Loonglow (11 page)

“I can't stand another minute of this.” Kevin put down the mock chapter. Louey's face was red. “I'm going to die.”

“But not alone,” said Louey, her stomach sore from laughing. “Lucky everyone's gone home, or we'd be fired.”

“Don't you think they know the reverence with which you treat your authors?” Kevin rose and got his things together. “You're not fooling anyone, dollface.”

“That's what I hired
you
for, isn't it?” He put his coat on. “Walking home?” His face lit up. The two of them walked home together with a frequency that scandalized (and baffled) the whole office, but Kevin never failed to beam at her suggestion, as if the occasion might not come his way again. “Need protection?”

“I thought you'd never ask,” said Kevin.

I broke away from her, moving to the farthest corner of the elevator and turning my back. Was she crazy? I peered over my shoulder; except for the fact of her complete nakedness, she might just as well have been a corporate executive waiting to interview me herself. I knelt, giving myself a serene mental picture to focus on, stretching my foot out to reclaim my pants.

Strange hands softly stole over my back, tracing the muscles to make me shiver. Soft breasts pressed against me and a hot tongue began lapping at my neck as if it was the most natural thing in the world for a stranger to do. As lethally skilled fingers crept down the front of me, I realized I was losing what little grip on rational thought I had managed to retain. After a few more moments of this, I realized I had no choice but to turn around and see what she could possibly have in mind for me.

“Creatures from Mars,” Kevin called straight men. “So,” he asked after they'd been walking for some time, “having dinner with the New Age Man?” She nodded. “Again? What do you see in him?” A painstakingly well-dressed executive passed, his lip curling at the sight of Kevin, who glanced at Louey, rolling his eyes. “That boy's far too nice and pretty to be truly straight,” he added.

“Somehow I don't think he'd agree.”

“I can see I'm going to need to have some words with him. He's ruining your reputation.”

“All he wants from me are my brilliant insights.”

“Poor child.” Kevin covered his eyes. “How little you know of the world.”

She laughed. In a moment they'd arrived at Kevin's building. “Need anything before I go?” he asked. “Illegal drugs, fresh weapons?”

She declined politely. “Now go make yourself irresistible.”

“That should take some doing,” he said. “But keep a kind thought.”

It made no sense, thought Louey as she walked the rest of her way home: Clay simply shouldn't be someone she could spend effortless hours with. On all the basics they were as different as two people could be. No doubt he'd been raised to have contempt (or at best pity) for everything she stood for, everything she was. How could he know what it was like to be a woman, Jewish, gay? Christ, she thought, he wasn't even middle-class.

So why was she so comfortable with him? It baffled her. He seemed delighted by her in a purely selfless way—and he was so soft-spoken that often his wry humor caught her totally off-guard. He had none of the neurosis she'd always considered a necessary part of the urban personality she otherwise adored. Was it possible that someone could be intelligent and worldly without being frantic and intense or temperamental and unrelentingly self-involved? He's so much
fun
, she thought ruefully, shaking her head. She'd never known a person so apparently without conceit or ego, so agreeable without being spineless or dull.

It was true she'd never known anyone really rich before; perhaps wealth gave one the luxury of selflessness. She could only speculate, however, as Clay was reluctant to talk about money, his family, or anything truly personal. He was curious about her, she knew, and she spoke easily about her childhood, her theories, her foolish aspirations.

One topic was never broached, however: her love life, and her past with Mia. She knew he wanted more than anything to ask but wouldn't dare pry into her private life. She wondered if she'd ever want to tell him about Mia, if she'd ever be able to talk about it dispassionately, especially to someone like Clay. Still, she thought, as long as he hoarded his own secrets, he could hardly expect her to reveal hers.

Clay was awakened from a late night's work by the tail end of his father's voice on his machine. It was unusual for him to sleep through the phone's ringing, unheard of to sleep through a message. Yet lately it had become harder and harder to wrench himself from sleep. Despite the high of working on the book with Louey, he'd begun to find himself slipping into melancholy with increasing frequency. As he considered the third paternal wedding party in three years (this one no doubt with a pre-teen—his father's mates had been getting progressively nearer his own age), he realized why he'd been so morose the past few weeks. He dialed Louey's number.

“I've been calling all your other authors and telling them you're dead.”

“Again?”

“I just thought you should know.”

“Kevin?!” Louey called, and Kevin poked his head into her office. “Do we know a Pamela Kelly Boone III? She seems to feel she has some business with us.”

“We don't associate with white trash,” Kevin said. She handed him the receiver. “I'm terribly sorry, but Miss Mercer is no longer with Regent Boob,” he explained sweetly.

“I'm afraid we couldn't put up with her kleptomania any longer.”

“Nancy Reagan, please,” Clay said.

“Speaking.”

“Let's talk about those dresses, babe. I mean, put a little meat on those bones! You look like a carcass.”

“Ron likes me this way,” Kevin said smugly.

“And who can blame him? God”—Clay sighed—“if only he did appreciate the likes of you, we'd be better off.”

“Tell me, is there any reason I should give you back to Louey?”

“How does eight million dollars sound?”

“Reason enough.” Kevin handed back the phone. A moment later he had vacated Louey's office and left Clay to see how she would respond to his latest plot development.

The past six months working with Louey had been more satisfying than he'd imagined possible, that was what was getting to him. That the project might be nearing its conclusion meant he'd no longer have any excuse to see her as he did now—so often that she seemed the most constant presence in his life. The thought depressed him beyond words. He'd never had a friend like her: so quick, so interested in wildly different things, as able to be transformed into a silly, giddy child as she was capable of sudden depths of understanding that made him feel almost in awe of her.

“I'm calling with a proposition,” he said now.

“You mean the complete annihilation of my other authors was mere fabrication?” She sounded disappointed. “And I was so happy for a time …”

He hesitated: would she be offended by his invitation? “Actually, I wasn't calling about business, Louey. It seems my father is throwing a party for my stepmother—the third in a continuing series—and I was wondering if you'd consider being my escort.”

She was silent so long that he wondered if he'd made one step too many over the line of their professional relationship. His spirits sank. She obviously had no interest in him as a friend, apart from their work together.

“When?” her voice came, interrupting his thoughts.

“Uh—next Monday, actually; it's at my father's tastelessly overfurnished apartment on Gramercy Park.”

“How is your father?” she said.

He laughed. “Asks after you constantly.”

“How formal would I have to be?”

“Oh, I'll get you a dress—”

She interrupted him, but he silenced her protests, for the first time almost eagerly anticipating what lay ahead. With Louey, being in his father's home might actually prove interesting. Whatever would she make of his family?

“You're crazy,” she said, laughing, “and I have to get back to work. Go call Audrey Hepburn and buy
her
a dress. I'll talk to you later, Clay.”

Smiling, he hung up. Brushing aside a possible explanation for his sudden high spirits as quickly as it arose, he ran his fingers through his hair and turned to brave the streets of New York.

The weekend was beautiful, clear and unusually warm for spring. Clay's cab maneuvered through the narrow streets bustling with people dressed in shirtsleeves, sitting on apartment stoops or walking around to soak up the sudden wealth of sunlight. As he looked out the car window, the pent-up energy that always burst forth from the city with the first sign of warm weather was threatening to reach a fever pitch.

Louey lived in a tiny walk-up apartment in a neighborhood Clay wouldn't have chosen to pass through voluntarily in daylight, much less picked to live in. He rang her buzzer, looking at his watch. It was two o'clock.

No answer: Clay cursed his impulsiveness. He should have called her first. If he'd come earlier, or called, he might have caught her in. Halfheartedly he pressed the button again, glancing down the street. He had just turned to leave when the return buzzer came, letting him in.

Clay scaled the five flights of stairs, not fully certain it was Louey who had responded to his buzz. Sometimes in apartments like these anyone who heard a buzzer would answer it; he'd been greeted on other stairs by unfamiliar grizzled faces, bathrobes, curlers.

He rang her doorbell. There was the sound of movement inside, and a faint “Who is it?” The voice was barely awake, incredulous that someone might be there.

“It's Clay, Louey, Clayton Lee. Have I come at a bad time?”

She opened the door, wearing a dark blue robe several sizes too big that she'd clearly flung on hastily. (It slipped off one shoulder to bare the pale, creamy skin of a nine-year-old.)

“I woke you.”

“No, that's okay,” she said vaguely, yawning. “I should be up, anyway.” She blushed. “Come on in.” He followed her through the narrow hallway into a small room dominated by a disheveled bed.

“Do you always sleep this late?” he asked. Two o'clock beat even his own record.

“What are you doing here?” She was starting to wake up and peered at him suspiciously. “Don't you normally call before you visit someone?”

“I should have given you some warning. I'm sorry.” Curled up on a corner of the bed, pressed against the wall with her legs crossed yoga-style under her, she looked like a Botticelli angel on the verge of dropping off again. The robe had slipped so that her legs were bared up to the thigh. He was suddenly struck with a fierce longing to disrobe her completely and ease the fatigue off her face. Jesus! He must be out of his mind. He averted his eyes, concentrating on her face. Her eyes flashed sarcasm and annoyance.

“You're really having a good time with this, aren't you?” she said. She was now fully awake. “This is the limit, this beats even my 3 a.m. calls from Bambi.”

It had never occurred to him that she would get so upset. Her eyes were blazing. He hardly knew what to say to her. “I'm sorry,” he tried finally. (Her jaw remained set.) “You're absolutely right. I've been relying on you as if you have nothing else to do but help me. I'll try to be more considerate from now on.”

She waited for him to say more, but he'd finished, and they sat in silence. She laid her hands flat on her knees, studying them intently. It occurred to him that her outburst had taken her as much by surprise as it had him. “Well!” She took a breath. “Now that was fun.”

“I take it you're not much for mornings,” he said, relieved. “Species
Homo nocturnus
, eh?”

“Watch who you're calling homo, pal.” She made a face at him.

“So what do you want to do today?” Clay said. “I was thinking we might get you that dress.”

“Pinhead,” she said, stretching. “For a start, I'd like to take a shower.” She slumped farther into the mattress, sighing loudly as if the thought of moving was too painful to bear. “I do have time for a shower, don't I?” She seemed completely oblivious to him physically, as if he presented not the slightest threat—or interest—to her. It was an odd sensation. Here Clay was, acutely conscious of her body, small, compact, disarming, and very nearly revealed to him. It unnerved him; no doubt she could have dropped her robe and stood naked in front of him without giving a thought to his presence. “Clay?”

“Don't be silly,” he said. “Of course you have time for a shower. Go ahead with whatever you were planning to do before I came.”

“Now there's a novel idea.” She gave him a dirty look, going into the bathroom. A minute later Clay heard the water being turned on, and then the sound of a body entering it. No point in imagining her robe dropping to the floor and the water hitting her bare flesh, the small rounded breasts, the little belly, the smooth, full thighs and dampening triangle between them. He wasn't a masochist—or a fool. There was nothing here for him. It was true he'd never met anyone quite like her—his life had been excruciatingly predictable until he'd come to know her—but he knew better than to expect more from her than occasional distraction from whatever dismal future Fate had planned for him.

He was completely unprepared for the sight of her emerging from the bathroom. Wrapped in a white towel, she shook her hair dry, bending her head slightly to one side and then another as the fine hair stood out in spikes. He wasn't ready for the pang he felt when she twisted to towel the back of a knee and revealed a glimpse of pink breast. What was the meaning of the involuntary quickening of his heart as she walked past him and he inhaled shampoo and clean skin? He wasn't here for that. The smile froze on his face as he tried to implant some reason on his mind, to forestall his senses. She hadn't the slightest interest in him; she would never have the slightest interest in him, not that way. He could not fathom how his practical nature had so abruptly and thoroughly sabotaged him. Surely he could shake this folly; he was merely reacting to externals, to the physical body before him.