“All the way from America, I take it?”
“All the way from America.”
“And you came to see me? Me in particular?”
“Yes,” I said, with emphasis. “You in particular.”
“Hmm.” He cut away at his sausage, looking thoughtful, as if he were trying to figure out how to play along. “Perhaps you’d better start at the beginning. How, exactly, do you know me?”
“Everyone knows you, Captain Ashford.”
“In America?”
“Yes. We do read newspapers once in a while, from the comfort of our log cabins. Those of us who can read, of course.” I raised the brimming fork to my mouth and then drew it out again, lingeringly, the way Lauren Bacall might have done, sending him a look from beneath the narrow brim of my hat. Useful things, hats.
He looked startled, and then a smile began creeping across his face. “And the rest?” he asked.
“Excellent question.” I cocked my head thoughtfully. “There’s so much to do on the frontiers of civilization. Skin a few grizzlies, I guess. Trade tobacco with the natives. Haven’t you read your Cooper?”
“My God.” He rested his fork on the side of his plate and beamed. “Who are you?”
“Clearly not a well-bred English girl.”
“No, thank God. But there’s something else about you; I can’t put my finger on it exactly.” The faint tinge on his cheeks resolved into patches of eager color.
I felt my own skin warm in response. “Why thank God?” I heard myself ask.
“I beg your pardon?”
“What do you have against well-bred English girls?”
“I don’t suppose it’s the girls in particular. It’s the entire circus, the…” He narrowed his eyes at me. “That was very well done.”
“I’ve learned from a master.”
“Aren’t you going to tell me anything?” he begged. “Your last name, even?”
“Oh, I certainly can’t tell you that.” I tilted my head, smiling, almost enjoying myself. We were flirting. Good grief. “I promise you I’m not a spy, at least.”
He dismissed that. “No, of course you’re not.”
“Not at all,” I went on. “I wouldn’t know how to begin. I’m a completely unconvincing liar, even after three years on Wall Street.”
“Wall Street?” He looked incredulous. “Do you mean stocks and things?”
I laughed, a genuine laugh. “Stocks and things! From you, of all people!” I set down my fork and folded my hands under my chin to look at him. “You may think it’s all vulgar and money-grubbing right now, Julian, but I promise you’ll change your mind.” My voice stumbled. I dropped my gaze down to the graceful white curve of the coffee cup in its saucer next to my plate. “I mean, that you would change your mind, if you had the chance,” I finished.
He smiled politely. “I daresay I would,” he said, turning back to his breakfast. “But I gather you had a purpose in mind, in seeking me out.”
I gathered myself. “Yes, I did. Except I don’t think you’d believe me, if I told you. I’ve been sitting here, trying to think of a way to present it to you, and it just won’t work, will it? It’s just too…” I checked myself at weird. Was that in common use yet? Who knew? “Extraordinary,” I said, just to be safe.
“You might try me. I’m not quite such a shallow fool as that.”
“Shallow fool? You think that’s my opinion of you?”
“All that rubbish about empty-headed society girls. About not being capable of comprehending you.”
He was leaning forward now, his familiar handsome face drawn into an intent expression, almost anxious, trying to prove himself to me. My Julian, only he didn’t know it yet; my own adored Julian, a soldier now, spending most of his days surrounded by mud and blood and sudden random catastrophe. Would that make him more susceptible to accepting my story? Hadn’t I read somewhere that belief in the supernatural tended to thrive during wartime? I caught the gleam of his eyes in the dim electric light, their greenishness heightened by the khaki of his tunic, and felt as if I were toppling from an enormous height.
“Tell me,” I said softly, wanting to keep his face angled toward mine. “Do you believe in—what would you call it?—second sight? The ability to see the future?”
“A load of rubbish, I suspect,” he said, straightening.
I leaned toward him. “Does that mean you really don’t believe in it, or that you don’t want to believe in it?”
He picked up his cup and took a drink of coffee. “The second, I suppose.”
“Then can’t you just trust me? Trust that I might just know what I’m talking about? That I’ve come all this way, just to try to save you?”
“To save me? From what?” He laughed. “From the war, perhaps? I’m afraid there’s not much chance of that.”
“Well, no. There’s something else. Something…” I couldn’t finish. I could see from his smile, from the careless tone of his voice, that the spell was broken. He thought I was teasing him now, leading him on: that this was all part of the game.
“Hmm. Fraught with danger, is it?”
I looked down at my empty plate. The scent of eggs and meat still clung to it, and my stomach turned abruptly. “You’re going to make this difficult, aren’t you?”
He looked blank, as if his tennis opponent had inexplicably withdrawn right after a particularly good volley; then an expression of concern crossed his face. His voice deepened with apprehension. “You’re tired, aren’t you? You’ve finished your breakfast; have you thought about getting some rest?”
“I can’t. I haven’t found anywhere to stay.”
“I’ll help you.”
“You don’t need to do that.”
“Miss… Kate… I don’t mind. Perhaps my landlady can direct you somewhere.”
I opened my mouth to object, to say I was perfectly capable of managing on my own, thank you, but at the last instant I realized what he was offering me: an opportunity, a decorous excuse to further things along, to maintain the elegant fiction that this was all about a disinterested concern for my welfare. Because that was how these things used to be done.
I said instead, “Do you think so? But surely there’s nothing available on such short notice.”
“I’m certain something can be arranged. Look at you, you’re quite done in.” His hand reached out impulsively, nearly touching mine, before it recollected itself and retreated, flexing, to the tablecloth next to his plate.
“No, really. I’m fine. It’s just the breakfast, making me sleepy.”
He motioned at the waiter. “I’m taking you back. You could… you could rest in my room, if you like, while I make inquiries. You shouldn’t be out like this. My God! You’ve gone pale as a sheet!”
His alarm was understandable, given the little he knew of me. He was probably afraid of more fainting and vomiting.
“I’d hate to be any trouble,” I said.
“Come along,” he said, dropping a few coins on the table. “It’s no trouble at all.”
7.
“Where are we going?” I asked, as Julian led me down the steps.
“Somewhere we can talk,” he said. He walked toward one of the black sedans lining the sidewalk outside the building. The driver jumped out and opened the back door, and Julian stood aside to allow me in first.
I sank into the seat and was about to scoot over to make room, when I realized the door had shut and Julian was walking around to the other side.
He settled in next to me and glanced at my bare shoulders. “I forgot to ask if you’d brought a coat,” he said apologetically.
“No, I didn’t. I’m warm. So where are we going?” I repeated.
“Where would you like to go?”
“Well, I’m kind of dressed up. The options are limited.”
I felt him hesitate, his indecision saturating the dark space between us. “Let me take you home, then,” he said. “You’ve got work tomorrow anyway, I expect.” He
leaned forward and murmured my address to the driver, and we pulled away from the curb.
“So what brings you here tonight?” I asked, threading my fingers together in my lap.
“You. I was trying to reach you all evening.”
“Oh!” I remembered. “I forgot to turn my phone back on.”
“So I gathered. Then I had an e-mail from your colleague, Mr. Newcombe.”
“Charlie e-mailed you?”
“About an hour ago. Suggested I put myself in a tuxedo and race to your side.”
“Oh my God,” I said, my face flooding. “What… what did he say?”
“Only that you were looking altogether too ravishing to be there by yourself, and attracting a great deal of unwanted attention.”
“I’m sure he put it just that well.”
“In so many words.” He smiled. “I see he was understating the case, however.”
I looked down at my lap, at the fabric falling away in long pale swags from my legs. “That’s not fair, you know. Until last night, I hadn’t had a word from you in months, and now suddenly you’re here with your compliments and your… your tuxedo.” I said this accusingly, as though wearing a tuxedo were some sort of crime. Which it probably should have been, on a man like Julian.
“What else would you have me wear?” he asked.
“That’s not what I meant,” I said, looking back up. The streetlights flashed across his face as we drove up Madison, casting his noble cheekbones in shadow, exposing briefly the limpid expression in his green-blue eyes. I tried to be objective, simply to applaud the flawless tailoring of his black jacket where it melted against his shoulders, or the way the sharp points of his shirt collar gleamed white against his throat, without falling into a kind of drooling admiration. But it was no use. The formality, the austerity, suited him too well. It made the perfect foil for the lush generosity of his face; it made me want to fling myself headlong into the folds of his lapel.
“Oh, Kate,” he said. “When you look at me like that… those eyes of yours…” His eyelids lowered. “I’ve tried so very hard the last few months to stay away from you. To ignore this… this hold you have on me. You can’t imagine what a challenge it’s been. I’ve been reduced to following you like a lapdog as you run through the park.” He raised his eyes to meet mine. “Now you know.”
“Oh,” I said, taking it in. “But why?”
“Why what?”
“Why stay away?”
“It’s rather difficult to explain,” he said.
“Well, try me. I mean, it hasn’t exactly been easy for me, either. Wondering what I did to turn you off like that, so suddenly. You can’t imagine the wild theories going through my head.”
He began to laugh, not a jolly laugh. “Nothing so wild as the truth. But let’s leave that aside for the moment…”
“No. Let’s not. I want to know. I think I have a right to know.”
“Kate,” he said, and his voice went soft again. He reached out and fingered the back of my hand. “Please. I’ll tell you, I promise. Just not now. I think…” He paused. “I think it might be better if we got to know one another more.”
His voice was so charming, so beguiling, that all my objections flew from my head. “But why,” I said, trying to marshal at least a little reason, “is that okay now? When it wasn’t before?”
“It isn’t okay. It’s quite wrong. But I’ve gone past the point of caring anymore. I can’t bear to be without you, and I was a perfect idiot to think I could…” He checked himself. His hand, which had been running up and down the backs of my fingers, grasped mine and drew it upward, a swift impulsive act, to brush against his lips.
I felt tears start against my eyelashes and drew my hand back down. “Well, I’m glad,” I said, voice firm, “because I missed you, too.”
“Oh, Kate,” he said, turning away, but he kept my hand in his, sliding his thumb along mine and staring out the window.
“Why,” I asked, into the tense air between us, “were you trying to find me?”
“Oh, that. I just wanted to let you know that I spoke with Miss Martinez at the Post, and the item tomorrow will be fairly innocuous. I asked her to leave your name out of it, but she pointed out that it was already in the public domain, so…” He shrugged. “I’m sorry about that.”
“No, you did your best. It’s no big deal, I guess. It’ll blow over. Just a few days of crap from my colleagues, but I can handle that. And thank you,” I added. “You didn’t need to do that.”
“It was the least I could do.”
“Julian, you saved me from a serious beating. Maybe worse. And you set yourself up for a ton of unwanted public attention. So I’m the one who should be making things up to you.”
“Christ, Kate!” he burst out. “As if that matters! My God! What if I hadn’t been there last night?”
I returned my gaze to my lap and didn’t answer.
We turned right on Seventy-ninth Street and ran off the avenues to my apartment building. “Well,” I said, “this is me.”
“Yes, it is,” he agreed.
The driver got out and held my door open.
“Um, would you like to come in? I mean, not come in, come in,” I added quickly. “Just to talk.”
A smile grew across his face. “Yes, I’d like that,” he said, and followed me out of the car. He turned to the driver and said a few low words; the man nodded and got back in.
“What did you tell him?” I demanded. “Because you’re not staying over, you know. I’m not that easy.”
“Of course not.” He looked shocked. “He’s just going to park down the street.”
“Good, then. Now I warn you,” I said, as he opened the lobby door for me, “my roommate is a little… well, you’ll see what I mean. If she’s home. Which she’s probably not. Hi, Joey.”
Joey was on the house phone; his eyebrows went up into his hairline when he saw us. “Good night, Kate,” he mouthed meaningfully, as we walked past the desk.
I pressed the elevator call button. The doors opened at once and we stepped inside. “Which floor?” asked Julian.
“Seven.”
He reached forward and pressed the button. “So,” he observed, as the doors closed, “Joey looked surprised.”
“I don’t exactly bring home a lot of men.”
“Really?”
“None, in fact,” I admitted. “I kind of went off dating after college.”
“Oh. And why was that?”
“Too many… what was that word you used? Rotters.”
The doors opened and I led him out of the elevator and down the hall to my apartment door. “We’ll see if Brooke is in,” I said darkly, as I fit my key into the door and opened it. “Sorry. It’s not exactly what you’re used to.”
“It’s fine,” he said.
“You haven’t even looked inside.”
“Well, go on in, then,” he urged. “I’m right behind you.”
I crossed the threshold, holding my breath, hoping Brooke was running true to form. “Brooke?” I called out. No answer. Thank God.
“She’s still out,” I told Julian, turning on the entrance lamp. “That little treat will have to wait until later. So, this is it. Typical Manhattan bachelorette pad. Living room, kitchen area, two bedrooms down the hall. Brooke has the master; it’s her apartment. Her parents’ apartment, I mean. They bought it as her graduation present. I pay rent to her.”
He smiled tolerantly at my babbling and walked into the living room, filling the space with his dignity. “And how did you find such a cozy arrangement?”
“Craigslist. Sit down. Can I get you something? Water? Coffee? I have one of those French press thingies; it makes a pretty good cup.”
“Coffee, then. But let me help you,” he said, and followed me into the tiny kitchen area.
“Oh, that’s not necessary,” I protested. The sink was still full of Brooke’s breakfast dishes. Eggs, from the look of the pan. She hadn’t even soaked it, and
the remains had dried into an enamel-like hardness. “Sorry about the mess,” I said, turning on the water and filling the sink. “I leave way before my roommate does, and I never know what’s going to greet me when I come in.”
“Darling,” he said, “you don’t need to apologize for everything.”
“Do I? Apologize?” My ears tingled with delight. Darling again.
“You do. Now where’s this coffee press of yours?”
“Right here,” I said, reaching for it.
“No, I’ll get it. Just tell me what to do.”
He made the coffee and I did the dishes, laughing and getting in each other’s way, I in my gown and he in his tuxedo, like some sort of bizarre domestic comedy, and somehow the stiffness between us dissolved into familiarity. “So talk,” I said, when we were finally on the sofa, coffee cups in hand. I slipped off my shoes and tucked my feet under my dress.
“About what?” he asked, taking a cautious drink of the coffee. An expression of surprised pleasure crossed his face.
“You see? It’s not bad,” I said proudly. “A housewarming gift from my brother.”
“Tell me about your brother.”
“Kyle? Well, he lives back in Wisconsin. He’s still in college, senior year. He’s a great guy. Very into baseball. He’s majoring in accounting.”
“You can read accounting here?” He laughed.
“Sure you can. We like to take the arts out of liberal arts, here in America.”
“Are you close? You and your brother?”
I thought about that for a second. “About average. I mean, I don’t spill my guts to him, but I know he’d be there if I needed him. We e-mail a lot. He keeps hoping I’ll run into some Yankees hotshot and get an autograph for him.”
He smiled, fingered his coffee cup. “And your parents?”
“The usual.” I shrugged. “I don’t know what to say, really. They’re just parents. Dad’s in insurance. Mom used to be a teacher. She still subs sometimes, during the cold and flu season, when they’re short.” I took a drink of coffee. “She likes to read and garden. Pretty typical stuff.”
“You’re fortunate.”