Fast Courting (11 page)

If only other things could be resolved as easily, she mused later. With Daniel Strahan monopolizing the back of her mind all day, nothing seemed to work out smoothly.

The microfilm room, with its single viewer, had been appropriated by a young staffer whose plea that she was already far behind schedule fell on Nia’s sympathetic ear. After all, Nia reasoned, her own research wasn’t exactly an emergency. In fact, she doubted she should even be doing it on company time…since she would not be using it for official purposes.

And therein lay a world of guilt. She had, despite any stretch of the imagination, led Chris on. When she should have been appealing to him for a suitable replacement for Daniel in the
Eastern Edge
feature, she had knowingly let Chris believe her inquiries to be on the up-and-up. Oh, they were on the up-and-up, all right, but it was a very personal high she courted.

She wanted to know Daniel, to understand
him
as he claimed to want to understand
her
. The difference was principally in his willingness to be known. While she had talked to him with a remarkable lack of inhibition, he had revealed very little of a truly personal nature to her. So, reporter-at-heart that she was, she would seek out the information on her own.

It was, unfortunately, hard to come by. After striking out at the microfilm department, she raced to a nearby bookstore, where she spent a full hour browsing through any and every publication, first downstairs in hardback, then up in paper, that dealt in any form or fashion with basketball. There was no shortage of life stories on some of the current big stars of the game. But on Daniel Strahan? Nothing.

She returned to her office after stopping to pick up a fast chicken salad sandwich to go, then munched on it at her desk and reviewed what she
had
learned. Daniel Strahan had originally come from Oregon, had made his mark at Stanford and been the Breakers’ first-round draft pick in his senior year. He’d moved directly to Boston and had remained with the team until his retirement after ten years of frontline basketball. In his later playing years, he had been bothered by a troublesome knee, but, otherwise, he had been regarded as one of the Breakers’ outstanding forwards. Period. Nothing more recent, save passing references to the success of the New England Breakers “under Head Coach Daniel Strahan.” No details on Daniel. No personal dirt. Nothing. Nia’s violet gaze grew darker in frustration. For this she had wasted the better part of the morning?

With a low oath and a spate of noble resolutions, she set off to meet with Arthur Wallis-Wright. Things had to get better; Symphony Hall was a favorite spot of hers. Of course, she had been here primarily for special concerts: a notable flute soloist, a small Baroque ensemble—but how different could the atmosphere be under the auspices of the first violinist and concertmaster of the Boston Symphony Orchestra?

Very different, she discovered upon being ushered into a stark room where the maestro had been practicing. She was totally ignored until the double bars, at which point the musician lowered the instrument from its niche beneath his chin, tucked it as a security blanket under his arm, and proceeded to toy with his bow strings for the duration of the interview.

After ten minutes of the distracting fidgeting, Nia felt that
she
was stretched taut. Forcing herself to remain poised as she explained the feature and what she wanted to achieve with it, she then asked several basic questions, made another appointment, this time to meet the violinist at his Brookline home, and fled. It was an instant relief to emerge once more into the brisk air of Huntington Avenue.

Paul Kiley, the first man she’d interviewed for the eligible easterner feature, had cast aside his initial wariness during that spontaneously prolonged first interview, but Wallis-Wright had remained awkward throughout. Nia’s attempts to relax him had been in vain; she had been unable to put him at ease. Perhaps she had caught him on a particularly tense day; she had gathered that he would be conducting the orchestra that night in place of the ailing regular. That kind of pressure would distract anyone, she decided in his favor, half wishing he had thought simply to call her and postpone their meeting. He had been very proper and cordial, though, in spite of his nervousness. Perhaps he was always this way. Perhaps she would be able to work through that outer shield of formality next time, to find the man whom Bill Austen and the wizards upstairs had thought fit to classify as an “eligible easterner.” Perhaps the Wallis-Wright type appealed to some women….

Needing to clear her head, Nia opted out of taking the streetcar directly back to the office. Buttoning her reefer to her neck and burying her hands deep in her pockets, she struck out toward the imposing granite gathering of the Christian Science Center. Its reflecting pool had always fascinated her, mirroring as it did not only the heavens above but their climatic moods as well.

Though bounded by buildings on nearly three sides, the spot was relatively exposed. Pulling up her collar, she huddled more deeply into her coat as she watched the wind’s chill create a broad expanse of ripples on the pool’s fluid surface. There was a serenity here, regardless of the weather, a sense almost of communion that affected her each time she came. It never failed to soothe her.

Perched on the stone rim of the pool, she sighed. Whether in spite, or because, of the peacefulness of the setting, her mind turned to Dan. She had enjoyed herself last night far more than she had in months. There was an ease in talking with him, even in the challenge of getting him to talk about himself. He was intelligent; she sensed an untapped reserve of knowledge on topics far beyond basketball.

But basketball was his life just now; that alone put him beyond her reach. Nor did her mishandling of his role in the feature story please her, and she still had Bill to face on that score.

Should she have been more formal herself? Should she have rigidly clung to her role as writer and left the arena that day at Daniel’s first refusal to cooperate? But then she would never have known the headiness of his kiss and the richness of his embrace. Dead-end street that he was, Daniel Strahan made her feel good. She liked that.

Before her eyes, the stucco surface of the pool grew glassily smooth for an instant. With a flash of clarity, Nia reached a tentative conclusion. What harm was there in enjoying Daniel Strahan? She knew there was nowhere to go. It would only take one road trip to remind her that this was a passing pleasure. If her expectations were low, there would be no hurt, no disappointment. So why not relax and take him in stride? After all, if by some remote possibility he did end up in the pages of
East
ern Edge
he would be no different from any other of the people she’d interviewed over the years. On the other hand, if she let instinct rule her desire to keep his privacy intact, there could surely be no problem with seeing him every so often. If
he
wanted that. A big “if.” An “if” that only time would resolve.

As she stood and slowly walked along the open mall toward Copley Square, she recalled his final words of the night before. “I’ll give you a call,” he had said, but his meaning had been vague. Had it been a promise to reach a decision on the article—or had it been the anticipation of something far more personal? That he had been affected by her, drawn to her, was clear. However, there was nothing she could do but wait until he chose to make his move. In the meantime, she vowed, she would unbend and enjoy her life as she had before Daniel Strahan’s appearance.

Pleased at having settled something in her mind, Nia walked more briskly, skirting the Boston Public Library, then ducking into the subway stop. When she emerged into daylight at Government Center, she felt pleasantly calm. It was in this refreshed frame of mind that she returned to the office and withstood several hectic hours of meetings and phone calls and desk work without a murmur. Things were flowing smoothly once more; her satisfied smile attested to it.

The sun had just begun to set beyond the Charles River when she finally took the elevator to the ground floor and crossed the plaza toward the subway. As she had intended—and as she very often did—she had missed the worst of the rush hour by staying the hour or so later at the office. The crowd was thinning now, and she easily found a seat for the ride to Harvard Square.

Once there, her luck held. Ironically, now that there were no raindrops to dodge, the bus was waiting at the curb for her, closing its door behind her as soon as she was safely aboard and speeding her home. A quick glance at her watch brought a sweet surge of pleasure; she would have time to change and make dinner before the start of the pregame show. What was
he
doing now? Had he eaten in that same little restaurant today—perhaps the special had been scampi? She could almost smell it!

Her broiled scrod was a far cry from scampi, and the silence that served as her dinner companion was a far cry from Daniel’s lively presence. But nonchalance was the word. She relaxed, read the mail, even glanced at the article she’d brought home with her to edit. With an eye ever on the clock, however, she flipped on the small television set at precisely the moment that the station’s commentator introduced Daniel.

What followed was an awakening! There was Daniel, looking very familiar and as handsome as ever, responding to questions in the deep flow of verbal velvet she had come to expect. But his manner was wholly different from anything
she
had ever seen in him. There was a professional polish to him, a practiced evenness, an ultimate preparedness for each and every question. It was almost as if he’d seen the script before, memorized it, and now spewed back pat answers without a flicker of concentration.

“The Breakers beat the Bullets for their tenth straight win the other night,” the commentator began, stating the obvious for the benefit of the home audience. “How does the team react to the streak?”

“We take it one game at a time. The Bullets are a strong team, one of the strongest in the league. They may well make the playoffs this year. In that sense, the win pleased us.” Not a blink or a smile broke his placid expression.

“You’re still working without Walker and Barnes?”

“That’s right.”

“Can you continue to hold up without them?”

“Our backups are good and getting stronger with each game. They’re more rested than some of the regulars. It’s taken a rethinking of some of our usual plays, but we’re adjusting to the loss pretty well. I’ll be starting Harwood and Flagg at forward, Rockowski at center, Jones and Fitzgerald at guard. They’re a tough five.”

“Any special strategy for defense in tonight’s game?”

“We’re focusing on Montrose. When he gets the ball, we’ll go to double-teaming.”

“There’s been talk that Jones’ game is too personal.”

“Gunner is a shooting guard. It’s what he does best. I think he’s aware of the rest of the team; he moves around.”

“Will Watts see any playing time tonight? I understand he pulled a muscle in practice today.”

“He’s suited up. If we need him, he’ll play.”

“What about Houston? They’ve got their own streak of six going. Can you beat them?”

“I hope so.”

“Is it too early to break out the bubbles for the Atlantic Division title?”

“Yes. Things could always turn around, but we’ll be working tonight to make sure they don’t.”

“And that’s all we can ask.” The camera pulled back to encompass their handshake. “Thanks for talking with us, Dan, and good luck tonight.”

A half-smile from Daniel. “My pleasure, Johnny.”

That was it. All of three minutes of rapid-fire dialogue that said absolutely nothing! If Christopher Daly thought such interviews were “brilliant” or “concise,” he was a starry-eyed idealist! Nia turned away from the set, only now aware that her heartbeat was faster than usual. That was the last kind of interview she’d expected Dan to give. But why? The more she considered it, the more sense it made. Daniel had revealed nothing—nothing to antagonize either fans, players or the opposition. As team spokesman, that was his job. His comments had been benign enough to preclude offense on any front.

Yet Nia had taken Daniel Strahan as a man of very distinct opinions. Was she disappointed in his mechanical performance here? On the contrary—to her astonishment, she was actually pleased! If this was the public Daniel Strahan, the one whose face the press saw, then she had, without realizing it at the time, seen something deeper. Dan had never given her stock answers like those she’d heard from him tonight. He had
reacted
to her! That thought was strangely flattering.

From a distant shore of consciousness came the steady cheer of the crowd, its roar setting off the old, familiar anguish of memory within her. David. It was still his game. It was still a cruel game, making demands on its participants that normal relationships simply could not handle.

The crowd stilled for the deep baritone of a local entertainer. But Nia’s mind was once more on the past, recalling the unhappiness that the sounds of the game represented. What did the players’ wives feel when their husbands spent half of each season on the road? How did
they
survive?

On impulse she turned the set off. Well, she reasoned, she’d seen Daniel, and that had been her sole purpose in watching. Putting up with the clamor of the game was still something she resented.

She did, however, buy the newspaper on her dash through the Square unusually early the next morning. Her hands were full, juggling her pocketbook and the material she’d brought home the night before, as she struggled to read the sports page against the relentless interference of the wind. Her feet knew the way of the well-worn walk beneath the high archways into Harvard Yard. Her destination was the Widener Library; she had the
Eastern Edge
pass in her purse. Today she was taking no chance on microfilms at the office. Widener had several machines and opened early enough for her to do her work and still get into Boston before her absence created a stir.