Change of Heart (3 page)

“It isn’t arrogant to want to do something better than others have done it,” she replied softly. “Or if it is, then it is only the arrogant who achieve excellence.”

He looked thoughtfully into her eyes and was about to say something when Jennifer returned to their table. She had been playing Pac-man for the last fifteen minutes. “Guess what, Cecelia,” she said as she slid in next to her, “Jessica Fox is here with her folks. She was playing Pac-man with me.”

“Who is Jessica Fox?” Gil inquired.

“She’s in my riding class and in my class at school,” returned Jenny. Then, proudly, she added, “She’s my best friend.”

Cecelia smiled down at Jennifer’s happy face, a smile full of amused tenderness. There was an odd expression in Gil’s eyes as he watched them. Then he said to Jennifer, “Are you ready to go? It’s getting late.”

“I guess so.” Jennifer heaved a sigh. “This was fun.”

“Yes,” said Cecelia, her eyes on Jennifer but her mind on Gil. “It was.”

She didn’t see him again for two weeks. She was disappointed, and angry with herself for feeling disappointed. What would a man like Gilbert Archer see in her? What could possibly prompt him to want to seek out her company again? Their dinner together, so fascinating and important to her, had been just a casual evening to him, something done to please his daughter.

She had just decided that she would probably never see him again when he came to pick Jennifer up from her riding lesson on Friday. The sight of his tall, fair-haired figure in the doorway of the arena caused Cecelia’s breath to catch for a minute in her throat. I’m behaving like an idiot, she told herself sternly. And when the lesson was over she walked toward him slowly, gathering her composure, determined to be friendly but reserved.

“Are you playing chauffeur today?” she asked with what she hoped was a casual smile.

“Yes. I got home early for once.” He looked down at her gravely. She was of average height, but he made her feel small. “I’ve been in Washington this last week,” he said.

“Oh.” She bent to pick up a rock and throw it out of the arena. “I suppose you have to do a lot of traveling.”

“Well, sometimes it’s best to be on the scene yourself.”

“Yes, I imagine so.”

“Cecelia!” It was Meredith Holmes calling from the doorway of the barn. “Should I put anything on this cut of Hansi’s?”

“Excuse me,” Cecelia murmured to Gil and went across the stable yard to the barn. He could hear her saying something to the child and then saw her go into the barn and Meredith walk off toward the tack room. Gil slowly followed Cecelia.

The roan pony was on cross ties in the aisle and Cecelia was looking carefully at his flank. Meredith returned with a jar which Cecelia took from her. She began to apply the salve to the horse’s injury. He sidled and threw up his head, but she talked soothingly to him as she worked. Finally she stepped back. “It’s looking much better,” she said. She caressed the pony briefly. “Make sure you put his blanket on,” she told Meredith and came to stand beside Gil. “This is the pony barn,” she said to him. “Would you like to see the rest of the place?”

He smiled courteously and said, “Yes.”

She gave him the complete tour, including three barns and the tack room. They ended up before the stall of a big chestnut gelding. “This is Czar,” she said. At the sound of her voice the gelding pricked his ears forward and came to the front of his stall. “Czar,” she crooned in a soft lovely voice. The horse blew gently and she reached into her pocket for a carrot. “Piggy,” she said affectionately as he chomped on it. She turned to Gil. “Czar is the new jumper I was telling you about. Isn’t he marvelous?”

Gil had learned to ride one summer at camp when he was a boy, but horses had never been one of his interests. “He’s beautiful,” he said dutifully. Two teenage girls were deftly forking hay into the stalls and the sounds of animal munching began to fill the barn.

“Jenny must be finished by now,” Cecelia said and began to walk again in the direction of the tack room.

He walked beside her, hands in the pockets of his corduroy pants. “Someone gave me a pair of tickets to
Rio”
he said, mentioning a Broadway play that was sold out for months in advance. “You said the other night that you’d like to see it. They’re for tomorrow night. Would you care to go with me?”

Her brown eyes lit up.
“Rio!
I’d love to see it. But tomorrow ...” She frowned a little. She had a date for tomorrow night.

He read her thoughts. “Cancel it,” he recommended laconically.

She laughed. “I think I will. Tim won’t mind. He can see me anytime.”

He raised his brows at that but said nothing. Jenny came out of the tack room and called, “I’m ready, Daddy.”

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow at five-thirty. We can have dinner before the show,” he said to Cecelia and walked over to where his daughter awaited him.

* * * *

Frank was driving the BMW when Gil arrived the following evening to pick her up. Cecelia greeted him as she got into the car. “I suppose you’re the one who’s going to be stuck looking for a parking space,” she said with a smile.

“You’re exactly right, Miss Vargas,” he answered. “Mr. Archer’s temper can’t handle New York traffic.”

Cecelia shot a look at Gil as he sat beside her. He looked faintly amused. “Where are we going for dinner?” she asked curiously. “I’ve never eaten in a real New York restaurant.”

“You haven’t?” He looked surprised. “You only live about an hour away. Surely you go into the city sometimes.”

“Of course. We go in every year for the National Horse Show at the Garden. And I’ve been to some plays and the ballet. But I’ve never eaten anywhere but in Howard Johnson’s. Too expensive,” she concluded succinctly.

“Well, we’re not going to Howard Johnson’s, that I can promise you. Or to a place that serves popcorn as an hors d’oeuvres.” In the dim light of the car she saw his finely cut nostrils quiver disgustedly and she laughed. “I’m taking you to a little French restaurant in the theater district. It’s really quite good. I hope you like French food?”

“Who doesn’t?” returned Cecelia immediately. Her eyes were luminous with pleasure.

The hour’s ride into the city  passed quickly.

Cecelia again found herself surprised at how easy he was to talk to. She had expected to feel shy and uncertain in his company, with no Jennifer to provide a distraction. But she felt quite comfortable, only a little keyed up and excited by the novelty of the whole expedition and the undoubted magnetism of Gilbert Archer’s presence.

The French restaurant lived up to all her expectations. The maître d’ recognized Gil at once. “Good evening, Mr. Archer,” he said. “Your table is right this way, sir.” He led them to a quiet, dimly lit table in the corner. Gil took Cecelia’s cherry-colored wool reefer coat and handed it to the maître d’. As Cecelia sat down she cast a swift glance around the room to see if she were properly dressed. After a brief inspection of the other women diners she decided that her oyster-white crepe dress would do and she turned back to Gil, her soft lips parted in a small happy smile.

She was wearing her hair drawn back off her face in a smooth chignon and the style made her look older and more sophisticated than he had seen her look before. It also emphasized the largeness of her eyes and the exquisite lines of her cheekbones, jaw, and throat. “What do you usually do for fun, Cecelia, if you don’t come into the city?” he asked unsmilingly.

“I stay pretty local, mostly, ” she replied readily enough. “Movies, neighborhood restaurants, parties at friends’ houses, things like that. The horses keep me pretty busy. I don’t have all that much time for outside activities.”

The waiter came to take their order. “Would you like a drink?” Gil asked her.

“I’ll have a daiquiri,” she answered.

“A martini with a twist,” said Gil. Then, as the waiter moved away, “Who is Tim?”

For a moment Cecelia looked bewildered. “Tim?”

“The guy you had a date with tonight.”

Her brow cleared. “Oh,
that
Tim. He’s just a friend of mine. We go out sometimes.”

The waiter reappeared with their drinks and the menus. Cecelia opened hers and nearly fainted at the prices. She stared at Gil with horrified eyes and, reluctantly, he laughed. “Order what you want,” he said. “I told you this wasn’t a popcorn place.”

“I can see that,” she answered and regarded the menu dubiously once again.

“Can you read it?” he asked. It was written entirely in French.

“Oh yes. I took French in school.” She glanced up at him from under her lashes, a charming, unconsciously seductive look. “It’s the prices, not the language, that have me floored.”

His face was inscrutable as he watched her. “I told you to forget about the prices.”

“Well you asked for it,” she replied cheerfully. “Damn the torpedoes and full speed ahead. I’ll start with the artichoke....”

* * * *

They finished their coffee at ten minutes to eight. “That was sumptuous.” Cecelia sighed as Gil helped her into her coat. She looked at him over her shoulder, her lips curving with pleasure.

He did not smile back. “I’m glad you enjoyed it,” he said. Then, putting a hand on her arm, he began to guide her out of the restaurant. Neither of them noticed the woman seated along the wall who had been watching them closely for the last hour.

The play was as wonderful as its reviews had promised, and Cecelia sat enchanted during the entire three acts. When she accompanied Gil out into the lobby during the two intermissions so he could have a cigarette, he introduced her to several people, but their names and faces were a blur to Cecelia. She was too caught up in the play to spare much attention for strangers. She smiled politely, answered a few questions, and returned eagerly to her seat at the sound of the bell.

Frank was waiting for them outside with the BMW. “My, this is service,” said Cecelia admiringly as she got into the backseat.

“Well, where to now?” Gil asked as he got in beside her. “Would you like to go to a nightclub?”

She turned great startled eyes on him. “A nightclub! But it’s late already.”

In the dimness of the car she could just make out his sardonic look. “It’s only eleven-thirty, Cecelia.”

“Yes, but we won’t be home until twelve-thirty. And I have to be up tomorrow at five. I’d really rather go home, Gil, if you don’t mind.”

“But I do mind,” he replied softly. “Don’t you think it’s time you let yourself live a little?”

She looked for a minute in silence at his face, so close to hers in the confines of the car. She was suddenly intensely aware of his nearness and tallness. The light from a street lamp shone in the car window, illuminating his silver-blond hair. He was, she thought abruptly, everything that a man ought to be. “I have a horse show to ride in tomorrow,” she said slowly. “It’s a registered show and an important one. If I want to ride Czar in the National in November he needs the points. Daddy will be angry if I’m home too late.”

He leaned a little closer. “Do you always do what Daddy wants, Cecelia?”

“Yes,” she answered simply. “After all, he
is
my father,” She raised her beautiful winged brows at him. “You’ll want Jennifer to do the same in a few years’ time, you know.”

His face relaxed into reluctant amusement.
“Touché,”
he said. “We’ll go home.”

They talked desultorily as the car weaved its way through the city streets. Cecelia was feeling very sleepy, and as the car moved onto the highway she gave the abrupt half sigh—half yawn of a child. A strong arm came around her. “Why don’t you just go to sleep, baby?” said a deep voice in her ear. “I’ll wake you when we’re home.”

The invitation was irresistible and she allowed her head to sink down on his shoulder. It felt so comfortable there, so natural. In three minutes she was asleep.

* * * *

The society gossip column of the Monday morning New York
Daily News
ran this interesting item: “Who was the lovely brunette seen dining with Gil Archer at Chez Guillaume’s last Saturday night? Gil certainly looked attentive. Are you holding out on us, darling?”

Cecelia, who did not take the paper and who would not have read the gossip column even if she had, remained in ignorance of her sudden notoriety. The item was cause for comment, however, between Liz Lewis, Gil’s longtime friend and sometime mistress, and Pat Carruthers, who had been with her husband Ben at the Saturday evening performance of
Rio.

“Did you see Betsy Bartlett’s column yesterday?” Pat asked Liz as they lunched together at the Cosmopolitan Club. Both women had graduated from Radcliffe the same year Gil graduated from Harvard. Liz had made a marriage that turned out as disastrously as Gil’s, and for the last few years he had been her most frequent escort. Pat knew she had hopes of becoming the second Mrs. Archer.

“Of course I did,” replied Liz, regarding her cold salmon with a frown. “I didn’t pay any attention to it. Gil can’t sneeze without the gossip columnists making a headline out of it.”

“Well this girl
was
a little out of his ordinary line,” Pat said disingenuously. She genuinely liked Liz but she was also an incurable gossip.

Liz put down her fork. “Oh? Did you see her?”

“At the theater,” Pat replied serenely. She chewed reflectively on her veal. “Ben told me that Gil pulled some high-powered strings to get tickets, so naturally I was curious.”

“Well?” Liz demanded. “What was she like?”

“Young,” replied Pat succinctly. “Very young. She can’t be over twenty-three.”

Liz’s mouth and jaw had a tense look about them. “I didn’t know Gil had a Lolita complex.”

“All
men do to some extent, don’t you think? And then she is very beautiful. Ben couldn’t keep his eyes off her.”

Liz stared into her friend’s face. “Who is she?”

“I don’t know. He introduced her as Cecelia Vargas.”

“Vargas?” Liz’s brows snapped together. “Is she Spanish?”

“With that name, and her looks, I should say her background was most definitely Spanish. But she’s American. One can always tell.”