken her place in her beliefs, in her work. But the change went deeper than that. Much deeper. He knew it.

“Do they serve anything to drink in this place?” He looked mournfully at the menu chalked up on a board on the wall. There was no mention of cocktails, only carrot or clam juice. His stomach rebelled at the thought.

“Oh, Edward, I didn’t even think of a drink for you. I am sorry!” Her eyes were laughing again and she patted his hand. “You know, I’ve really missed you too. But I’ve needed to be left alone.”

“I’d say it had done you good, but I’m not entirely sure of that either. You look as though you’ve been working too hard.” She nodded slowly.

“Yes. I have. I want to get into it now. And you know, it’s becoming a strain to get out that damn column. Maybe I ought to retire.” Here, she felt no qualms about discussing the doings of Martin Hallam. No one would have cared.

“Are you serious about giving it up?” The prospect troubled him. If she gave up the column, how often would he see her among the familiar faces at all the city’s gala events?

“I’ll see. I won’t do anything rash. But I’m giving it some thought. Seven years is a very long time. Maybe it’s time for Martin Hallam to quit.”

“And Kezia Saint Martin?”

She didn’t answer, but quietly met his eyes.

“Kezia, you’re not doing anything foolish, are you, dear? I was relieved to hear of your decision about Whitney. But I rather wondered if it meant …”

“No. I ended it with my young friend in SoHo too. On the same day in fact. It was sort of a purge. A pogrom. And a relief, in the end.”

“And you’re all alone now?”

She nodded, but what a pest he could be. “Yes. Me and my work. I love it.” She gave him a radiant smile.

“Perhaps that’s what you need for a while. But don’t get all severe and intense. It wouldn’t become you.”

“And why not?”

“Because you’re far too pretty and far too young to waste yourself on a typewriter. For a while, yes. But don’t lose yourself for too long.”

“Not ‘lose’ myself, Edward? I feel like I’ve finally ‘found’ myself.”

Oh lord, this was going to be one of those days when her face looked just like her father’s. Something told him the girl had made up her mind. About something, whatever it was. “Just be cautious, Kezia.” He relit his cigar, keeping his eyes deep in hers. “And don’t forget who you are.”

“Do you have any idea how often I’ve heard that?” And how sick it makes me by now. “And don’t worry, darling, I couldn’t possibly forget. You wouldn’t let me.”

There was something hard in her eyes now, which made him uncomfortable.

“Well, shall we order?” She smiled flippantly and waved at the board. “I suggest the avocado and shrimp omelette. It’s superb.”

“Shall I catch you a cab?”

“No. I’ll walk. I’m in love with this town in October.”

It was a crisp autumn day, windswept and clear. In another month it would be cold, but not yet. It was that exquisite time of year in New York when everything feels clean and bright and alive, and you want to walk from one end of the world to the other. Kezia always did, at least.

“Call me in a bit, will you, Kezia? I worry when I don’t hear anything from you for weeks on end. And I don’t want to intrude.”

Since when, darling? Since when? “You never do. And thanks for the lunch. And you see … it wasn’t so bad!” She hugged him briefly, kissed his cheek, and walked away, turning to wave as she stopped for the light at the corner.

She walked down Third Avenue to Sixtieth Street and then cut west to the park. It took her out of her way, but she was in no rush to go home. She was well ahead in her work, and it was too nice a day to hurry indoors. She took deep breaths and smiled at the pink-cheeked children on the street. It was rare to see children look healthy in New York. Either they had the grayish-green tinge of deep winter, or the hot pale sweaty look of the blistering summers. Spring came so fleetingly to Manhattan. But fall … fall, with its crisp crunchy apples, and pumpkins on fruit stands waiting to have faces carved on them for Halloween. Brisk winds that swept the sky clean of gray. And people walking along with a quickened pace. New Yorkers didn’t suffer in October, they enjoyed. They weren’t too hot or too cold or too tired or too cross. They were happy and gay and alive. And Kezia walked in their midst, feeling good.

Leaves brushçd the walks in the park, swirling about her feet. Children bounced in the carriage at the pony stand, squealing for another ride. The animals at the zoo bobbed their heads as she walked past, and the carillon began its tune as she approached. She stopped and watched it with all the mothers and children. It was funny. That was something she had never thought of before. Not for herself. Children. How strange it would be to have a little person beside you. Someone to laugh at and giggle with and wipe chocolate ice cream from his chin, and tuck into bed after reading a story, or snuggle close to as he climbed into your bed in the morning. But then, you’d have to tell him who he was, and what was expected of him, and what he’d have to do when he grew up “if he loved you.” That was the reason she had never even remotely wanted children. Why do that to someone else? It was enough that she had to live with it for all those years. No, no children. Never.

The carillon stopped its tune, and the dancing gold animals stopped their mechanical waltz. The children began to drift away or rush toward hovering vendors. She watched them, and suddenly wanted a red balloon for herself. She bought one for a quarter and tied it to the button on her sleeve. It danced in the wind, high above her head, just below the branches of towering trees, and she laughed; she wanted to skip all the way home.

Her walk took her past the model boat pond, and at Seventy-second Street she reluctantly left the park. She ambled out slowly, the balloon bobbing as she walked behind nannies who prowled the park sedately, pushing oversized English prams covered with lace. A clique of French nurses moved like a battalion down the walk, toward an oncoming gaggle of British nannies. It amused her to watch the obvious though sugar-coated hostility between the two national tribes. And she knew too that the American nurses were left to their own devices, shunned by both the British and French. The Swiss and Germans willingly kept to themselves. And the black women who cared for equally sumptuously outfitted babies did not exist. They were the untouchable caste.

Kezia waited for traffic to ebb, and eventually wandered over to Madison to stroll past the boutiques on her way home. She was glad she had walked. Her mind wandered slowly back to Luke. It seemed forever since she had seen him. And she was trying so hard to be good about it. Working hard, being a good sport, laughing with him when he called, but something was curling up tightly inside her. It was like a small, dark kernel of sad, and no matter what she did she couldn’t get rid of it. It was heavy and tight. Like a fist. How could she miss him so much?

The doorman swept open the door for her, and she pulled her balloon down low beside her, feeling suddenly silly, as the elevator man attempted not to notice.

“Afternoon, miss.”

“Afternoon, Sam.” He wore his dark winter uniform and the eternal white cotton gloves, and he looked at a spot on the wall. She wondered if he didn’t ever want to turn and face the people he carted up and down all day long. But that would have been rude. And Sam wasn’t rude, God forbid. For twenty-four years, Sam had never been rude, he simply took people up and down … up … and …

down … without ever searching their eyes … “Morning, madam” … “Morning, Sam” … “Evening, sir” … “Good evening, Sam”…. For twenty-four years, with his eyes rooted to a spot on the wall. And next year they’d retire him with a gold-plated watch and a bottle of gin. If he didn’t die first, his eyes politely glued to the wall.

“Thank you, Sam.”

“Yes, miss.” The elevator door slipped shut behind her, and she turned her key in the lock.

She picked up the afternoon paper on the hall table, on her way in. It was her habit to keep abreast of the news, and on some days it amused her. But this was not one of those days. The papers had been full of ugly stories for weeks. Uglier than usual, it seemed. Children dying. An earthquake in Chile, killing thousands. Arabs and Jews on the warpath. Problems in the Far East. Murders in the Bronx. Muggings in Manhattan. Riots in the prisons. And that worried Kezia most of all.

But now she glanced lazily past the front page, and then stopped with one hand still on the door. Everything grew very still, she suddenly understood. Her heart stopped. Now she knew. The headline on the paper read: Work Strike at San Quentin. Seven Dead. Oh God … let him be all right.

As though in answer to the prayer she had spoken aloud, the phone came to life, and dragged her attention away from the riveting headline. Not now … not the phone … what if … Mechanically, she moved toward it, the paper still in one hand, as she distractedly tried to read on.

“’Lo …” She couldn’t take her eyes away from the paper.

“Kezia?” It didn’t sound like her.

“What?”

“Miss Saint Martin?”

“No, I’m sorry, she’s … Lucas?”

“Yes, dammit. What the hell’s going on?” They were both getting thoroughly confused.

“I … I’m sorry, I … oh God, are you all right?” The sudden terror still caught in her throat, but she was afraid to say anything too precise on the phone. Maybe he was in a bad place to talk. That article suddenly had told her a great deal. Before she had suspected, but now she knew. No matter what he told her, she knew.

“Of course, I’m all right. You sound like you’ve seen a ghost. Anything wrong?”

“That’s a fairly apt description, Mr. Johns. And I don’t know if anything’s wrong. Suppose you tell me.”

“Suppose you wait a few hours, and I’ll tell you anything you want to know, and a lot more besides. Within reason, of course.” His voice sounded deep and husky, and there was laughter peppered in with the unmistakable fatigue.

“What exactly do you mean?” She held her breath, waiting, hoping. She had just had the fright of her life, and now it sounded like … she didn’t dare hope. But she wanted it to be that.

“I mean get your ass out here, lady. I’m going crazy without you! That’s what I mean! How about catching the next plane out here?”

“To San Francisco? Do you mean it?”

“Damn right, I do. I miss you so much I can hardly think straight anymore, and I’m all through out here. And it’s been too fucking long since I’ve had my hands on your ass. Mama, this has seemed like five hundred years!”

“Oh darling, I love you. If you only knew how much I’ve missed you, and just now I thought … I picked up the paper and …” He cut her off quickly with something brittle in his voice.

“Never mind, baby. Everything’s okay.” That was what she had wanted to hear.

“What are you going to do now?” She sighed as she spoke.

“Love the shit out of you and take a few days off to see some friends. But you are the first friend I want to see. How soon can you be here?”

She looked at her watch. “I don’t know. I … what time’s the next plane?” It was just after three in New York.

“There’s a flight that leaves New York at five-thirty. Can you make it?”

“Jesus. I’d have to be at the airport no later than five, which means leaving here at four, which means … I have an hour to pack, and … screw it, I’ll make it” She jumped to her feet and looked toward the bedroom. “What should I bring?”

“Your delicious little body.”

“Aside from that, silly.” But she hadn’t smiled like this in weeks. Three weeks, to be exact. It had been that long since she’d seen him.

“How the hell do I know what you should bring?”

“Is it hot or cold, darling?”

“Foggy. And cold at night, and warm in the daytime. I think … oh shit, Kezia. Look it up in the Times. And don’t bring your mink coat.”

“How do you know I have one? You’ve never seen it.” She was grinning again. To hell with the headlines. He was all right and he loved her.

“I just figured you had a mink. Don’t bring it.”

“I wasn’t planning to. Any other instructions?”

“Only that I love you too goddamn much, woman, and this is the last time I’ll let you out of my sight.”

“Promises, promises! I wish. Hey … will you meet me?”

“At the airport?” He sounded surprised.

“Uh huh.”

“Should I? Or would it be cooler if I didn’t?” It was back to that again. Being cautious, being wise.

“Screw being cool. I haven’t seen you in almost three weeks and I love you.”

“I’ll meet you.” He sounded ecstatic.

“You’d damn well better.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The baritone laugh tickled her ear, and they hung up. He had fought his own battles with his conscience during the last three godawful weeks, and he had lost … or won … he wasn’t yet sure. But he knew he had to have Kezia. Had to. No matter what.

Chapter 17

The plane landed at 7:14 P.M., San Francisco time. She was on her feet before the plane had come to a full stop at the gate. And despite earnest pleadings from the stewardesses, she was one of a throng in the aisles.

She had traveled coach to attract less attention, and she was wearing black wool slacks and a black sweater; a trench coat was slung over her arm, dark glasses pushed up on her head. She looked discreet, almost too discreet, and very well-dressed. Men checked her out with their eyes, but decided she looked rich and uptight. Women eyed her with envy. The slim hips, the trim shoulders, the thick hair, the big eyes. She was not a woman who would ever go unnoticed, whatever her name, and in spite of her height.

It was taking forever to open the doors. The cabin was hot and stuffy. Other people’s bags bumped her legs. Children started to cry. Finally, they swung open the doors. The crowd began to move, only imperceptibly at first, and then in a sudden rush, the plane blurted its contents like toothpaste onto the ramp. Kezia pressed through the other travelers, and as she turned a corner, she saw him.

His head was well above all the others. His dark hair shone, and she could see his eyes from where she stood. He had a cigar in his hand. His whole being wore an air of expectation. She waved and he saw her, joy sweeping his face, and carefully he eased through the crowd. He was at her side in a moment, and swept her high off the ground in his arms.

“Mama, is it good to see you!”

“Oh Lucas!” She grinned in his arms, and their lips met in a long, hungry kiss. Paparazzi be damned. Whatever they saw, they could have. She was finally back in his arms. The other travelers moved around them like water around rocks in a stream, and there was no one left by the time they moved on.

“Let’s get your bags and go home.”

They gave each other the smile usually exchanged by people long used to sharing one bed, and took the escalator down to the baggage claim, her small hand clasped firmly in his large one. People caught sight of them and watched them go hand in hand. Together, they were the sort of people you notice. With envy.

“How many bags did you bring?”

“Two.”

“Two? We’re only staying three days.” He laughed and gave her another hug. And she tried not to show the flash of pain in her eyes. Three days? That was all? She hadn’t asked him before. But at least it was that much. At least they were together again.

He plucked her bags from the turntable like a child snatching furniture out of a dollhouse, propped one suitcase under his arm, grasped the other by the handle in the same hand, and kept his other arm around Kezia, squeezing her tight.

“You haven’t said much, Mama. Tired?”

“No. Happy.” She looked up at him again, and nestled in close. “Christ, it’s been such a long time.”

“Yeah, and it won’t ever be that long again. It’s bad for my nerves.” But she knew it might be that long again. Or longer. It might have to be. That was the way his life was. But it was over now. Their three-day honeymoon had just begun.

“Where are we staying?” They were waiting outside for a cab. And so far, so good. No cameras, no reporters; no one even knew she had left New York. She had made one brief call saying that she was taking two days off from the column before she’d call in to report. They could run some of the extra tidbits she hadn’t had room for in the column that week. That would tide them over until she got her mind back on Martin Hallam again.

“We are staying at the Ritz.” He said it with grandeur as he tossed her bags into the front seat of a cab.

“Is that for real?” She laughed as she settled back in his arm.

“Wait till you see it.” And then he looked worried. “Baby, would you rather stay at the Fairmont or the Huntington? They’re a lot nicer, but I thought you’d worry about …”

“Is the Ritz more discreet?” He laughed at the look on her face.

“Oh yeah, Mama. It sure is discreet. That’s one thing I like about the Ritz. It is discreet!”

The Ritz was a large fading gray house in the heart of the mansions of Pacific Heights. It had once been an elegant home, and now housed castoffs; little old ladies and fading old men, and circulating in their midst the occasional “overflow” of houseguests from the sumptuous homes nearby. It was an odd mixture, and the decor was the same: crooked chandeliers with dusty prisms, fading red velvet chairs, flowered chintz curtains, and here and there an ornate brass spitoon.

Luke’s eyes danced as he led her inside toward a twittering old woman who hovered nervously at the desk. She wore a cup of braided hair over each ear, and her false teeth looked as though they would glow in the dark.

“Good evening, Ernestine.” And the beauty of it was that she looked like an Ernestine.

“Evening, Mr. Johns.” Her eyes took in Kezia with approval. She was the sort of guest they liked. Well-dressed, well-heeled, and well-polished. After all, this was the Ritz!

He led her into a decaying elevator run by a tiny old man who hummed “Dixie” to himself as they rose, swaying, to the second floor.

“Usually, I walk. But I thought I’d give you the full show.”

A sign in the elevator announced breakfast at seven, lunch at eleven, and dinner at five. Kezia giggled, holding tight to his hand.

“Thank you, Joe.” Luke gently patted his back and picked up the bags.

“Carry the bags for you, sir?”

“No, thanks.” But he quietly slipped a bill into the man’s hand, and led Kezia down the hall. It was carpeted in dark red, and the walls were lined with elaborate sconces. “To your left, babe.” She followed his nod to the end of the hall. “Wait till you see the view.” He fitted his key in the lock, turned it twice, set down the bags, and then pulled her close. “I’m so glad you came out. I was afraid you’d be busy or something.”

“Not for you, Luke. After all this time, you must be joking! Well, are we going to stand here all night?”

“Nope. We sure as hell aren’t.” He picked her up easily, and carried her over the threshold into a room that made her gasp and then laugh. She had never seen so much blue velvet and satin all in one place.

“Luke, it’s a riot. And I love it.” He set her down with a smile, and she looked at the bed with wide eyes. It was a huge four-poster with blue velvet hangings and a blue satin spread. There were blue velvet chairs and a blue satin chaise longue, an old-fashioned dressing table, a fireplace, and a flowered blue rug that had seen better days. And then she noticed the view.

It was a dark expanse of bay, lit on the other side by the hills of Sausalito, the lights on the Golden Gate twinkling as traffic sped by.

“Luke, what a fabulous place!” Her face glowed.

“The Ritz. At your feet.”

“Darling, I love you.” She walked into his arms and kicked off her shoes.

“Lady, you couldn’t love me half as much as I love you. Not even a quarter.”

“Oh shut up.”

His mouth came down gently on hers and he lifted her onto the blue satin bed.

“Hungry?”

“I don’t know. I’m so happy I can’t think.” She rolled sleepily onto her side, and kissed him on the side of his neck.

“How about some pasta?”

“Mmmm … sure….” But she made no move to get up. It was one in the morning, her time, and she was content where she lay.

“Come on, Mama, get up.”

“Oh God, not a shower!” He laughed and slapped her on the behind as he pulled back the sheets.

“If you don’t get up in two minutes, I’ll bring the shower to you.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” She lay with her eyes stubbornly closed and a sleepy smile on her face.

“Oh wouldn’t I?” He was looking down at her, love and tenderness rich in his eyes.

“Christ, you would. You’re such a meanie. Can’t I take a bath instead of a shower?”

“Take whatever you want, but get up off your ass.” She opened her eyes and looked up at him, without moving an inch.

“In that case, I’ll take you.”

“After we eat. I didn’t have time for lunch today and I’m starving. I wanted to wrap everything up before you got out.”

“And did you?” She sat up on one elbow and reached for a cigarette. This was the opening she had been waiting for, and suddenly there was tension in her voice, mirrored in his eyes.

“Yeah, We wrapped everything up.” The faces of the dead men flashed through his head.

“Lucas …” She had never directly asked him, and he had not yet volunteered.

“Yeah?” Everything about him seemed suddenly guarded. But they both knew.

“Should I mind my own business?” He shrugged and then slowly shook his head. “No. I know where you’re going, Mama. And I guess it’s your business to ask. You want to know what I’ve been up to out here?” She nodded. “But you already know, don’t you?” He looked almost old and very tired as he spoke. The holiday atmosphere had suddenly faded.

“I think so. I think I knew without knowing, but then this afternoon …” Her voice trailed off. This afternoon? Only then? It seemed years ago. “This afternoon I saw the paper, and the headline … the San Quentin work strike, that was your doing, wasn’t it, Luke?” He nodded very slowly. “What will they do to you for that, Lucas?”

“Who? The pigs?”

“Among others.”

“Nothing. Yet. They can’t pin anything on me, Mama. I’m a pro. But that’s part of the problem, too. I’m too much of a pro. They can never pin anything on me, and one day they’re going to screw me royally. Out of vengeance.” It was a first warning.

“Can they do that?” She looked shocked, but not really as though she understood.

“They can if they want to. Depends how badly they want to. Right now, I figure they’re pretty pissed.”

“And you’re not scared, Lucas?”

“What would that change?” He smiled a cynical little smile, and shook his head. “No, pretty lady, I’m not scared.”

“Are you in danger, Lucas? I mean real danger?”

“You mean my parole, or other kinds of danger?”

“Either.”

He knew that she had to know, so he answered her. More or less. “I’m not in real danger, babe. There are some very angry people involved, but the ones who’re the most pissed are the least sure I had anything to do with it. That’s the way I run those things. The parole pricks won’t even try to do anything to me for a while, and by then they’ll have cooled off. And any of the hotheads involved in the strike who don’t dig my views are too pissy-eye scared of me to even flip me the bird. So, no, I’m not really in danger.”

“But you could be, couldn’t you?” It hurt to think of it, to realize it … to admit it. She had known that about him from the first. But now she was in love with him. It was different. She didn’t want him to be some hotshot troublemaker. She wanted him to lead a peaceful life.

“What are you thinking of? You looked a thousand miles away for a minute there. You didn’t even hear me answer your question.”

“What was your answer?”

“That I could be in danger crossing the street, so why get paranoid now? You could be in danger. You could get kidnapped for a fat ransom. So? So why go crazy about could I be in danger, or could I not be in danger. I’m sitting here, I’m fine, I love you. That’s all you need to know. Now what were you thinking?”

“That I wish you were a stockbroker or an insurance agent.” She grinned and he let out a burst of laughter.

“Oh Mama, have you got the wrong number!”

“All right, so I’m crazy.” She shrugged in momentary embarrassment and then looked at him seriously again. “Luke, why do you still get involved in the strikes? Why can’t you let it go? You’re not in prison anymore. And it could cost you so much.”

“Okay. I’ll tell you why. Because some of those guys make three cents an hour for the work they do in there. Backbreaking work, in conditions you wouldn’t let your dog live in. And they have families, wives and children just like the rest of the world. Those families are on welfare, but they wouldn’t have to be if the poor bastards inside could earn a decent wage. Not even a high wage, just a decent one. There’s no reason why they shouldn’t be able to put some money aside. They need it as much as everyone else. And they work for their bread. They work damn hard. So, we set up work strikes. We design them so that the system we use can be implemented by inmates at any prison. Like this one. Folsom is going to be pulling almost the same thing, with some minor alterations in style. Probably next week.” He saw the look on her face and then shook his head. “No. They won’t need me for that one, Kezia. I did my bit here.”

“But why in hell do you have to be the one to do it?” She sounded almost angry and it surprised him.

“Why not?”

“Your parole for one thing. If you’re on parole, then you still ‘belong’ to the State. Your sentence was five to life, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah. So?”

“So they own you for life, officially. Right?”

“Wrong. Only for another two and a half years, when my parole runs out, smartass. Sounds like you’ve been doing some reading on the subject.” He lit another cigarette and avoided her eyes.

“I have, and you’re full of shit with your two and a half years. They could revoke your parole any time they want to, and then they’ve got you for life again, or another five years.”

“But Kezia … why would they want to do that?” He was trying to pretend he didn’t know.

“Oh for chrissake, Luke. Don’t be naive, or is that just for my benefit? For agitation in the prisons. That’s got to be in violation of your parole agreement. You don’t need me to tell you that. And I’m not as dumb as you think.” She had been doing more reading than he’d anticipated. And this was a tough one to argue. She was right on the money.

“I never thought you were dumb, Kezia.” His voice was subdued. “But neither am I. I told you, they could never pin this work-strike thing on me.”

“Who says? What if one of the people you do this stuff with says something? Then what? What if some asshole just gets fed up and kills you? Some ‘radical,’ as you put it.”

“Then we worry. Then. Not now.” She was silent for a moment, her eyes bright with tears.

“I’m sorry, Lucas. I can’t help it, though. I do worry.” And she knew she had good reason to. Lucas was not about to give up his work in the prisons, and he was in danger. They both knew it.

“Come on, Mama, let’s forget this and go eat.” He kissed her on the eyes and the mouth, and pulled her firmly by both arms. He had had enough heavy talk for a while. The tension between them eased away slowly, but Kezia’s fears were not over. She only knew that she was fighting a losing battle if she hoped to make him give up what he was doing. He was a born gambler. She just hoped he’d never lose.

They were downstairs in the lobby again half an hour later.

“Where are we going?”

“Vanessi’s. Best pasta in town. Don’t you know San Francisco?”

“Not very well. I was here as a child, and once about ten years ago for a party. But I didn’t see very much. We had dinner someplace Polynesian, and stayed at a hotel on Nob Hill. I remember the cable car, and that’s about it. I was out here with Edward and Totie.”

“That doesn’t sound like much fun. Jesus, you don’t know this town at all.”

“Nope. But now I’ve seen the Ritz, and you can show me the rest.” She hugged his arm and they exchanged a peaceful smile.

Vanessi’s was crowded, even at ten. Artists, writers, newspaper people, an after-theater crowd, politicians, and debutantes. It was jammed with a fair sampling of everything there was in town. And Luke had been right. The pasta was great. She had gnocchi, and he had fettuccine, and for dessert they shared an unforgettable zabaglione.

She sat back with her espresso and took a lazy look around.

“You know, it kind of reminds me of Gino’s, in New York, only better.”

“Everything in San Francisco is better. I’m in love with this town.”

She smiled at him and took a sip of the hot coffee.

“The only trouble is that the whole city goes dead at midnight.”

“Tonight I think I might too. Christ, it’s already two-thirty in the morning, my time.”

“Are you beat, babe?” He looked almost worried. She was so small and looked so fragile. But he knew she was a lot tougher than she looked. He had already glimpsed that.

“No. I’m just relaxed. And happy. And content. And that bed at the Ritz is like falling asleep on a cloud.”

“Yeah. Isn’t it though?” He reached across the table and took her hand, and then she saw him glance at something over her shoulder with knit brows. She turned around to see what it was. It was only a table of men.

“People you know?”

“In a way.” His whole face had hardened, and his hand had seemed to lose interest in hers. It was a group of five men, with short, well-trimmed hair, double-knit suits, and light ties. They looked faintly like gangsters.

“Who are they?” She turned to face him again.

“Pigs.” He said it matter of factly.

“Police?”

He nodded. “Yeah, special detail investigators, assigned to digging up trouble for people like me.”

“Don’t be so paranoid. They’re just having dinner here, Luke. Like we are.”

“Yeah. I guess so.” But they had dampened his mood, and shortly after, they left.

“Luke … you have nothing to hide. Do you?” They were walking down Broadway now, past the barkers at all the topless bars. But the table of cops still weighed on their minds.

“No. But that guy who was sitting at the end of the table has been on my ass since I got into town. I’m getting sick of it.”

“He wasn’t following you tonight. He was having dinner with his friends.” The group of policemen had shown no interest in their table. “Wasn’t he?” Now she was worried too. Very.

“I don’t know, Mama. I just don’t like their trip. A pig is a pig … is a pig.” He licked one end of a cigar, lit it, and looked down at her face. “And I’m a sonofabitch to throw my bad vibes on you. I just don’t like cops, baby. That’s the name of the game. And let’s face it, I’ve been playing heavy games with the strike at San Quentin. Seven guards were killed during the three weeks.” For a moment, he wondered if he had been wrong to stick around.

They wandered into porn bookstores, watched tourists on the street, and finally ambled onto Grant Avenue, cluttered with coffeehouses and poets, but the police stayed on their minds, however little they showed it to each other. And Luke was once again aware of being tailed.

Kezia tried to lighten his mood by playing tourist.

“It looks rather like SoHo, only more funky somehow. You can tell it’s been around for a while.”

“Yeah, it has. It’s the old Italian neighborhood, and there are a lot of Chinese. And kids, and artists. It’s a good scene.” He bought her an ice cream cone, and they took a cab to the Ritz. It was four in the morning for Kezia by then, and in the arms of her lover she slept like a child. Something troubled her only faintly as she drifted off to sleep—something about police … and Luke … and spaghetti. They were trying to take away his spaghetti … or … she couldn’t figure it out. She was too tired. And much, much too happy.

She had fallen asleep as he watched her, a smile on his face as he stroked the long black hair that rippled past her naked shoulders and down her back. She looked so beautiful to him. And he was already so goddamn in love with her.

How was he ever going to tell her? He slipped quietly out of bed after she fell asleep, and went to look at the view. He had blown it, blown all his own rules. What a fucking stupid thing to do. He had no right to someone like Kezia. He had no right to anyone until he knew. But he had wanted her, had to have her—as an ego trip at first because of who she was. And now? Now it was all different. He needed her. He loved her. He wanted to give her something of himself … even if only the last golden hours before sunset. Moments like that don’t come every day, at most they come once in a lifetime. But now he knew he would have to tell her. The question was, how?

Chapter 18

“Lucas, you’re a beast!” She groaned as she turned over in bed. “For God’s sake, it’s still dark.”

“It’s not dark, it’s just foggy. And breakfast in this joint is at seven.”

“I’ll go without.”

“No, you won’t. We have things to do.”

“Lucas … please …” He watched her struggle out of sleep. His hair was combed, his teeth were brushed, his eyes were bright. He had been up since five. He had a lot on his mind.

“Kezia, if you don’t get off your ass, I’ll keep you on it all day. And then you’ll be sorry!” He ran his hand smoothly from her breast to her belly.

“Who says I’ll be sorry?”

“Don’t tempt me. But come on, babe. I want to show you the town.”

“In the middle of the night? Can’t it wait a few hours?”

“It’s seven-fifteen.”

“Oh God, I’m dying.”

And then, laughing at her, he picked her up out of bed, and deposited her in the bathtub of warm water he had run while she slept.

“I figured you wouldn’t be up to a shower this morning.”

“Lucas, I love you.” The hot water lulled her gently, as she lay looking sleepily into his eyes. “You spoil me. No wonder I love you.”

“I figured there had to be a reason. And don’t take too long. They close the kitchen at eight, and I want some food in my stomach before I drag you around town.”

“Drag me, eh?” She closed her eyes and sank deeper into the tub. It was an ancient bathtub that stood high off the floor on gold-leaf claw feet. It would have been large enough for both of them.

They breakfasted on pancakes and fried eggs and bacon. And for the first morning in years, Kezia didn’t even bother to read the paper. She was on holiday, and she didn’t give a damn what the world had to say. “The world” would only complain, and she was not in the mood for complaints. She felt too good to be bothered with that.

“So where are you taking me, Lucas?”

“Back to bed.”

“What? You got me up, just to go back to bed?” She looked incensed and he laughed.

“Later. Later. First, we take a look at the town.”

He drove her through Golden Gate Park and they walked around its lakes and kissed in hidden corners under still-flowering trees. Everything was still green and in bloom. The rusty look of the East in November was so different, and so much less romantic. They had tea in the Japanese Garden, and then drove out to the beach before driving back through the Presidio to look out over the bay. She was having a ball: Fisherman’s Wharf, Ghiradelli Square, The Cannery….

They ate fresh crab and shrimp at the stands at the wharf, and reveled in the noise of Italian vendors. They watched old men playing boccie in Aquatic Park, and she smiled watching one very old man teach his grandson how to play. Tradition. Luke smiled too, watching her. She had a way of seeing things that he had never thought of before. She always had a sense of history, of what had come before and what would come later. It was something to which he’d never given much thought. He lived with his feet firmly planted in now. It was an exchange they gave to each other. She gave him a sense of her past, and he taught her to live where she was.

As the fog lifted, they left their borrowed car down at the wharf, and took the cable car to Union Square. It made her laugh as they rolled down the hills. For the first time in her life she felt like a tourist. Usually she moved across a regulated map between familiar houses in cities she had known all her life, from the homes of old friends to the homes of other old friends, wherever she was, the world over. From one familiar world to another. But with Luke being a tourist was fun. Everything was. And he loved the way she enjoyed what he showed her. It was a fun town to show—pretty, and easy, and not too crowded at that time of year. The rugged natural beauty of the bay and the hills made a pleasing contrast to the architectural treasures of the town; skyscrapers all politely herded downtown, the gingerbread Victorians nestled in Pacific Heights, and the small colorful shops of Union Street.

They drove over the Golden Gate Bridge just because she wanted to see it “up close,” and she was enchanted.

“What a handsome piece of work, isn’t it, Luke?” Her eyes scanned far above to its spires piercing the fog.

“So are you.”

They dined that night at one of the Italian restaurants on Grant Avenue. A place with four tables for eight where you sat next to strangers, and made friends as you shared soup and broke bread. She talked to everyone at their table; this was new to her too. Luke grinned as he watched her. What would they have said if they had known she was Kezia Saint Martin? The idea made him laugh more. Because they wouldn’t have known. They were plumbers and students, bus drivers and their wives. Kezia Saint Who? She was safe. With him, and with them. That pleased him; he knew that she needed a place where she could play, without fear of reporters and gossip. She had blossomed in the brief time since she’d flown into town. She needed that kind of peace and release. He was glad it was something he could give her.

They stopped for a drink at a place called Perry’s on Union Street before going home. It reminded her a bit of P. J.’s in New York. And they decided to walk home from there. It was a pleasant walk over the hills, dotted with small parks along the way. The foghorns were bleating at the edge of the bay, and she kept stride beside him, holding his hand.

“God, Luke. I’d love to live here.”

“It’s a good place. And you don’t even know it yet.”

“Not even after today?”

“That’s just the tourist stuff. Tomorrow we see the real thing.”

They spent the next day driving north on the coast Sanson Beach, Inverness, Point Reyes. It was a rugged coastline that looked much like Big Sur farther south. Waves crashing against the cliffs, gulls and hawks soaring high, long expanses of hills, and sudden sweeps of beaches, unpopulated and seeming almost to be touched by the hand of God. Kezia knew what Luke had meant. This was a far cry from the wharf. This was real, and incredibly beautiful, not merely diverting.

They had an early dinner in a Chinese restaurant on Grant Avenue, and Kezia was in high spirits. They were seated in a little booth with a curtain drawn over the doorway and you could hear giggles and murmurs in other booths, and beyond, the clatter of dishes and the tinkling sound of Chinese spoken by the waiters. Kezia loved it, and it was a restaurant Luke knew well, one of his favorite hangouts in town. He had been there the night before she arrived, to tie up the loose ends about the strike at San Quentin. It was an odd thing, talking about dead men and inmates over fried wonton. It seemed immoral somehow, when he gave it much thought, but mostly he didn’t. They had learned to accept what they lived with. The realities of men in prison, and the cost of changing that system. It cost some men their lives. Luke and his friends were the generals, the inmates were the soldiers, the prison administrators the enemy. It was all very simple.