Public Secrets (33 page)

And he had wondered, sitting under the dark cloak of the theater, if Emma would see the movie.

But he didn’t like to think of Emma.

There had been other women. No one serious, but other women. He had his work. It no longer amazed him that he had both a talent and an affection for law enforcement. Perhaps he didn’t have his father’s patience and skill with paperwork, but he thought well on his feet, accepted the long, often monotonous hours of legwork and stakeouts, and had a healthy enough respect for his life not to be trigger-happy.

“I got shot at yesterday,” he said conversationally to Conroy. The dog began, disinterestedly, to scratch for fleas. “If that pervert had gotten lucky, you’d be out in the cold, pal. Don’t delude yourself into thinking that slut would take you in.”

Conroy glanced over, burped, and went back to his fleas.

“One trip to the vet,” Michael muttered as he spooned up cereal. “Just one trip and a couple of snips, and your letching days are over.” Pleased that he’d had the last word, Michael opened the paper.

There was the usual business about the Middle East, the latest in terrorism. Some routine bitching about the economy. Beneath the fold in section B was an article about the capture and arrest of one Nick Axelrod, a small-time second-story man who had hopped himself up on PCP and axed his lover.

“Here’s the guy,” Michael said, holding out the paper for Conroy’s perusal. “Found him in an apartment downtown, shooting up the walls and screaming for Jesus. See, here’s my name. Detective Michael Kettlerung. Yeah, I know, I know, but it’s supposed to be my name. If you’re not interested in current events, why don’t you do something useful, like getting my cigarettes. Go on, fetch.”

Moaning, Conroy started off. He tried a limp, but Michael had gone back to the paper and wasn’t paying attention. Scratching his bare chest, Michael turned to the Entertainment section.

His fingers curled in, fisted, and held against his heart as he stared at the picture.

It was Emma. She looked—God, he thought, she looked outrageous. That shy little smile, those huge, quiet eyes. She was wearing some skimpy strapless dress, and her hair was down, raining over her shoulders in thick, wild waves.

There was an arm over her shoulders as well, and the arm was attached to a man. Michael tore his eyes from Emma’s face long enough to stare at the man.

Drew Larimer. His brain connected face and name. He was smiling, too. Positively fucking beaming, Michael thought. He shifted back to Emma, studying every inch, every angle of her face for a long time. Conroy came in and dumped a slobbery pack of Winstons on his lap. But he didn’t move.

Very slowly, as if it were a foreign language, he read the headline.

R
OCK
P
RINCESS
E
MMA
M
C
A
VOY
M
ARRIES
H
ER
P
RINCE

Michael didn’t read any more. Couldn’t. “Jesus, Emma.” He closed his eyes and let the paper fall back to the table. “Oh, Jesus.”

E
MMA WAS THRILLED
to be back in New York. She could hardly wait to show off the city to Drew, and to spend their first Christmas together in the loft.

It hadn’t mattered to her that their plane had been late, or that a fine icy sleet had been falling. They would have four weeks for the honeymoon that had been delayed by the completion of Drew’s new album. She wanted to spend that time in New York, in her home, as she made the transition from bride to wife.

She had the limo driver take them through midtown so she could show Drew the lights, the people, the majestic tree in Rockefeller Center, the carnival of Times Square.

It delighted her to arrive at the loft knowing she was alone. Finally alone, with no Sweeney in residence downstairs.

“It feels like years since I’ve been here.” She knew Marianne’s father had complained bitterly over their refusal to sublet, but she was glad, so glad to know that no one had lived there in her absence.

“Well?” She combed her fingers through her damp hair. “What do you think?”

“It’s quite a space.” He skimmed over the plaster walls, the bare floors, the kitschy china owl Emma had discovered in a neighborhood thrift shop. “A bit … spartan.”

“Wait until I start decorating for Christmas. Marianne and I collected some truly awful decorations.” She fumbled in her bag for a tip when the driver deposited their luggage with a discreet cough. “Thank you.”

He pocketed the twenty. “Thank you, ma’am. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.” She tossed off her coat and raced to the windows. “Drew, come look at the view. It’s better from Marianne’s studio, but I get dizzy.”

“Very nice.” He saw a dirty street and a maddening crush of traffic. “Emma, I wonder why you never moved into something more upscale.”

“I never wanted to.”

“Well, this is certainly charming, and I’m sure it was fine for two college girls. But we’ll have to do some rethinking.” When she turned, he reached out to brush a hand over her hair. “After
all, we don’t want to share our living quarters with Marianne, however delightful she is.”

“I hadn’t thought … She won’t be back for a couple of months yet.”

“You’d better start thinking.” He took the sting out of the words by kissing her brow. Pretty face and slow wits, he thought, and patted her cheek. “From what I’ve heard it takes a great deal of time, money, and energy to find a place in New York. Since you want to divide our time between here and London, we’ll need the right kind of accommodations. Jesus Christ, it’s cold in here.”

“I had the agent keep the heat back while we were gone.” She hurried over to turn it up.

“Always practical, aren’t you, love?” There was a sneer in his voice, but he was smiling when he turned back to her. “I’m sure we’ll enjoy ourselves here for a couple of weeks. After all, a honeymoon, even a delayed one, doesn’t require much more than a bed.” He laughed when she blushed, then walked over to sweep her up in a long, lusty kiss. “We do have a bed, don’t we, Emma?”

“Yes.” She held him close. “Right through there. It needs fresh linens.”

“We’ll worry about the linens later.” He pulled her through the doorway, tugging at her sweater.

She knew it would be quick, not fierce and painful as it had been on her wedding night, but speedy and soon over. She didn’t know how to ask for more. Though she felt, somewhere in her heart, that there should be more than the rapid groping in the dark. The mattress was cold on her back. But his body, as it entered hers long before she was ready, was hot. She wrapped her arms around him, clinging to the warmth and waiting for the starburst she had only read about.

She shivered when he was done. From the cold, she told herself. Moments later, Drew echoed her thoughts.

“Christ Almighty, it’s like an ice box in here.”

“It won’t take much longer to heat up. I’ve got some blankets in the chest.”

She reached for her sweater, but he closed a hand over hers. “I like looking at your body, Emma. Such a sweet little body, just this side of ripe. There’s no need to be shy in front of me anymore, is there?”

“No.” Awkward, she rose to lift the top of the chest. He fumbled in the pocket of the jacket that was tangled on the floor and found his cigarettes.

“I don’t suppose there’s any food in this place, or a bottle of something to ward off pneumonia.”

“There’s some cognac in the kitchen.” She remembered the bottle she’d opened for Luke. Luke, who was back in Miami, fighting to hang on to life. She laid the pile of sheets and blankets on the foot of the bed. Already she’d shared nearly all her secrets with Drew—except about Johnno, and Luke.

“I didn’t even think about food.” She saw him frown as he brought the cigarette to his lips. “Why don’t I run around the corner to the market? Pick up some things. You can have some cognac and a hot bath. I’ll fix us some dinner.”

“Fine.” It didn’t occur to him to offer to go with her. “Pick me up some cigs too, will you?”

“Sure.” He didn’t stop her when she reached for her sweater again. “It won’t take me long.”

He got up when she left, tugging on his jeans more for comfort than modesty. He poured the cognac first, and though he was annoyed there wasn’t a proper glass for it, he approved the brand.

It amazed him that she’d expected him to applaud the silly barn of a room. A downtown loft, he thought and drank more cognac. He had no intention of living downtown. He’d been waiting to move up all of his life. It was laughable to think that now that he was on his way he would settle for anything less than the best.

He’d grown up in worse, certainly. Sipping, he studied the mural of Emma on the plaster wall and thought of where he’d come from, and where he was going. He couldn’t claim a life in the slums, digging in poverty. But he’d been only shades above it.

A rented house, a muddy yard, mended jeans. He detested coming from the working class, and the father who had kept them there because he’d never had an ounce of ambition. Stoop-shouldered old man, he thought. No spine or balls. Why else would his wife have walked out on him and her three children?

So she’d wanted something better than just eking out a living, Drew mused. How could he blame her? He detested her.

He was going his own way, and that way was straight to the
top. Lifting the glass, he toasted Emma’s portrait. If his eager and naïve little wife could give him a couple of boosts, they’d all live happy.

But he would run the show.

He’d indulge her for a week or two here. And then they’d move uptown. One of those big glitzy and expensive flats off Central Park. That would do for a beginning. He didn’t mind living part of the year in New York. In fact, he thought New York would suit him just fine. Especially with the contacts Emma had there.

Crossing to the stereo, he flipped through albums until he found one that suited him.
Complete Devastation
. It seemed only right, Drew mused, that he give a nod to the old man. After all, if it hadn’t been for the tour, he wouldn’t have been able to lure Emma backstage, pour on the charm. Imagine her being stupid enough to believe he hadn’t known who she was, or what she could do for him.

With a shake of his head, he put the record on, and let the music rock the room.

No, he wouldn’t find it difficult to indulge her. Even though she was lousy in bed—a severe disappointment—she was overeager to please. He’d played her as cleverly as he played his six-string, from the moment he’d set eyes on her. He intended for his ingenuity to pay off. In spades.

Before long, she would have mended fences with her father. The old man had taken their marriage well enough, and had been generous in his wedding gift of fifty thousand pounds. Made out in Emma’s name, but already deposited in a joint account.

There was still restraint between father and daughter. That would ease up soon enough. Drew was sure of it. Being Brian McAvoy’s favored son-in-law was bound to have its rewards. In the meantime, he had a very, very rich wife. A rich naïve wife.

With a laugh, he strolled over to the window. What better mate for an ambitious man? He only had to control his temper and impatience, keep her happy, and then everything he wanted would fall in his lap.

T
HEY MOVED INTO
an elegant two-story condo on the Upper West Side. Because it seemed so important to Drew, she tried to ignore the fact that they were living on the eleventh floor. She only really got dizzy when she stood at the window and looked straight down. The phobia was an annoyance to her. She had stood at the top of the Empire State Building and felt exhilarated. Yet if she stood at a fourth-floor window, her head spun and her stomach heaved.

Drew was right, she thought, when he told her she’d have to learn to live with it.

In any case, Emma liked the high, coffered ceilings in the master bedroom, the ornate Deco balustrade that ran along the curving stairs, the niches cut into the walls, and the maroon and white checkerboard tiles in the foyer.

Emma called on Bev to decorate it, hoping her touch, and a few weeks of her company, would make the move from the loft less painful. Emma had to admit the condo was lovely, with its aerielike view of Central Park and its wide, winding staircase. She satisfied her yen for antiques and oddities by furnishing it with a mix of prissy Queen Anne and funky pop art.

She liked its lofty windows, the little glassed-in balcony where she could pot herbs, and the fact that it was only a brisk walk to Johnno’s.

She saw him almost every day. He went along with her on her hunts through antique stores, something that bored Drew. It was habitual for Johnno to drop by once or twice a week for
dinner, or to join them on an evening out. If she couldn’t have her father’s approval, it soothed to have Johnno’s, to hear him talking music with Drew. Emma was pleased when he and Drew began to write a song together.

She threw herself into domesticity, making a home for herself, for Drew, and for the children she couldn’t seem to conceive.

It had surprised and pleased Emma that Drew wanted to start a family right away. Whatever else they disagreed on, whatever differences she had discovered in their tastes and viewpoints, in this they shared the same dream.

She imagined what it would be like to carry a child, to feel Drew’s child growing inside of her. Often she daydreamed about how she and Drew would push a pram through the park. Would they wear those smug smiles she noticed on new parents?

As the months passed, she told herself to be patient, that the time would come. It was stress, it was trying too hard. Once she had learned to relax during lovemaking, it would happen.

As spring breezed in, she took dozens of pictures of pregnant women, of babies and toddlers in the park. She watched them enjoying the fine warming afternoons. And envied.

Plans to open her own studio and work on her book were postponed, but she continued to sell her pictures. She was content to pour herself into a new domestic life, to spend her free hours expanding her portfolio. She began to collect cookbooks, and to watch cooking shows on public television. It flattered her when Drew praised her attempts to re-create a meal. Since he became easily bored with her photography, she stopped showing him her prints or discussing her works in progress.

He seemed more content to see her as a housewife. In the first year of their marriage, she was more than happy to oblige him.

Deliberately, she kept busy, trying to mask her disappointment when her body informed her, with regularity, that she wasn’t pregnant. Trying not to feel the guilt when Drew sulked each time-she failed.

It was Runyun who shook her out of her complacent routine.

W
ITH A BOTTLE
of champagne in one hand and a clutch of tulips in the other, Emma burst into the apartment. “Drew? Drew, are you home?”

Setting the bottle down, she switched on the radio.

“Jesus, would you shut that thing off?” Drew appeared at the top of the stairs. He wore only a pair of sweats. Never at his best in the morning, his hair was tumbled, his eyes bleary, his face scruffy with a night’s growth of beard. “You know I worked late last night. I don’t think it’s too much to ask for a little quiet in the morning.”

“I’m sorry.” Quickly, she pushed the off switch and lowered her voice. A few months of marriage had taught her that Drew’s temper was a lit fuse before coffee. “I didn’t realize you were still in bed. I thought you were out.”

“Some people don’t have to get up at dawn to be productive.”

She gripped the flowers a little tighter. She didn’t want to spoil the moment with an argument. “Shall I fix you some coffee?”

“You might as well. There’ll be no getting any sleep here.”

Emma took the flowers and wine into the kitchen. It was a narrow room made spacious by the glassed-in breakfast nook. She had chosen blues and white—gleaming navy countertop, white appliances, pale blue and white tiles for the floor. There was an old kitchen hutch in the corner she’d painted white herself. It displayed a collection of cobalt glass.

Emma added fresh water to the trio of cacti she’d started in blue bowls, then began fixing breakfast. They had help three days a week, but she enjoyed cooking a few meals as much as she enjoyed developing a good print. She set Drew’s favorite sausage on to grill before she ground beans for coffee.

When he entered a few moments later, still bare-chested and unshaven, the scents were enough to mellow his mood. Besides, he liked seeing her at the stove, cooking for him. It reminded him that no matter who she was, no matter how fat her bank account, she belonged to him.

He strolled over to kiss the side of her throat. “Morning.” Her answering smile faded as he slid his hands up to rub her breasts.

“It’ll be ready in a minute.”

“Good. I’m starved.” He gave her nipples a quick, ungentle pinch.

She hated when he did that, but said nothing as she moved over to pour his coffee. When she’d told him she didn’t care to be pinched, he’d only begun to do it more often. Just teasing her, he claimed.

You’re too sensitive, Emma. You have no sense of humor
.

“I have news.” She handed him the cup. “Oh Drew, it’s wonderful news.”

His eyes sharpened. Was she pregnant? He badly wanted to present Brian with a grandchild. “You’ve been to the doctor?”

“No—oh, no, I’m not pregnant, Drew. I’m sorry.” She felt the familiar sense of guilt and inadequacy. Disappointment marred his face before he went to sit at the table.

“It’s just going to take a little more time,” she murmured and cracked two eggs into the pan. “I’m keeping my temperature chart carefully.”

“Sure.” He took out a cigarette, lit it, and studied her through the smoke. “You’re doing your best.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. It wasn’t the time to remind him that it took two people to make a baby. The last time they had discussed it, he had smashed a lamp then had stormed out to leave her frazzled and guilty until morning.

“I went to see Runyun. You know, I told you I was going?”

“Hmmm? Oh, right. The snotty old boy of the shutterbugs.”

“He’s not snotty.” It didn’t do any good to get her back up over the term “shutterbug.” “Cranky,” she said with a smile. “Often obnoxious, but not snotty.” She carried his plate to the table. She’d forgotten her own coffee, but sat, almost ready to burst. “He’s arranging for me to have a showing. My own showing.”

“Showing?” Drew said over a bite of sausage. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“For my work, Drew. I told you I thought he was going to offer me a job again, but it wasn’t that at all.”

“You don’t need a job in any case. I told you how I feel about your working with some grabby old fart.”

“No, but—well, it doesn’t matter now. He thinks I’m good. It was hard for him to admit, but he really thinks I’m good. He’s going to sponsor a show.”

“You mean one of those precious little gatherings where people
pie wander around staring at pictures and saying things like ’What depth, what vision’?”

She stiffened. Slowly, she rose to unwrap the tulips until her temper cooled. He didn’t mean to hurt her, she assured herself. “It’s an important step in my career. I’ve wanted this since I was a child. I’d think you’d understand.”

Behind her back he rolled his eyes. He supposed he’d have to pet and soothe now. “Of course I do. Good for you, luv. When’s the big day?”

“In September. He wants to give me plenty of time to get my best work together.”

“I hope you’re going to include a few shots of me.”

She made herself smile as she set the tulips in a slant of sunlight on the table. “Of course. You’re my favorite subject.”

S
HE WAS CERTAIN
he wasn’t trying to make things difficult, but Drew’s demands on her time made it next to impossible for Emma to get any work done. It was time they took advantage of New York, he said, and insisted on haunting the clubs. He needed a break, so they flew off for a week in the Virgin Islands. It was natural for him to make friends among the young and rich of New York. The apartment was almost never empty now. If they weren’t entertaining, there was a party somewhere else. As one of the bright new couples, they were hounded by the paparazzi. The opening of a new Broadway play, an evening at a new night spot, a concert in Central Park. Everything they did was recorded. Their names and faces adorned papers at every supermarket checkout. They were on the cover of
Rolling Stone
, and
People
and
Newsweek
. Barbara Walters wanted an interview.

Each time she became frantic under the pressure, Emma reminded herself this was precisely the kind of life she’d dreamed of while trapped in Saint Catherine’s. But the reality of it was much more wearing, and much more boring, than she would have believed.

Everyone said the first year of marriage was the hardest, she continually reminded herself. It took effort, it took patience. If marriage, and life in general, was more difficult and less exciting than she’d imagined, it only meant that she wasn’t trying hard enough.

“Come on, luv, it’s a party.” Drew swung her around. Her
mineral water sloshed over her glass as he caught her close to dance. “Loosen up, Emma.”

“I’m tired, Drew.”

“You’re always tired.”

His fingers dug into her back when she tried to draw away. She’d been up three nights running working in her darkroom. Her showing was only six weeks away, and she was nervous as a cat. And angry, she admitted. Angry because her husband showed no interest in her work. Angry because he’d announced two hours before that he’d invited a few friends over.

A hundred and fifty people crowded the rooms. The music blasted. Over the past month there had been more and more of these little get-togethers. Her liquor bill had soared to five hundred dollars a week. She didn’t resent the money. No, it wasn’t the money. It wasn’t even the time, not when it involved friends. But friends had swelled to hangers-on, groupies. Last week, the apartment had been a wreck after everyone had cleared out. The sofa had been stained with brandy. Someone had put out a cigarette on her Oriental rug. But worse than that, worse than the broken Baccarat vase or the missing Limoges candy dish, were the drugs.