The Carlton Club (26 page)

“OK.”

“Great. The tickets will be at the airport. Do you want to stay at the Plaza?”

“That would be fine. Ross, I’m not even sure about the nice place to visit part,” Janet said, underscoring the fact that she had no intention of staying very long in New York.

“I get the message,” he said coolly.

Janet dialed Leslie’s number as soon as Ross had hung up.

“Hi, Les. How about dinner tomorrow night?”

“Love to but I can’t.” I have to be with James, Leslie thought, her heart beating swiftly, remembering. Anticipating.

“OK.”

Janet didn’t pry. It wasn’t her style. Privacy was important to her. Her privacy and everyone else’s. It didn’t mean that she wasn’t interested or didn’t care.

Even though Janet was her best friend, Leslie couldn’t tell her about James, but that was nothing new. Leslie had never been able to tell her friends about James. Her friends in high school hadn’t understood about James.

And Leslie wasn’t sure that Janet would understand, either. Not if she knew everything.

“I’m going to New York on Sunday.”

“Really? Why?”

“Ross wants me to look at the show. Tell him what’s wrong.”

“Do you think it’s a ruse to get you there?”

“I hope not, Les. I hope Ross wouldn’t do that.”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“I know. Speaking of that,” Janet said soberly, “have you seen Mark? Is he back at work?”

“He is back. On consults at the VA. I saw him at Grand Rounds last week. He looks all right,”

Leslie said. All right, she thought, but not fully recovered. Still a little weak and a little pale.

“Do you know if he’s leaving in July? Did he get the fellowship in Boston?”

“He said he wouldn’t hear until mid October. I’m sure he’ll get it. And I think he’ll go,” Leslie said, lost for a moment in her own thoughts. A month ago, even knowing how Mark felt about Kathleen, Leslie would have been saddened at the thought of him leaving. Now, because of James, because her heart and body and mind were consumed by him, the thought of Mark leaving didn’t affect her. That—the whimsy and the strength of her own emotions—troubled her.

Except there was nothing whimsical about her relationship with James.

“Oh,” Janet said thoughtfully.

“Does it matter, Janet?” Leslie asked carefully.

“No. Well, yes. It would be better if Mark left,” she said firmly. As long as Mark and Kathleen were together, as long as Kathleen was involved with Union Square Theater and as long as Ross and Kathleen and Mark all saw each other socially, it would be awkward. It meant that Janet might see Mark.

It would be best if Mark and Kathleen moved to Boston.

“You’re probably right,” Leslie said, speaking of them all.

Leslie dialed James’s office number as soon as she returned to her apartment at two-thirty Saturday afternoon.

The phone rang ten times. Then twenty.

What if he had changed his mind? What if he had decided, as she had decided a hundred times in the past two days, that it was wrong, that they should stop now? Leslie had made the decision a hundred times and reversed it a hundred and one.

Leslie hung up and redialed. Maybe Lynne was home. Maybe a flight had been cancelled. But James would have called her at the hospital. Except he always called the Department of Medicine office, and it was closed on Saturday.

What if he had been in a car accident?

“Hello?”

“James?”

“Hi,” he said softly, happy to hear her voice.

“The phone rang so many times.” She breathed with relief as she pulled her mind away from the horrors of the what ifs and into the gentle promise of his voice.

“I didn’t realize that the ring was disconnected. I caught the blinking light out of the corner of my eye. Have you been trying to reach me for a while?” he asked, hoping not to hear that she had been home for hours, that they had wasted precious time.

“No, just for the past few minutes.”

“When will you be home?”

“I’m home.”

“Oh,” he said. More precious moments. He could have been there when she arrived. He added gently, “I need a key.”

“You have a key,” Leslie said quietly. The night before as she was having the key made for him, she chided herself. Silly. Presumptuous. But James wanted a key. Not so silly after all.

“Thank you. You have a calendar.”

“A calendar?”

“Of October only. I didn’t know if your schedule for November was the same.”

“No, it changes to every fourth night.” Leslie’s mind spun. James wanted to know when she would be free in November. “In November I’ll be at the Veterans’ Hospital. Tell me about the calendar.”

“It’s just all the times that we can—could—be together. Red circles around the days. The odd drawing.”

Nice, James.

“Are we going for a walk today?” Leslie asked.

“Sure.”

“Where?”

“The beach. The wharf. Golden Gate Park.”

“Then what?”

“Dinner. Wherever you want.”

“Then what?”

“You know what.”

“Good.”

“Why are we talking on the phone instead of in person?”

“Because you have to hang up in order to come over,” Leslie began then stopped. Silly. She didn’t want to let go of him, even for a few minutes, even for the minutes it took for him to come to her. Just hearing his voice, talking to him, was such a luxury.

How could she explain that to him?

“I need a car phone, don’t I?” he asked. He understood completely. He didn’t want to hang up either.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“I’ll get one. But right now I just want to see you. Leslie?”

“James?”

“Do you care about the beach?”

“No.”

“The wharf or the park?”

“Not at all.”

“Dinner?”

“I have food here. If we get hungry.”

“Janet!”

Janet stopped, confused. Had she heard her name above the hubbub of the Sunday evening crowd of travelers at LaGuardia Airport?

“Janet,” Ross repeated, reaching her side, touching her arm.

“Ross!”

“You sound surprised.”

“I didn’t know you were going to meet me,” Janet said. She wished she had known. She had spent the last two hours of the flight worrying about the logistics of getting her luggage and finding a taxi. Then she worried further about how much to tip and what to do if the driver overcharged her or took her the long way because she looked so gullible.

“What did you think I would do?” Ross asked as mildly as he could. Did she really expect he would have let her find her own way to a hotel?

“I don’t know. I was planning to take a cab,” Janet said confidently, now that she didn’t have to.

I should have let you, Ross thought, like millions of businesswomen do every day in this city and others. Janet asked to be left alone. Demanded it. So why had he bothered to meet her? Was he just being polite?

No, Ross decided, remembering the look of fear on her face the last time she was in New York.

I met her because behind that cool independent facade is a fragile, vulnerable woman.

Janet’s gratitude for his thoughtfulness was so deeply hidden behind those calm eyes that Ross was almost tempted to tell her to take the damned taxi cab.

It might be good for her.

They didn’t speak during the twenty-five minute limousine ride from LaGuardia to the Plaza. Ross had planned to suggest that they have dinner. He could think of enough business to discuss to legitimize it as a non-date. In fact, he had told Stacy not to join them because they would be discussing business.

But he abandoned the idea. It wasn’t essential that they discuss the show before she saw it herself. Maybe it was better if they didn’t. He didn’t want to influence her. He was counting on her honest, professional opinion.

Ross went inside the Plaza with her and stayed long enough to make certain that her room was ready.

“The limo will be here tomorrow at noon to take you to the theater.”

“OK. Thank you.”

“Oh, and Janet? I haven’t told any of the company that you’re coming. I don’t want them to know until after you’ve seen the rehearsal.”

Janet nodded. The only way she could see the production that Ross saw, the production that worried him so much, was if they didn’t know she was there.

“I won’t make any phone calls,” she said before he left. It hadn’t occurred to her to call members of the company.

It should have occurred to me, she thought,

later, as she soaked in a bubble bath in her suite. They were my friends, my colleagues. I should have wanted to talk to them.

Why hadn’t she wanted to? Because she knew that some of them resented her for not moving to New York to do the show? No. They understood her reasons. Because she didn’t really like them? No. She liked them very much. The bond had been close and genuine.

Because it is easier not to get involved, Janet admitted to herself as she wrapped a large, pale pink bath towel around her, knotting it over her breasts. Easier. Safer. More peaceful to be alone. Caring was too painful. It was too painful to care about anyone else. It was hard enough to care about yourself.

Janet awakened early the next morning. By eight she had dressed, breakfasted on croissants and coffee in her room and read
The New York Times
. As she drank the last cup of coffee from the china coffee pot, she allowed her gaze to drift away from her safe, elegant suite through the bay window framed in pink silk curtains to the outside world. To New York.

New York. The city she had met once, briefly, and hated.

This morning the city didn’t look so menacing. A soft wind breathed gently through the brilliant red, orange and yellow leaves of the maples in Central Park. Carriages drawn by horses moved slowly, leisurely, through the park. Joggers, in colorful outfits of green, turquoise, burgundy and crimson, trotted through the cool autumn air.

The realization came to Janet slowly, not fully formed until she finished buttoning her coat: I want to be out there. I am going out there. By myself. For a walk in New York City.

Instead of walking across the street from the lobby of the Plaza to Central Park, Janet turned right, swept by the flow of people walking toward the business and shopping sections of Manhattan. Janet found herself in a sea of vigorous men and women. A sea of tweed jackets, Burberry raincoats, three-piece suits and briefcases. A sea of purpose and direction and magnetic energy.

I’m not drowning, Janet realized with a surprising rush of joy. I’m swimming, keeping pace, enjoying the activity and vitality of Monday morning Manhattan.

Janet felt like laughing. Or singing. Instead, she just smiled and kept walking, feeling part of it.

After a while, as her confidence grew, she realized that she could set her own pace. She could walk more slowly. She could stand at a corner and watch the crowd swirl past her. She could stand still, and she wouldn’t sink. She could window shop at Tiffany and Gucci and Dior and Chanel.

By the time the stores opened, after she had walked for blocks and blocks, feeling the pulse, loving the feel, Janet was eager to do some shopping. Twice she had lingered in front of a designer boutique on Fifth Avenue, intrigued by a mauve and cream silk dress in the window. The dress was feminine but not frilly. Elegant but soft. Womanly.

Janet had never owned a dress like that. She wore attractive, modestly priced clothes. Until recently, she never had money to spend on clothes, and even if she had, she would have selected conservative, neat, traditional clothing. Nothing with flair. Nothing that made a statement or would have so clearly been selected to draw attention to her.

Janet had seen herself look dazzling, seductive and beautiful as Joanna, but that was make-believe. The clothes were costumes. Joanna was someone else. Someone who didn’t exist.

The mauve and cream dress was not a costume, and the saleswoman was not acting when she told Janet how lovely it looked on her and that it was made for her.

Janet knew how it looked, and she knew how it made her feel: wonderful, full of energy and vitality, Like this city.

Janet bought the dress, a cream-colored coat, mauve shoes and a matching purse.

Before returning to her suite to get ready to go to the theater, Janet stopped at the gift shop in the Plaza. She bought a coffee mug, bumper sticker and a key ring. All three were emblazoned with the logo: I love (a deep red heart) New York.

Why am I doing this? she wondered as she carefully applied eyeliner, mascara, eye shadow and pale pink lipstick. A little more than usual. A little stronger statement. A statement to whom? To what?

To New York. To vitality. To style. To feeling good.

Janet brushed her shoulder-length blond hair away from her face, teasing it slightly to add shape. As Joanna, she wore it swept softly off her face held by gold barrettes. Joanna had flair. That hairstyle suited Joanna. Maybe it would suit Janet.

Ross waited in the lobby. He smiled appreciatively at the striking blond woman with the mauve heels, cream-colored coat and the dancing gray eyes. He noticed her from a distance, doing a double take because the look demanded it. And because there was something familiar.