Passion's Promise (24 page)

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 dont 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 badl" 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 whiter, 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 brushed the walks in the park, swirling about her feet. Children bounced in the carriage at the pony stand, squealing for another ride. Theanimals 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 youl That's what I meant 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.

"lx>ve 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.

The plane landed at 7:14p.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.