Overseas

  I thrust energetically through the door of the bookstore and pasted on a blank cheerful expression. The shop was empty, other than the rows and stacks of books and a single clerk at the raised wooden counter, reading a copy of The Kite Runner. He looked up at the sound of the tinkling entry bell. A young guy, I thought. Twenty-one, twenty-two. Goatee. An ironic goatee, or was he playing it straight?

  “Hi.” I forced away my irritated thoughts and tried to focus on the mission at hand. Be cheerful. Make him want to help you. “I, um, received this book as a present a few days ago. A biography.” I held it up helpfully. “It was mailed from your shop here. But I didn’t see a card with it or anything, so I was wondering if you could tell me who sent it?”

  He frowned. “Someone sent it from here?” he asked, as though the idea of an actual paying customer beggared belief.

  “That’s what the return label said. It was sent to Katherine Wilson, on Seventy-ninth Street in New York City. Maybe you have it on the computer.”

  “Can I see the book?”

  I handed it to him.

  “Used, right?” He flipped through it. “Don’t recognize it. I guess I can look it up.”

  He sat down and turned to the computer, punched in a few words. I tapped my finger on the counter and felt a knot of anticipation tighten in my center. “Oh, it was a telephone order,” the clerk said, as though that explained everything.

  “A telephone order. Can you give me the name?”

  “No name. Paid by credit card, but we don’t save that information. Security.”

  “You seriously don’t have any information on the sender?”

  “Yeah, that is kind of weird.” He peered at the screen. “Just the telephone number. Must have forgotten to enter the rest. Gina’s kind of absentminded sometimes.” He rolled his eyes, just to let me know that he, himself, was sharp as a tack.

  “Can I have the phone number, then?”

  “Sorry. I’m not allowed give out personal details.” He looked back down at me and smiled apologetically.

  I paused for just an instant. “Really? Oh, that’s so disappointing. I really wanted to be able to thank him.” I leaned into the counter, letting the tops of my breasts plump out against the wooden surface, and smiled up winsomely. “Are you sure I can’t just peek? Just to see if I can recognize the number?”

  “Well,” he told my cleavage, slowly, “I guess that’s okay. If you don’t write it down.”

  “Oh my God. Of course not. I just want to see if it’s someone I know.” I gripped my handbag under the counter, thinking of the BlackBerry inside, as though Julian could somehow channel himself through it and witness the scene.

  The clerk turned the screen in my direction and pointed. “Right there.”

  9175553232. I imprinted it on my brain.

  “Thank you so much,” I said. My mind was already racing. 917 was the Manhattan cell phone prefix.

  “My pleasure. Really.”

  I straightened and held my hand out. “Um, my book?”

  “Oh, yeah.” He shoved it back at me. “Sorry.”

  I took hold of the book, but he didn’t let go. “Anything else I can do for you?” he asked, rubbing the bottom of his goatee with his hand.

  “Oh, no thanks. You’ve been great.” I started to turn.

  “Um,” he went on, “are you in town for a while? Maybe we can grab a coffee or something?”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, dimming my smile several notches, “but I’m here with my boyfriend.”

  “Maybe next time.”

  “Yeah, maybe. Thanks again.”

  I hurried out of the store, letting the door close behind me with a wild jingling of bells, and started up the street. When I got to the corner I took my phone out and punched the number in.

  It went immediately to voice mail. The standard greeting, a woman’s neutral automated voice. The number you have called 9-1-7-5-5-5-3-2-3-2 is not available at this time. Please leave a message at the tone, or remain on the line for more options.

  I opened my mouth to leave some provocative message, but hung up instead at the last second. It might be better if the guy didn’t know I was onto him yet.

  When I got back to the Range Rover, I sat silently for a moment in the hot stale air, chewing my lip, before beginning my message to Julian. In and out. It’s a Manhattan cell phone. They didn’t have a name. Do you recognize? 917-555-3232. Sorry I snapped. I’m a little touchy about my independence. A modern woman thing. You’ll have to get used to it. My fingers hovered over the keypad. You can still cuddle me after nightmares, though. See you tonight. A bit cheesy, but that wouldn’t bother Julian a bit.

  I sent the message and started the engine. I hadn’t turned the radio off, and it startled me, bursting out the climactic frenzy of a baroque horn concerto. A growl leapt from my stomach in response; it was nearly lunchtime, after all. Maybe I should look around for a café before leaving town. On the other hand, I didn’t want to run into the bookstore clerk on his lunch break, which was just the kind of awkward coincidence to which I was regularly prone.

  My BlackBerry buzzed. Julian must have been waiting for the message.

  But it wasn’t Julian. It was an e-mail from Charlie, startlingly brief: Do you have a phone number yet? C. I replied immediately with my new cell number, and it rang a moment later.

  “Dude, where are you?” he demanded.

  “Um, in Connecticut,” I said cagily.

  “Where in Connecticut? With Laurence, right?”

  “Um, yeah,” I said, “but don’t tell anyone, okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m not sure how much longer you can keep that secret. Have you heard?”

  “About what?”

  “Southfield just filed a complaint with the SEC about Sterling Bates.”

  “What?” I nearly dropped the phone into the steering wheel.

  “Oh yeah! It’s all over the wires, dude. I hear it names names.”

  “Oh my God! He promised!”

  “Promised what?”

  “Not to go all legal on me!”

  “Yeah, well, he must be out for serious revenge, ’cause I hear it’s bad.”

  “Can you e-mail me the details?”

  “I’ll try, dude.”

  “I’ve got to go. Thanks, buddy.” I slammed the phone down on the console just as it buzzed again.

  Don’t recognize the number. Will try to curb autocratic tendencies in future. Arms always ready to ease your nightmares. XX

  I put the car into gear, tossed the BlackBerry into the passenger seat, and whipped out of the parking lot with a squeal of the Range Rover’s high-performance tires.

  JULIAN CALLED ME AT SIX O’CLOCK, from the road. “I’ve got a lot to tell you, darling,” he said grimly, “and I couldn’t really speak about it until I left.”

  “You’re not driving, are you?”

  “Yes, exit eleven. Ridiculous traffic.”

  “Pull over first. Do you know how dangerous it is, driving on the phone? It’s worse than driving drunk.”

  “I’ve got the Bluetooth in,” he protested. “Both hands on the wheel.”

  “That doesn’t actually help. Call me back from the next rest stop.” I hung up the phone.

  It rang again a few minutes later. “You’re bossy, did you know that?”

  “Where are you?”

  “The rest stop before exit thirteen.”

  “What’s the price for a gallon of regular?”

  “Three dollars and ninety-six cents. You insult me.”

  “Julian,” I said, “do you have any idea what it would do to me if something happened to you?”

  He hesitated. “All right. Fair enough. No more driving on the phone.”

  “Thank you. Now that’s out of the way, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “I take it you’ve heard the news?”

  “You could have at least told me.”

  “It’s not about you,” he said. “Geoff did some digg
ing overnight and uncovered a massive problem: This Boxer woman of yours, this vengeful little she-wolf, could have brought down my firm.” I heard a thump, like he was pounding the steering wheel. “You were right; Daniel was right. It was one of my traders.”

  His outrage was so palpable, my own began to fizzle. “Well, I’m sorry about that,” I said brusquely, “but couldn’t you at least have told me? I heard it from Charlie!”

  “I’ve been closeted with Geoff and Daniel since noon. And don’t be sorry, for God’s sake. It’s what I deserve, for being so arrogant as to think I was invulnerable.”

  “Charlie said you named names,” I said. “Mine, I suppose?”

  “No,” he said, “the trader admitted he knew it wasn’t you. So we only named Alicia.”

  “But my name will get dragged into it.”

  A pause. “It might.”

  “I can’t believe this.”

  “Could you just try to look at it from my perspective? We had to act; it’s complicated, but the damage she’s done…”

  “Fine. Okay. I get it. Just let me know next time, okay? It’s very annoying to hear about your latest exploits from third parties.”

  “I’m sorry. I had the devil of a time getting out of the city. I’ll have to go back in tomorrow.”

  “You should have just stayed, then.” The words snapped out before I could stop them, squatting brutally in the cell-phone ether.

  He didn’t reply immediately. I heard his breath rustle against the mouthpiece once, twice. His voice, when he spoke, was nearly inaudible. “I hope you don’t really mean that.”

  I thought for just an instant about the prospect of spending the night alone in his bed. “Not that I’d want you to,” I conceded, “but it’s a lot of driving for you.”

  “That’s nothing, compared to the alternative.”

  “Can’t I just come back into the city with you?”

  “No. Look, can we finish this later? I’m desperate for the sight of you, and since you won’t let me drive…”

  “I’m sorry. All right.” I paused. “Do you still want me to meet you at the inn for dinner?”

  “I’d be devastated if you didn’t.” And he hung up.

  17.

  I drove into the parking lot of the Lyme Inn two hours later, and found to my surprise that it was empty. No green Maserati; no other cars at all, in fact.

  I eased out of the Range Rover, feeling distinctly out of place in the black chiffon dress I’d picked out that afternoon from the Saks outlet. My hair flowed loose over my shoulders; another odd sensation, since I usually twisted it back on my head whenever I went out. A tiny silver barrette now held the waves back from my face.

  I reached the front entrance and nudged the door open. A dark candlelit interior unwound around me, the fading daylight gathered about the windows. It had the feel of a rabbit warren, with doors and hallways and rooms branching off the entrance corridor and the lazy scent of wood smoke lingering in the air. A maitre d’ hovered by the desk. “Hello,” I said, pitching my voice low. “I’m joining Mr. Laurence. Has he arrived yet?”

  “Good evening, Miss Wilson. Not yet, but if you’d like to follow me?”

  I trailed behind him down the hall and to the left, peering around me and finding none of the other tables occupied. The maitre d’ led me leftward into a small paneled room, where a single table sat before a dancing hearth.

  “If you’d like to be seated?” he prompted.

  I dropped obediently into the chair he offered me, too embarrassed to say anything. “A glass of champagne?” he inquired.

  “Apparently so, thanks,” I said, and he exited swiftly, returning almost before I could gather my thoughts, with a tray on which two glasses bubbled delicately.

  Julian arrived about ten minutes later, coming up so silently I had only an instant’s warning before his warm hands clasped my shoulders, and his head bent down to press a kiss right where my clavicle merged into my throat.

  “I expect you’re spitting mad at me,” he said.

  I let out a small laugh. “No, not spitting mad. Not anymore.” I covered his hand with mine and turned to look up at him. “You’re all dressed up!” I accused, taking in his tuxedo, his crisp white shirt-points, his newly shaven face glowing in the firelight.

  He smiled and shrugged. “I took a moment to clean up. I’m so sorry for being late, darling; I had a great many things to look after.” He lifted my hand and kissed it ardently. “My God, look at you! You’re ravishing! Not at all sporting of you, darling, when I’ve been aching for you all this endless beastly day.”

  “Good effort, Ashford.”

  His shoulders fell in a sigh. “Look, shall we talk first, then? Clear the air?”

  I opened my mouth to make some polite dismissal, but realized it would be a mistake. “Yes, I guess we should.”

  He reached over and took his chair and drew it next to mine. “Sweetheart,” he said, sitting down, “I was rather an ass this morning when you called me up from Newport. I’m sorry about that. I’d been sitting down with Geoff and Daniel, realizing the full magnitude of things, and I wasn’t in the best of moods.” He took my hands and stared at them. “You see, this is all rather new to me.”

  “This?”

  He looked up. “Having you in my life. To worry over, to protect.”

  “Julian, I’m a grown woman, not your firstborn child.”

  A rueful laugh. “You’re probably thinking I’m some sort of ghastly Victorian ogre, eager to repress you and all that.”

  “No, of course not.” I ran my thumb along his. “But I think you are a man of your own world, Julian, and… and that’s wonderful, most of the time. And you’re not domineering. I realize that. You aren’t trying to control me; you’re just worrying over me, and that’s a big difference. An essential difference.”

  “Thank you,” he said eagerly, “thank you for understanding that.”

  I held up my hand. “Hold on. But you’re also used to getting your way, and telling people what to do, and you can’t just do that with me. I won’t let you cross that line, from protective to controlling. And you can’t make decisions that affect me, like filing that complaint, without giving me a heads-up.”

  “Fair enough. But isn’t that really what I was asking of you this morning?”

  “Well, not quite. I mean, I was only driving to Newport.”

  “Don’t be disingenuous. Visiting that bookstore was a great deal more.”

  “Honestly, I never thought it constituted a risk. I would have asked you about it if I did. Look, if it means so much to you, I promise I’ll call you when I go out. Check in every so often, so you don’t have to worry.” I looked down at his hands, and without warning an erotic image spread across my brain: those same fingers caressing me intimately last night, agile and curious.

  “Kate?”

  “Um. Yes. I’ll call you next time. I promise.”

  “I’d appreciate that. I won’t be away often, but when I must… darling, you’re so infinitely precious, I can’t help worrying. I…”

  A waiter arrived, bearing tiny bowls of fragrant soup. Julian rose smoothly and adjusted his chair while the man set down the dishes.

  When he left, Julian lifted his champagne glass and clinked mine. “Is it all right, then?”

  I tilted the glass to my lips and studied him. “Julian, the last thing I want to do is waste time being mad at you. Let’s just recognize we come from different places and try to respect that, okay?”

  He smiled. “I suppose I can manage that all right. I have been living in your world for most of my adult life. I do know what’s expected of me as a modern man.”

  I tasted the soup. Crab, reported my mouth to my brain, but the information ricocheted harmlessly away. “I don’t want you to change who you are, Julian. It’s just… I hope you understand who I am. I’m not…” I swirled the soup with my spoon, until a tiny eddy formed in the center. “I’m not like the girls you admired in your
own time…”

  “Oh, Lord. Are we talking about Flora Hamilton again?”

  “Julian, you don’t need to diminish it for my benefit.” I cleared my throat, forcing my voice into an objective tone. “I realized, reading about your last leave…”

  He put down his spoon and spoke fiercely. “That bloody book. Yes, let’s clear up this little matter straightaway. Since it’s causing you so much distress.”

  “You don’t need to. She was your first love; I understand. She’s just a little intimidating, that’s all.” The soup eddy deepened, drawing tiny bits of crabmeat and chives into its vortex.

  “Kate, listen to me. I was never in love with Flora. Not really. Our mothers were friends. We knew each other all through childhood, she and her brother and I. All quite close. It was perfectly apparent to both of us that the families hoped we’d marry one day, and we joked about it. But I should imagine I spent more time with Arthur than with her. We went to school together; he was a good friend.”

  I glanced up. “Oh, come on. There’s more to it than that. I saw that picture of you at Henley. She had her hand on your arm, and you were eating her up.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t care.”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t care, just that you didn’t owe me any explanation.”

  “Well, here it is, anyway. Flora was very pretty, very flirtatious. I may, at some point in my misguided youth, have rather fancied her. A crush, I believe, is the modern term. We corresponded while I was at university. She was the sort of girl who liked to think herself quite special indeed, not at all like the other girls; she became involved in one cause and another, taking up suffragism one month and socialism the next. At one point she had grand plans to try for a place at one of the women’s colleges at Cambridge, but found the Greek and Latin preparation too much for her.”

  “Greek? You had to know Greek? To go to college?”

  He waved his hand impatiently. “In any case, she was violently patriotic in the first year of the war, waving her flag as I left for the front and joining the nurses’ auxiliary and so on, and then violently pacifistic ever after. We began to quarrel in our letters, and when I came home on my last leave, she insisted on meeting me, on having me to stay with her family at their house in Hampshire.” He took a drink of champagne and set the glass next to the pointed tip of his knife, turning the base just so. The bubbles rose upward in long fine threads, undulating hypnotically; he watched them for some time before he continued. “We were up the entire night talking, arguing, until I was half dead with exhaustion and general annoyance. I said something cross, I don’t remember what, and she flung herself at me, begging forgiveness and all that, and I found myself kissing her. I put a stop to it directly, of course, but she went on and on about her supposed love for me, and perhaps I should have been more emphatic, more unequivocal in rejecting her…” His voice drifted; he looked up and met my eyes. “I left the next morning, determined never to see her again, and was astonished to receive her letter after I was back in billets two days later. She had the most extraordinary ability to interpret events to her own liking. I wrote back firmly, telling her in as gentlemanly a fashion as I could that things were not quite as she remembered them. She didn’t reply for some time, and then…”