The Carlton Club (21 page)

“Beer,” he said. His voice was husky. It would be impossible to stop now. Impossible to lighten the mood. It wasn’t what either of them wanted.

Leslie traced his lips with her fingers and felt her body sway toward his as if James’s body were a powerful seductive magnet.

“I want to be closer to you,” he whispered. He unzipped her ski jacket, then his. As he kissed her again, James removed her jacket and her navy blue V neck sweater until all she had against the cold, April night air was a cotton blouse, a pair of blue jeans and the warmth of James’s body. He murmured against her hair as he pulled her tight against him, “Too cold?”

“No,” she whispered, cuddling against him, feeling her body fit into his.

He kissed her mouth, her hair and her long ivory neck. His hands felt the soft fullness of her breasts under the light cotton blouse. Leslie moved closer, her breasts welcoming his hands, wanting their touch, her hips pressing rhythmically against his. James unbuttoned her blouse and found the velvety warmth of her breasts and the strong pounding of her young athletic heart.

Without thinking, without urging from James, because it felt right, and she wanted to, Leslie took her hand from the cool damp skin of his back to his belt buckle. Then, confidently, she loosened his belt and unbuttoned the top button of his jeans.

“Leslie! Where are you?”

James and Leslie froze.

It was midnight. Betty, Joanne and Robin were ready to leave. The party was over.

“I have to go,” Leslie whispered, pulling away from him, buttoning her blouse.

“I’ll give you a ride home,” James said calmly.

“Now?”

“In a while. I’ll get you home on time,” he said staring at her.
Don’t leave, Leslie, not yet
.

“Leslie! Come on!” The voices were getting closer.

The spell was broken. The privacy invaded. Leslie couldn’t hold James’s gaze. She couldn’t look in his eyes and tell him that she didn’t want to stay.

“I have to go, James,” she said, bending down to pick up her sweater and her jacket.

James shrugged. Then he casually rebuttoned his jeans and rebuckled his belt. He swung his jacket over his shoulder and took a swallow of beer.

“OK, Leslie, let’s go,” he said and began walking toward the cabin.

“There you are,” Joanne said as she spotted James and Leslie emerging from the shadows of the woods.

“Time to go?” Leslie asked. What was she doing? She wanted to go back in the woods with James. Was he angry with her? He acted like it didn’t matter, but he had asked her to stay.

Leslie noticed Alan leaning, sulkily, against the cabin door. She stared at him for a moment. I don’t owe you an apology, Alan. Not for anything, her eyes blazed defiantly.

Leslie knew that they were all watching her, wondering what she had been doing with James in the woods and what was happening with Alan.

Leave me alone, Leslie wanted to scream. Leave me alone with James.

She turned, expecting to find James still beside her, but he had withdrawn. He leaned against his motorcycle, slowly dragging on a cigarette, watching her.

Without a word, Leslie got into the back seat of Betty’s station wagon.

Two weeks later James telephoned Leslie. Susan answered.

“Dr. Adams, this is James. May I speak to Leslie, please?”

Susan found her daughter.

“Leslie, it’s James. Did you tell him I got my PhD?”

“James! What? No. You just got it a week ago. I may have told him you would get it this spring,” Leslie said as she rushed past Susan to the phone.

“James?”

“Hi, Leslie.”

She had never spoken to him over the telephone. Leslie sat down, then stood up, then twisted the cord in her hands.

“Hi.”

“Do you want to go to the Senior Prom with me?”

“Yes,” she breathed. Yes! Yes! Then she said quietly, “But I can’t.”

“Oh. Oh?”

“Alan already asked me.”

“Alan,” James said flatly. Then he asked, “Are you still going to Radcliffe?”

“Yes. Of course,” Leslie answered distractedly as she tried to decide if she could cancel her date with Alan and go with James. She knew that she couldn’t. It would be too rude. She explained, “Alan realizes that he and I don’t have a future, but he thought we should go to the Prom together anyway. For old times’ sake.”

“Great.”

“I already said yes,” Leslie said brusquely, angry with Alan for asking her so soon and angry with James for not asking her sooner.

“Well, have a nice time,” James said.

“James,” Leslie began.

“What?”

“Thank you for asking me.” Ask me to do something else.
Anything else
, she thought.

“Sure,” he said. Then, just before he hung up, he added, “See ya, Leslie.”

James didn’t see Leslie except from a distance. Six weeks later they graduated from Roosevelt High School. Leslie graduated first in the class. She was given the Rosemaiden award for the third time and received a special award for service and a scholarship from a local society. Leslie was voted the girl Most Likely to Succeed.

James graduated in the middle of the class. Despite his ability, his overall performance had been erratic. James received no awards. He had been nominated Most Likely To Get Arrested, Most Likely To Get Someone Pregnant and Most Likely To Die Of Lung Cancer. Leslie assumed the nominations had been submitted by some of her friends. Since she was on the Senior Class Graduating Committee, Leslie was able to intercept and discard the nominations for James before they were placed on the ballot.

In August, two months after graduation, Leslie saw James for the last time.

Leslie, Joanne, Robin and Betty were at the Seattle Center. It was a beautiful balmy summer evening, a perfect evening to go to the center and watch the fabulous light show at the water fountain. It was one of the few evenings they had left before disbanding for college, one last chance to celebrate their friendship, reminisce about high school and forecast the unknown, exciting future that lay ahead.

The serious conversations between Leslie and her girlfriends usually degenerated into irrepressible giggling. Or singing. Or dancing. They were happy; their lives were good and full of promise.

Usually their exuberant behavior was unwitnessed, except by each other, and confined to the privacy of a slumber party or a remote stretch of sandy beach, but that August night they were too happy, too eager, too full of anticipation. They sang and danced unselfconsciously around the colorfully illuminated water fountain.

Leslie did a pirouette without watching where the spin was taking her and pulled up abruptly just before colliding with James.

James
. He had his arms around a girl, no, a woman. She was a pretty woman, dressed up, who clung to James and eyed Leslie and the others with curious nonthreatened amusement.

“James!” Leslie gasped.

“Leslie,” he said, pulling away slightly from the woman. Enough, at least, to take a deep breath.

“Leslie, this is Cheryl. Cheryl, this is Leslie. And Joanne. And Betty. And Robin.”

Leslie’s friends viewed James with new curiosity. He wore slacks and a sport coat. He almost looked presentable. And Cheryl, older and sophisticated, was clearly intrigued with James.

Leslie could not speak. Her face was already flushed from exercise and exuberance. Now the warmth became hot and the color deepened for other reasons: embarrassment and mortification.

And something else. An emotion washed through Leslie that she didn’t recognize. It was new to her and strong, whatever it was.

“You’re not logging this summer?” Leslie blurted out. Why did I ask that, she wondered. Because I want her to know that I know James. That I know about James. That he is
mine
. The emotion was slowly, painfully, coming into focus.

“Yes, I am. I just came into town for the weekend.”

To spend the weekend with Cheryl.

“Oh, well. Nice to see you, James. Nice to meet you, Cheryl,” Leslie said with finality. She was suddenly desperate to get away.

“Goodbye, Leslie.”

The feeling, the new emotion, stayed with Leslie, demanding definition, for two days. It was a gnawing, uneasy feeling. When she finally realized what it was and that she could only purge it by admitting it to him, Leslie wrote the letter.

Dear James,

It is jealousy, I realize, after fighting with it ever since I saw you with Cheryl. I am so jealous of her for being with you! For having you. For being your girlfriend.

I always wanted to be your girlfriend. I even thought I would be, when and if you decided to have a girlfriend. Silly, huh? Well, I’ll survive, but it feels better to admit it. Even though you may be laughing.

As long as I’ve gone this far, since I’ll probably never see you again, I might as well tell all. I think you’re wonderful (I know you know this). So sensitive and talented. I enjoyed being with you so much (I am so jealous of Cheryl!).

I wish a lot of things, I guess, a lot of
what ifs
.

But, mostly, I wish you happiness.

Always,

Leslie

Leslie mailed the letter to James at the logging company in Snoqualmie, Washington. Leslie didn’t reread it. She might not have mailed it if she had.

She wanted James to know her feelings for him had been real. Not silly. Not whimsical. It was important for her to tell him.

She decided that it didn’t matter if James never acknowledged the letter. It didn’t require an answer. But in the two weeks between the time she mailed it and the time she boarded the plane for Boston, a part of Leslie waited. Her heart pounded when the phone rang or the mail arrived or the doorbell rang.

But she didn’t hear from James.

Not then. Not at all for nine years.

Not until that day in August when she was paged by the Department of Medicine secretary with a message to call Mr. James Stevenson.

Ross MacMillan watched Janet out of the corner of his eye, eager to see her reaction to mid week, mid morning Manhattan. Their limousine moved stealthily along the narrow, crowded side streets, smoothly dodging cars and pedestrians.

She has to think this is fabulous, Ross thought. His own heart pumped more swiftly, energized and stimulated by the activity that surrounded him: the fast, purposeful pace of the streets of Manhattan. Ross loved New York City. Even in August, even in the midst of the worst heat wave in recent memory, he loved it.

Usually Ross took August off. It was the only natural break between the theater seasons. Usually he spent August in Carmel, leading a slow-paced, no-paced existence. Usually that month of enforced rest was a necessary break.

But this was not a usual year. This was the year of
Joanna
. This year there was too much to do. There was no time to take a break.

Just a week ago they closed
Joanna
in San Francisco. The show had already been held over twelve weeks. Every performance had been sold out. There were still many theatergoers on the West Coast who wanted to see
Joanna
, but they had to end the run. They were taking the show to Broadway.

Ross and Janet had arrived in New York City the night before.
Joanna
was scheduled to open on Broadway in November. Ross was co-producing the New York production with Arthur Watts. Ross’s maximum involvement would be in the preproduction phases, in the next three weeks, since he had to return to San Francisco by mid September to give his undivided attention to the fall season at his own theater.

With two minor exceptions, all members of the original San Francisco company agreed to move to New York. No arm twisting was required. It was the chance of a lifetime to play on Broadway in an already critically acclaimed and box-office proven musical. The two company members that could not leave San Francisco “indefinitely” agonized for weeks over their decision.

It made life easier for Arthur and Ross that they would have the original company. It made it possible to close in San Francisco and open in New York in such a short period of time. The preproduction activity would focus on logistic, not artistic considerations.

They also both knew that the only cast member who was truly critical to the success of the smooth transcontinental move was Janet. It was her show. It was Janet’s talent and energy and her unflagging professionalism that inspired tireless excellence from the rest of the cast. Janet was the unassuming and masterful leader. She quietly set a standard which they all, out of love or respect or pure role modeling, followed.

Janet was critical to the successful move, and Janet had not yet signed the contract. She had not yet agreed to star in the Broadway production of her show. She told Ross that she had never been to New York and that she was happy in San Francisco. She would have to see New York before deciding.

So Janet and Ross flew to New York in August to see New York.

Ross watched her calmly surveying the Manhattan scene through the tinted glass of the limousine.

Despite the fact that he had spent the past eight months working with Janet, Ross could not tell what thoughts lurked behind the gray. He was the director, and she was the star; together they had created a masterpiece. Their professional relationship was intense, intimate and creative, but he knew nothing—except the brief bits Kathleen had told him because of Mark—about her personal life. About who she was.

And the clear gray eyes provided no clue.

Until yesterday, on the flight from San Francisco to New York, Ross had never been alone with Janet outside the theater. Ross looked forward to the five-hour flight, sitting next to her in the first class cabin. It would give him a chance to talk to her, to get to know her. But Janet started to read as soon as the plane took off from San Francisco International Airport.

Ross watched Janet read. She was completely absorbed in the book.

“Is that good?” he asked finally, gesturing to her book, Ken Follett’s
Eye of the Needle
.

“Very good,” she said.

“I wouldn’t think spy novels would be your thing.”

“It’s not just a spy novel. In fact, it’s more about relationships between men and women. Desires, needs—” Janet stopped abruptly and looked back at her book.

“Are you looking forward to seeing New York?” Ross pushed, pressing his advantage. She was a little off guard.

“I’m mostly nervous.”

“Nervous?” he asked with amazement. He didn’t think Janet had nerves. Just cool, steely calm and limitless energy.

“Of course.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m afraid that I won’t like it. That I won’t be able to do the show there. And that will make you and Arthur angry with me.”

Ross stared at her. He realized that she was being honest, and he realized for the first time that her decision about New York was not simply a matter of choice. Janet was not simply a star being stubborn. It had seemed out of character for her to behave like a prima donna. It wasn’t her style. Her resistance to moving with the company to New York seemed inexplicable. As far as Ross could tell, Janet had no ties in San Francisco. Her injured but recovering ex-husband was in love with Kathleen.

Ross realized that Janet’s reluctance about committing herself to the move to New York, sight unseen, was not a matter of whimsy. It was a matter of ability. Janet would move to New York if she could. If she could stand it. But why wouldn’t she?

Now as he watched Janet watch Manhattan, Ross wondered what she was thinking. Did she like it? How couldn’t she like it?

As they rode toward the theater where
Joanna
would play, Janet said nothing, and her expression didn’t change.

They were met at the theater by Arthur, the director, the choreographer, the stage manager and the costume designer.

Arthur kissed Janet on the cheek.

“Hello, dear,” he said brushing her cheeks lightly with his lips. “You look lovely.”

“Hello, Arthur. Thank you,” she said, smiling.

She likes Arthur, Ross observed. Maybe that will help. Ross wasn’t convinced that Janet liked him
_}
but of course he couldn’t tell. There were no clues.

Janet walked around the theater and paced slowly on the stage.

“It’s deeper than the one in San Francisco,” she said, finally. “And not as wide. You’ll have to restage at least two numbers.”

“That’s no problem.”

She nodded.

“Janet, I want to hear the acoustics,” Ross said. “Arthur claims they’re the best in New York.”

“OK. Do you want me to sing something?”

“Yes. Sing
Dreaming
, please, while I walk all around.”

Without answering Janet began to sing.
Dreaming
was the song that had made her famous in San Francisco. It was a haunting love song.

Ross had heard her sing it hundreds of times, but still, even now, even as he paced from one extreme of the theater to the other, it moved him, sending a tingling shiver through him.

“God, she’s good,” Arthur whispered to Ross.

“The best.”

“Is she going to come?”

“I have no idea.”

“What can we do to convince her?”

“Probably nothing we do will make a difference. She’ll just decide. But what have you planned?” Ross asked, half listening to Janet sing, knowing that she would turn them down, wondering why.

“After an elegant lunch, I thought we could look at places to live. The theater has options on several penthouses earmarked precisely for imported talent like Janet. They are all spectacular. The best in New York. I don’t think she’ll be able to resist.”

Ross shrugged. He had heard rumors that Janet lived in a small cottage in the country. Maybe they should drive to Connecticut.

“Then we could take a look at Fifth Avenue. That’s pretty dazzling.”

Ross didn’t know what, if anything, dazzled Janet. Certainly not her own fame. It seemed to please her, but it didn’t seem to matter to her. Janet didn’t wear expensive clothes or jewelry, even though, because of
Joanna
, she could easily afford them. And the salary she was being offered to star in the New York production could make her a regular buyer at any boutique in the world.

They visited the penthouses, shopped on Fifth Avenue, went to the top of the World Trade Center and saw the Statue of Liberty. Janet wasn’t dazzled, but she was wide-eyed and smiling and polite.

“Magnificent,” she murmured appreciatively at the sight of the Statue of Liberty.

They dined at Manhattan’s trendiest restaurant. They were seated immediately because Arthur was recognized and Arthur was powerful. They were seated ahead of other less prominent, but substantial, clients, many of whom had reservation times before Arthur’s. That was the way the restaurant operated. Clients were seated, or not, at the discretion of the maitre d’. Reservations, even ones made months in advance, were a minor consideration. Arthur usually appeared without reservations and was always seated promptly.

Arthur, Ross, and Janet were joined by three other theater principals—two women and a man—all of whom were committed to wooing the reluctant Janet to New York. If they expected a woman who simply needed an extra dose of flattery or the unending reassurances that many superstars required, they were surprised. Janet had none of the usual airs. She wasn’t playing games. In fact, had they not known who she was, they would barely have recognized the quiet young woman studying the menu, artfully concealing her horror at the prices, as the romantic captivating star of
Joanna
.

The subject of Janet’s decision was not discussed, but they eagerly discussed the upcoming production as if Janet would be in it. Ross watched her carefully. He couldn’t tell.

Early in the evening Janet seemed intrigued with observing the people around her, New York’s wealthiest, in designer dresses, perfectly coiffed, bejeweled and elegant on this Wednesday evening in August. Janet did not recognize many faces. She didn’t recognize their faces; but she instantly appreciated their wealth and power, and she would have recognized the names of the companies they owned and the people they controlled.

As the evening wore on and the conversation fortified by fine wine and gourmet food became more animated, Janet withdrew. Fifteen people had stopped by the table to speak with Arthur and to meet Janet. She smiled graciously, nodded pleasantly at their compliments—many had flown to San Francisco expressly to see her in
Joanna
—and then grew progressively quiet as each successive well wisher left.

By the time the cream of asparagus soup was served, Ross’s attention had been commandeered away from Janet by Stacy, one of the two women who had joined them for dinner. Stacy decided early on that she would have little impact on Janet’s decision—of course Janet would decide to move anyway—and turned her full attention to Ross.

By the time the china plates, empty except for Janet’s, were being expertly and unobtrusively removed from the table, Stacy’s hand equally expertly massaged Ross’s inner thigh.

It was only when Arthur suggested that they go to his club for dessert and dancing that Ross forced his attention away from Stacy to Janet. They would go to Arthur’s club if Janet wanted to.

Ross looked across the table, expecting to see Janet’s placid smile, and did a double take. Janet wasn’t smiling, although she seemed to be trying to. Her full lips were quivering, and her always calm and serene eyes were turbulent. Stormy. Troubled.

Ross stood up abruptly, dislodging Stacy’s hand, and walked around the table to Janet’s chair. He casually rested his hand on her shoulder.

“I think Janet and I will pass on the rest of the festivities. It’s been a long day. We both have a little jet lag,” he said, gently lifting Janet up as he spoke. She came willingly.

Ross guided her quickly to the coat room and into a waiting cab that took them speedily to the Plaza.

It was midnight. The streets of Manhattan were still crowded, full of activity, full of the life and energy that Ross loved—the life and energy that, somehow, were too much for Janet. If that was the problem. Ross waited for her to tell him, watching her cower, trembling in the far corner of the cab, her head bent down, her eyes staring at her hands.

Janet said nothing.

They rode in silence on the elevator to the floor of suites at the Plaza. They had adjacent suites. Janet’s hand trembled as she aimed her key at the keyhole. Ross took the key and opened her door for her. Then he followed her inside her suite.

“So?” he asked finally.

“So I can’t do it, Ross. I’m sorry,” she said, tears spilling from her opaque gray eyes like raindrops from a thunder cloud. Her eyes were dark, ominous.

“Why?” he asked helplessly, not expecting an answer.

“I can’t live here. I am so out of place.”

“You aren’t at all out of place. You are special.”

“I can’t breathe here. I can’t rest or relax. Everything, everyone moves so fast. Expects so much.”

I know, Ross thought, that’s what I love about New York: being part of that activity, feeling the pace, keeping up with the pace.