Mystique (2 page)

"You play piano in a bar,"
Richard had scoffed.

The next day Misty had found a tiny
studio apartment just two blocks away and moved out. She and Richard had lived
together for one year, yet she had felt only relief at their parting.

After that, Misty had dated other men,
but she hadn't become seriously involved with anyone until three years later,
at the age of twenty-five, when she'd met Leonard Glassman, a rising account
executive with an advertising firm. After they had dated for three months,
Leonard had insisted that she move in with him. He had been very caring, eager
to shower her with gifts, and willing to help clean the apartment. She'd told
herself she really didn't mind when he woke her up each morning to make
love—even though she usually didn't get to bed until three or four in the morning.
"For God's sake, Misty, I thought we cared about each other," he'd
exclaimed. "Isn't that why we live together?"

"Yes, but caring goes both
ways," she'd answered. "We have to be considerate of each
other."

"You have a great place to live, I
give you money for your clothes..."

"I don't spend your money. I have my
own," she'd muttered as she'd let him make love to her exhausted body.

Leonard had also wanted her to meet his
co-workers and entertain them at home occasionally. Although she'd done her
best, she'd begun to chafe at his constant demands.

"Lord, why are you always so
tired?" he'd complained.

Misty had felt confused and unhappy about
what was happening to them. She'd gone to see a therapist and had begun to
learn that, despite her anger and resentment at being taken for granted—first
by her parents, then by Richard and Leonard—she was still worthy of being
loved.

Misty and Leonard had stayed together for
a year and a half, and Misty had to admit that she preferred a man like Leonard
to one like Richard. But since neither man was a prize, she decided that men
weren't for her. In her opinion, love didn't liberate; it enslaved. Frequently
she pondered the thought that her parents' love for her had begun to fade when
she'd become a teenager and demanded control of her own destiny.

Sometimes she could still hear her father
shouting, "Slut! That's what you are—a slut! It's after midnight, young
lady."

"Hey, lady, what's the matter? You
sick or somethin'? This is your address."

Misty clapped her hand over her mouth to
stifle a groan. "Ah, it's nothing," she told the cab driver.
"Just thinking. Here you are." She handed over some money. "Keep
the change."

Misty climbed out of the cab and trudged
up the stoop
to the front door of the brownstone she
owned with four other people. She'd been delighted when, after leaving Leonard,
she'd learned that the small stock investment her uncle had made for her had
grown into enough money to buy a good-sized co-op apartment. At a time in her
life when her problems had loomed large, owning her own home had given her a
sense of security. But tonight she was too weary to appreciate the joys of
ownership.

As she often did, Misty climbed the four
flights of stairs instead of using the tiny elevator, which made her feel
claustrophobic. The exercise was good for her heart, she told herself. Besides,
it made her tired, let her sleep.

Her apartment was on the top floor, a
sunny studio with a wall of windows at the back. Best of all, a previous
occupant had soundproofed the walls and floor so that she could practice her
piano at any hour of the day or night without disturbing the other tenants.
She'd bought the piano at a household auction in Connecticut and paid a king's
ransom to have it hoisted up the rear of the building and through a window.
She'd been broke for months afterward.

That night, instead of going straight to
bed, she decided to play the piano before trying to sleep. After locking the
door and slipping off her shoes, she crossed her frugally furnished apartment,
sighing with pleasure as her feet sank into the soft Oriental rug covering the
hardwood floor. Except for the rug and piano, the only other piece of
furniture was the king-sized water bed she had purchased from the previous
apartment owners. It had taken her weeks to adjust to the bed, but now she
enjoyed it.

At the floor-to-ceiling windows Misty had
hung a green curtain of plants. Across the floor she'd scattered colorful throw
cushions. She could lower the rope blinds over the windows when she wanted
privacy, but more often she pulled them up to let in as much of the scarce Manhattan sunlight as possible.

It was still dark, however, as Misty sat
down at the piano and played every piece of classical music she knew from
memory. She played to exorcise both Richard's and Leonard's ghosts from her
life. In the last few months she had come to realize that in many ways both men
were like her father. They had seen her not as she was or could be, but as a
reflection of their own desires.

Misty's hands came down on a discordant
arpeggio. She wanted no more men in her life! Lucas Stuyvesant Harrison was
just like all the others, and she wanted no part of him.

Her fingers were once more poised over
the keys when an image of the man rose before her. His brown eyes glittered
with the hardness of granite. His ash blond hair flashed silver under the
artificial light. His impeccably tailored tuxedo conformed to every muscle in
his tall, lean form.

"Stop it. Stop it, Misty," she
admonished herself. "Wipe him out of your mind. He's trouble. Your life is
just beginning to be your own. You have a good job. You can pay your bills.
You're playing the piano every day, and you get occasional orchestral
jobs." Reciting the familiar litany of blessings in her life helped her to
feel less anxious, less alone.

When the orange light of dawn filtered
through the windows, Misty went to bed, falling instantly into a deep and
dreamless sleep.

She awoke thinking the building was
coming down around her. A terrible noise filled her ears. As her eyes popped
open, it took her a moment to realize that someone was banging on her door.

"Misty! Misty, did you forget the
twins' lesson today?" Aileen Collins called out. Aileen and her husband
David lived on the parlor floor with their ten-year-old twins, Mark and Mary.

"Huh?" Misty sat up in bed,
blinking and running a hand absently through her tangled hair. "Oh, wait,
Aileen. I'm coming." She jumped out of bed, her flannel nightgown falling
to her ankles as she staggered over to the door and unlocked it. "Sorry. I
overslept."

She smiled groggily at her friend and the
exuberant twins, who called out "Hi, Misty!" and bounded past her
into the room. Heading straight for the water bed, they tumbled into the center
amid squeals of laughter.

"Stop that, now!" Aileen
called, rolling her eyes in exasperation. "I should have kept them
downstairs. I'll bet you haven't even been to bed yet."

"Yes, I slept for several hours. Why
don't you make me some coffee, and I'll start Mary on her scales?"

"Done." Aileen grinned, but she
couldn't quite mask her concern for her friend.

"Now, don't start mothering me
again," Misty protested. "I'm fine. I don't need much sleep. I told
you that." She laughed, moving toward the piano bench.

"But there's a great deal you've
never told me about yourself, Misty," Aileen said softly. When her friend
didn't answer, she shrugged and went into the small kitchen to fill the
electric drip pot with coffee.

Misty showed Mary where to start in the
Dozen a Day book of finger exercises for beginners and listened attentively as
her pupil began to play. Misty was grateful for the income from these weekly
lessons, which helped pay her bills each month. She also knew Aileen was
delighted that her children didn't have to travel for the lessons she and David
wanted them to have.

The hour passed quickly. Afterward, Misty
and Aileen chatted over another cup of coffee while the children drank milk and
munched cookies that Misty stocked especially for them.

"So, how was it last night?"
Aileen asked, keeping a close eye on the twins, who were wrangling over a game
on the oval carpet.

Misty shrugged. "The usual Christmas
party scene. People getting drunk, laughing too loudly." She paused.
"But at least they were all chauffeured home after this gathering. The
boss arranged it."

"Oh? Who's the boss?"

"Lucas Stuyvesant Harrison. Isn't
that some name?"

Aileen whistled. "I've seen his
picture in the paper lots of times. That man has a veritable stable of women. I
read in a gossip column that he has no intention of marrying anyone from outside
his social circle. Keeping up the family name, don't you know?" Aileen
curled her pinky finger and raised her cup in an exaggerated imitation of a
pretentious person.

"Ah, yes, noblesse oblige."
Misty grinned, but she could feel her stomach contract. Undoubtedly Luc
Harrison had thought she would be eager to join his stable of women. She should
be pleased to think he might want to set her up in an apartment, give her
clothes, deign to see her on Wednesdays, perhaps even on Thursdays—but never on
weekends. He must save those for the family, the little woman.

"Hey, what are you thinking, Misty?
I can almost hear your red hair crackling with anger. Your eyes are sparkling
like emeralds. What's going through your mind?" Aileen leaned eagerly
forward, her chin in her hand.

"Nothing. That type of man irritates
me, that's all."

Aileen shrugged. "He's got
everything—money, women, a great position with the bank. He's sailed in the America's Cup race. He's a scratch golfer. He's even competed in the triathlon in Hawaii, and you have to be in superb shape to do that. You have to swim, run, and ride a
bike twelve miles without stopping in between." Aileen refilled her coffee
cup and added cream. "I suppose a man with that kind of record comes to
expect good things to tumble into his lap." She smiled at Misty. "I
know you've sworn off men for some reason." When Misty began to protest,
Aileen held up her hand, palm outward. "And, no, I'm not prying again. I
admit I'd like to know, but I'll wait until you're ready to tell me."

I'll never be ready, Misty thought. Even
though you are the best friend I've ever had, I can't tell you.

"But it wouldn't hurt to flirt a
little with a man like Luc Harrison," Aileen added.

"I doubt I'll see him again,"
Misty said. "He came with his staff for the party. He won't be back. Men
like him go to private clubs."

Aileen shook her head. "Don't sell
the Terrace Hotel short. Some of the most influential people in the world stay
there. David says you can walk into the Elm Bar any night and see celebrities.
From what you've said, quite a few frequent the Edwardian Room as well."

"Quite a few," Misty conceded.

She and Aileen talked of other things.
Then Aileen rounded up the twins and said good-bye. Misty was tired by the time
they left, but instead of going back to bed, she straightened the apartment,
showered, and shampooed her hair. She was due for a fitting at Morey
Weinstein's design studio downtown that afternoon, so she wouldn't have time
for a nap. If Morey didn't have any clothes ready for her to try on, she'd shop
for shoes and accessories instead. Morey designed most of the clothes she wore
while performing. Although he wasn't a commercial success yet, Misty had no
doubt he would be someday.

Misty left her apartment at three o'clock
that afternoon, knowing she wouldn't be back until three the next morning. She
shook her head, trying not to think of the fatigue that would soon weigh on her
like an iron blanket. Luckily she had tomorrow night off.

It took Misty half an hour to get to
Morey's garret like studio on the top floor of a run-down building encrusted
with grime. Morey had every intention of moving uptown one day, and Misty was
sure that, considering his talent, he would eventually make it.

She rang the bell adjacent to a locked
oak door and submitted to being scrutinized by an eye at the peephole. The eye
disappeared, and the door was swung open by a whipcord-thin man of medium
height who radiated energy and enthusiasm.

"Mystique! I've been thinking about
you for two days. If you hadn't come this afternoon I was going to call you. I
found some fabulous silk." Morey shoved his black-rimmed glasses up his
nose with an index finger and grinned, his pale blue eyes sparkling with
excitement.

"Silk, Morey? I can't afford silk.
For that matter, neither can you." Misty laughed as her irrepressible
friend tugged her across his littered workroom to the cutting board under the
skylight.

"True," he conceded. "But
this was water-damaged, so Fetler let me have it for almost nothing." He
grinned and waved his hand when she frowned. "Now, don't worry. Fetler
didn't bother to unravel the bolts. I did. The damage doesn't go through all
the way. This is great stuff—the finest silk from Japan. Look at the
colors—blue, green, burgundy, orange, cerise, lemon." He let out an
ecstatic sigh as Misty bent over the material.

"It is beautiful," she agreed,
"but I can't afford to pay you what it's worth."