Between Here and Gone Page 21

  “Off and on.”

  Still staring into the dark, I sensed, rather than actually saw his glance back toward the bed, only one pillow bearing an indentation, one side still neatly undisturbed. “You should get some real sleep. I’ll go back to my room.”

  “The bourbon’s gone.”

  The wind changed direction, rustling the leaves of the nearby palm trees. “Doesn’t matter.”

  I nodded. “Your room key is on the table along with some water and aspirin. You should probably take some if you think your stomach can tolerate it. There are saltine crackers as well.” A thoughtful addition for which I’d silently thanked the prescient Mr. Gordon.

  Pushing himself to his feet, he stepped inside the French doors. “Thank you,” he said quietly over the clink of the pitcher against a glass.

  I rose from the chaise and sidled past him into the room. “It’s only decent.”

  His lips pressed into a thin line at my carefully neutral response. “How bad?”

  I inhaled sharply, swallowed past the tightness in my throat as I recalled his harsh barbs—wondered how much of it he’d really meant. Hours and hours of wondering how much he’d meant. What demons had driven him to behave the way he had.

  “Never mind. What your face is saying—it’s more than enough.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, furrows marring his patrician forehead as he clearly tried to recall. “Natalia, I—”

  “It’s over, Jack. Just let it go. Please.” I wanted nothing more than to let it go. It had been a very long afternoon and night, watching over him as he veered between a heavy, terrifying sleep that verged on unconscious to tossing and turning, his mutterings mostly unintelligible, but undeniably angry. Weariness swept over me, the floor feeling as if it were swaying underfoot.

  His hand cupped my elbow, steadying me. But when he tried to lead me toward the bed, I pulled my arm free, shaking my head and regretting the motion as it brought on a fresh wave of lightheadedness.

  Misunderstanding, he continued, “Look, Natalia, you’ve gone above and beyond the call. We can talk later. For now, get some rest. God knows, you’ve earned it.”

  “That’s terribly considerate.” Hopefully he was still hungover enough that the slight sarcasm wouldn’t register. “However, I’m afraid I don’t have time. The car will be here within the hour.”

  For the first time, his gaze took in the entirety of the room—cases neatly stacked by the door save for the train case sitting open on the dresser, waiting for the last of the incidentals. My traveling suit hanging in pale blue isolation within the open closet.

  “You’re really leaving.”

  “You knew I would.”

  He nodded slowly. “I suppose I did. I just—” His voice trailed off as he raised the glass and drained the rest of the water.

  Don’t ask. Let him drink his water and bid him goodbye.

  Say you might run into each other in New York, both of you knowing it for an utter lie.

  Because did I honestly want to know the conclusion to that truncated sentence? But even as my rational mind waged its argument, I heard my impulsive self ask, “You just what?”

  Wandering back to the balcony, he gripped the railing, tension locking his arms in a straight line as he stared out into the dark. “I just hoped you might at least wait out the forty-eight hours. See what would happen.”

  “If it wasn’t for you—” I stopped, reconsidered my words. “Rather, if it wasn’t for what happened yesterday, I would have left last night. I had a seat on the red-eye.”

  “I see. Guess I can’t blame you.” Even in the low light, I could see the tendons in his forearms straining, as if trying to hold something back. “Did you call Greg and let him know you were coming home?”

  “No.”

  “No?” His head turned slightly. “Why not?”

  “Because he and Constance deserve more than what can be conveyed with a phone call. I’m planning on seeing them immediately upon my return.”

  With a deep breath, he pushed away from the balcony and reentered the room. He paused at the suite’s door, fingers tapping a restless pattern on the jamb. “I’ll wait to speak to him then. Seems only fair you get first crack at telling all of us how idiotic we were.”

  “I would hope if you’ve learned anything about me, that you know I wouldn’t do that.”

  “I do know. But I still wouldn’t blame you.” A faint smile crossed his face. “Safe travels, Natalia.”

  I nodded and started to say thank you or something equally polite and innocuous. “When do you think you’ll be returning to New York?”

  His raised eyebrows conveyed his surprise at my question. Almost equal to my own surprise at asking it. “Not for several days at the very least, I’m afraid.” The faint smile devolved to a mild grimace. “Have to clean up around here.”

  Of course. The promised forty-eight hour window was up and while he clearly desperately wanted to walk away from the whole mess, he just as clearly didn’t feel as if he had that freedom.

  I owe it to her.

  That mysterious sense of obligation—even if I didn’t understand or know its source, I recognized its demand. How family held one captive no matter how much the desire to break free existed. Helpless in the face of that recognition I glanced around. Needed to do something, no matter how useless it might appear on the surface. Because what he really needed I just couldn’t bring myself to do. Nor would he expect me to. But after so many years of struggling alone, I had to think it would be something—just knowing there was someone else out there who … cared. I retrieved the bottle of aspirin from the table. “Here.” I pressed it into his hand, curling his fingers over it. “You’ll no doubt need more.”

  His free hand rose to cover mine as his gaze searched my face. I remained still beneath his scrutiny, hoping he could see what was truly being offered.

  Finally he asked very quietly, “If I ever summon the nerve to ask, will you tell me what I said or did yesterday that hurt you?”

  I glanced down, studying our joined hands. “You didn’t hurt me.”

  “You’re a terrible liar.” As he had yesterday, he brushed the backs of his fingers gently across my cheek, this time lingering long enough to push a loose strand of hair back from my face and tuck it behind my ear. “And a very nice woman. You sure as hell didn’t deserve to be dragged into this mess. Certainly not the way we—I—did it. I could spend a lifetime trying to make it up to you, Natalia, and it wouldn’t begin to scratch the surface.”

  He’d already apologized once before. This, however, was subtly different. This was validation. This proud, stubborn man had finally yielded—taken full responsibility for a wrongdoing—and I felt nowhere near as vindicated or victorious as I should have. In fact, gazing up into his face, I found myself … laughing. Rather than take offense, however, he merely stared, a furrow creasing his elegant brow.

  “Interesting reaction.”

  “You’ll think me crazy, but … I feel as if I should be thanking you.”

  “Thanking me?”

  “Yes.” My gaze shifted to look past his shoulder, so many things clarifying, leaving me shaking my head at how absurd life was. How I had once—not that long ago—longed to slap this man. Scratch, claw, kick, hit—anything to inflict a measure of the hurt I imagined he’d visited on me. “Thank you.”

  “I can’t imagine what the hell for.”

  “It’s just … don’t you see? I needed something, Jack. Something to shock or break me out of the life I was living. Continuing indefinitely the way I was, I …” I took a deep breath. “It would have …”

  Killed me.

  “Not been good.”

  A shadow crossed his face. “Don’t be a saint on my behalf, Natalia. I don’t deserve it.”

  “Trust me, I am neither saint nor martyr.”

  “There’s a difference?”

  I cocked my head to the side and forced a lighter note to my voice. “Did they not teach you anything in your u
ndoubtedly expensive education?”

  “Clearly none of the good stuff.” A smile briefly turned the corners of his mouth up then faded as his voice dropped. “Maybe one day …” He released a long breath. “Maybe we’ll have the time for you to enlighten me.” The hand that had remained holding mine this entire time tightened briefly before letting go.

  A moment later, he was gone.

  Nineteen

  Some time later, I sat in a sunny corner of the atrium-like lobby, handbag and gloves in my lap, one ankle primly tucked behind the other as I waited. Watched the ebb and flow of the hotel guests, playing my game of creating stories. Like that man—the one who appeared to be in his late thirties, wearing a not-quite-perfectly tailored suit, glancing about—neither obvious tourist nor in familiar surroundings. In from the suburbs then, to experience how the other half lived, or—

  Well then. Judging by the cat-eyed brunette who had just joined him, wearing a scandalously short Mondrian-patterned A-line and high white boots, it was not so much seeing how the other half lived as choosing somewhere completely off the typically beaten path. At least for him, given the glint of gold on his ring finger. He was either not terribly wise or that was part of the thrill. The ability to get away with it.

  I looked away as they walked past—away from the desperate hold she maintained on his arm, away from the features that beneath the teased and sharply angled bob, the heavy eyeliner and fashionably pale lipstick, were even younger than I’d assumed. There was no real mystery or magic to be created in that story.

  Oddly disquieted now, I was grateful to hear the quiet hiss of the elevator doors opening, diverting my attention. An instant later, a familiar pair of white miniature poodles bounded out, rhinestone-studded turquoise collars sparkling as they yapped with excitement, dribbling urine as they dragged along a hapless bellman. As they made a beeline toward me, their white-haired owner snapped, “Do not allow them near her. She’s that menace who nearly killed them yesterday. In fact, I wish to speak to someone about having her removed from the premises immediately.”

  “What the hell?”

  I stood, turning my back on the dogs and their disagreeable owner who had poor Mr. Gordon cornered, and faced Jack. While still somewhat pale, he looked a great deal better than he had when he’d left my suite. At least one of us had managed more sleep.

  “Natalia?” Grasping me by the arm, he led me to a nearby alcove. “What are you still doing here?”

  “Waiting for you.”

  “What—why?”

  I gripped my handbag tightly, the metal frame digging into my palms. “Because implicit in that forty-eight hour ultimatum you gave Ava, was that I would also be there. That was the whole point, was it not?” My voice rose slightly in pitch with each word. Taking a deep breath, I continued more steadily, “How can you give her another opportunity if I’m no longer around?”

  “No. You have your out. You don’t want to do this. Hell, I don’t want you to do this.”

  “I have to.”

  He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again, his stare hard and intent. “No. You don’t. Go home, Natalia. Just … go home.”

  “No.”

  “Jesus Christ.” The hand on my arm tightened as he said, “Look, I’ll buy you a ticket to wherever the hell you want if you don’t want to go back to New York. But for God’s sake, Natalia, go. You’re free.”

  I stood there silently, taking in the dark slashes of color painting the skin drawn tight across his cheekbones, the almost feral expression in his eyes as he spoke of freedom. He stood there, waiting, as did I. Wondering, who would break first? And the longer we stood there, the further his expression gradually evolved, from anger, to bemusement, to finally, something approaching acceptance. And overlying the acceptance, a distinct air of relief. My guess had been correct.

  “Why?”

  “I wish I knew.” A lie. I did know. At least that it was something beyond pity. Jack had to sense that as well, because if he thought I was driven merely by pity, he would put up more of a fight or simply walk away without a backward glance.

  “What I should do,” he grumbled as he shifted his hand to my back to guide me through the lobby and outside to where the valet waited with the idling Jaguar, “is take you and put you on an airplane myself and wait until the damned thing’s airborne.”

  “But you won’t.”

  “No. I won’t.” After assisting me into the car, rather than close the door he leaned down, so close I could feel the heat from his body. “On one condition.”

  I paused in the midst of tying a scarf over my hair. “What’s that?”

  He waited until we’d pulled away from the hotel and turned onto the highway to answer. “Soon—not right now, but soon—I am going to ask you again what I said yesterday that hurt you.” His fingers tightened on the gearshift as he accelerated, the wind rushing through the convertible with a high-pitched whine. But not so loud it masked his voice or the steel underlying each word. “And you’re going to tell me, no evasion, no bullshit.”

  “But—”

  “No. No questions or arguments or logical reasoning, Natalia. I don’t want to hear it. Either you agree right now that you’ll tell me or I’m turning around and taking you straight to the airport.”

  “Why?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Those are my conditions, take it or leave it.”

  “Fine.” I sighed impatiently.

  My terse agreement seemed to satisfy him, at least until we arrived at Ava’s. Killing the engine, he leaned his head back against the seat and stared up into the trees. Patches of light penetrated the dense foliage, dappling his face and lending shadows to his profile that made it even more difficult than usual to read his expression.

  “When I ask,” he said, as if speaking to the trees, “and you tell me, then, I’ll tell you why it’s so important. I promise.”

  The shadows shifted as he turned his head. Sitting up, he removed his sunglasses, then reached across the short distance between us to remove mine, finding and holding my gaze. “I keep my promises, Natalia. No matter what happens, remember that.”

  I nodded, but wasn’t sure if he even saw, since he’d already exited the car, swiftly rounding the hood to open my door. Together, we climbed the steps, pausing in front of the enormous bronze doors and exchanging a telling glance.

  His hand hovering over the dome-shaped doorbell, he said, “Déjà vu all over again.”

  He waited for my nod before pressing down. From deep within the house, the Westminster chimes rang, once, then again, as Jack pressed the dome once more. And after waiting a minute or two, both of us listening for the sounds of footsteps or a voice, calling to come in or go away and hearing nothing, ringing a third time.

  “Dammit,” he sighed, slamming the flat of his hand against the door, stumbling as it swung open.

  “Jack—” Instinctively, I reached out to steady him, my nails digging into his arm as suddenly it was me who needed his support, stunned into weak-kneed silence by what greeted us.

  WHORE

  Scrawled in menacing red across the once-pristine white walls of the foyer. Over and over, overlapping with other, even uglier, words.

  Bitch … slut …

  Words I’d first heard tittered in Spanish by the boys I’d known growing up, attempting to impress each other and shock the girls.

  Cunt … cocksucker …

  Words hissed in my ear by those loathsome Concord boys—titillating for them, humiliating for me as they lay over me or held my head, forcing—

  “Madre santisma.” I swallowed hard, tried to blink away the heat and prickling sensation as those impossibly red letters blurred, then sharpened, then blurred again. Just words, I reminded myself. They weren’t probing or groping or forcing me to their will. They were merely words. Nothing more than that.

  Nothing more than that, I kept repeating to myself as Jack abruptly turned me away, his hand gripping the back of my neck as he held my head t
o his shoulder. A stunned, “Jesus,” emerged on the tail end of ragged breath, hovering above my head.

  “Just words, Jack,” I whispered against his shirt. Perhaps with saying it out loud I might be able to draw a full breath without feeling the suffocating pressure on my chest. Stupid words. Nevertheless, I kept my face buried against his shoulder, not quite ready to face them again.

  “She could have called. Told me she wanted another writer. To go to hell. God knows, she’s done it before.” His voice had steadied, grown harder even as he rocked back and forth in a soothing motion. “There was no reason to do this. None.” Pushing away from me, he snapped, “That’s it. This is over.”

  “Jack—”

  He pulled free from my grasp, pointing back to the front door as he charged down the floating staircase. “Wait for me in the car. I mean it.”

  Not an option. And now was not the time to explain I didn’t need to be coddled. That at this point, we were in this together. I descended the stairs behind him, ignoring his warnings of, “Natalia, no—don’t.”

  It was gallant, but what more could there possibly be? I was inured to more of the same. Was even able to breathe fairly naturally as I confronted more of the same filthy words scribbled across the white walls downstairs. Remained steady enough to disregard the graffiti in lieu of the unexpected sight of dozens of small silver lipstick cases lined up with a uniform precision along the long edge of the pool.

  “Ava, wherever you’re hiding, get the hell out here. “

  Jack’s voice echoed throughout the enormous room as he pushed open the various doors while I crouched down by the cases, picking them up, one by one. All of them identical, etched with delicate scrollwork and capped with tiny pearls and rhinestones. Memory warred with recognition as I traced the designs with a trembling fingertip. I knew these cases. Van Cleef & Arpels had made them for Revlon—an exclusive, highly sought-after item several years back, the glossy advertisements splashed across the pages of all the fashion magazines showing the numbered silver cases nestled inside red-velvet lined presentation boxes.

  Fit for royalty, that spoiled, long-ago girl had daydreamed.