Once Is Not Enough (58 page)

“Come back with me, Tom. I can’t face it alone.”

“You won’t be facing it alone,” he said quietly. “I’m always with you. Just remember that—hold that thought all the time. And George and David Milford will be waiting at the airport.”

“Oh, Tom, I don’t want it this way.”

He managed a smile. “It’s not what we
want
. . . but what has to be. Let’s face it, honey . . . I
am
a married man. David and his father actually believe you’re here doing a story on me. Not that I care what they think, but it’s you I’m worrying about. After all, there will be reporters waiting at Kennedy.”

“Reporters?” She looked dazed.

“Well . . . your father was a hell of a colorful guy in his time, and Dee Milford Granger was one of the richest women in the world. It is news, and the public is morbid—”

“Tom.” She reached out and gripped his hands. “Please come with me.”

“I want to, baby. But there’s nothing I could do to help. I’d
have to hide out in a hotel while you made the arrangements. Because that’s all the press would need—you coming to make funeral arrangements with a married lover in tow. Besides, I’m way behind with my work. The studio is on my neck. Seems like I’ve been too much of a lover and not enough of a writer.”

She clung to him and he assured her he’d be there . . . waiting. “You get things settled . . . and call me . . . any time . . . all the time . . . whenever you need me . . . I’ll be here.”

The plane was circling Kennedy waiting for ground clearance. She opened her bag and took out the
Variety
clipping and reread it again. And once again she asked herself—Why had he sent it without a note? Was it because he was still angry? But then, he wouldn’t have sent it at all. It was his way of saying everything was okay. It had to mean that! Oh God . . . it had to.

The plane touched the runway. It was a smooth landing. Everyone released their seat belts . . . the Muzak came on . . . people stood up even though the stewardess kept pleading for everyone to remain seated until the plane stopped taxiing. People reached for hand luggage . . . a baby cried in the back section . . . the ramp stairway was wheeled to the plane . . . the stewardesses were standing at the open door now . . . smiling . . . saying goodbye to everyone with sincere-looking smiles . . . thanking everyone for flying TWA . . . She was walking to the door like all the other passengers. It was crazy how the world could come to an end and you still functioned and did all of the ordinary things. Like sitting through a four-and-a-half-hour flight . . . even picking at some food . . . and now walking down the ramp like everyone else. She saw the photographers, but it never occurred to her that they were waiting for her until the lights were flashing in her face. They were crowding in on her, and then David and his father broke through and led her into a private room at the airport while a chauffeur took her baggage stubs.

Then there was the ride back to New York, the same ride she had taken with Mike. The same road, the same leftovers from the World’s Fair. They were still there . . . but Mike was gone.

“. . . and that’s why we think it’s best . . .” George Milford was saying.

“Best. Best what?” She looked at the two men.

David’s voice was gentle. “Best for you to stay at the Pierre. It will take some time for the estate to be probated. Eventually the Winter Palace, the place in Marbella, and the apartment at the Pierre will be sold, and the money will go into the foundation. But until then you are welcome to live anywhere. And you’ll be comfortable at the Pierre.”

“No . . . I have my own place.”

“But you’ll have your privacy guaranteed at the Pierre.”

“Privacy?”

“The newspapers will blow this up for days, I’m afraid,” George Milford explained. “You see, when the news broke, the press called me to ask about Dee’s estate. And I’m afraid that I inadvertently let it slip that you would come into ten million.”

“Ten million?” She looked at them both. “Dee left me ten million dollars? Why? I hardly knew her.”

George Milford smiled. “She loved your father very much. I’m sure she did it to please him. She told me how much he loved you . . . and that’s why you should live at the Pierre. After all, your father wanted it that way.”

“How do you know what he wanted?” she asked. “You didn’t really know him.”

“January, I knew him . . . quite well, toward the end,” David said quietly. “We talked a lot at Palm Beach that Easter weekend when you didn’t come. He told me he had hoped we would eventually get married . . . I told him how I felt about you and he said to wait, not to push it. Those were his words. He never wanted to push you into anything. He hated the idea of your living in that tacky apartment. But he said he would never let you know, just as he never told you how disappointed he was when you left the Pierre.”

She felt the tears slide down her cheeks. She nodded in the darkness. “All right, David. . . . Of course I’ll stay at the Pierre.”

During the next four days, with the help of Librium and sleeping pills, January functioned in a mechanized manner.
She had just gotten a shot from Dr. Alpert the day before the plane crash. It wore off while she was in New York, but her mental anguish outweighed any physical reaction. She almost welcomed the headaches, the tightness in her throat, the aches in her bones—this kind of pain she understood and knew would pass. The unbelievable emptiness of a world without Mike was something she could not accept.

Sadie hovered over her like a devoted nurse. She was a lost soul without Dee. She seemed to be constantly listening, as if any second she would hear one of Dee’s crisp orders. Sadie had been with Dee for thirty years. She
needed
someone to “tend to,” and she transferred this need to January, bringing trays of food that January barely touched, answering phones, keeping everyone away except the Milfords, standing guard like a gaunt sentry, silent . . . sad . . . waiting.

David sat beside January at the memorial service for Dee and Mike. Her face was expressionless, almost as if she were asleep with her eyes open. His father sat on the other side of her. And his mother sat next to her husband, tense, clutching her handkerchief, and looking properly distraught. The church was mobbed and the presence of all the socialites and celebrities had brought out the entire news media. The International Set was represented by bona fide royalty. Some of Dee’s friends from Europe had chartered a private plane to attend. And many show business celebrities, sensing the television cameramen would be on hand, had suddenly found it necessary to pay their last respects to Mike. But it was Karla’s appearance that caused the biggest sensation. The crowd of curious onlookers had almost broken through the cordon of police when she arrived.

David hadn’t seen her. But he had heard the screams go up outside, fans calling out her name. He knew she was sitting in the back somewhere and he prayed he wouldn’t see her. After that traumatic night he had forced all thoughts of her from his mind. He had actually used a form of self-hypnosis to exorcise her from his thoughts. He thought “hate” whenever her name came to mind. Then he would think of things the word hate conjured—Hitler, child molesting, poverty. And
somewhere along the line, his mind would latch onto some other subject. He also took on new accounts and extra work. And he made sure he was never alone at night. He alternated between Kim and Valerie, a gorgeous Eurasian girl. And when word of the plane crash occurred, he dropped everything and plunged into the immediate urgency of the “care and consideration” of January.

And from now on it was going to be January all the way. His slim, pale, beautiful little heiress. The news cameras had given her a hard time when she arrived at the church. She had clung to him in bewilderment. She really was a beautiful girl, a beautiful little lost girl—a beautiful little lost girl with ten million dollars. He reached out and touched her gloved hand. She looked up, and he hoped his slight smile conveyed sympathy and reassurance.

The memorial service droned on. He knew the church was jammed. People were standing three-deep in the back. Someone had said the governor was there. Where was Karla sitting? He realized with a certain amazement that today—this minute—was the first time he had “allowed” himself to think of her. He pushed her from his mind. But it didn’t work. Somehow, in the crowded church, he felt her presence. It was ridiculous. But he actually
felt
it. And now, suddenly, even the self-hypnosis didn’t work. He sat helplessly and allowed his thoughts to take over his mind. Had she come alone? Or had she been accompanied by Boris or one of her trusted escorts? Or was there someone new? He had to stop this! Think of January, he told himself. Think of Dee. Think of family. He was here as “next of kin.” “Next of kin,” but cut out of the will. God, why did that plane have to crash! Couldn’t it have crashed
after
Dee changed her will? She had wanted to change it. Why had she waited to call his father till the day before the old man was leaving for Europe? And she had also cabled from the South of France that she wanted extensive changes when she returned. Why?

Would he have been reinstated? Would January have been out? But all the speculation in the world didn’t matter now. The will was airtight. And January was the new rich girl in town.

Then he heard the organ and the muffled sounds of everyone murmuring the Lord’s Prayer. He bowed his head and rose automatically with the others. He held January’s arm as his father and mother started out of the pew. He kept his head bowed as he led January up the aisle away from the serene twilight of the church, toward the gaping hole of daylight where the curious public and television cameras waited.

And as he passed the third row from the back, he saw her. She was wearing a black chiffon scarf around her head and was preparing to make her own dash toward an exit. But in that one moment, before she shoved on the perpetual dark glasses, their eyes had met. And then she was gone, ducking her way across an aisle, hoping to make her escape through a side entrance. He held January’s arm and continued the solemn pace toward the limousine. And he managed to look properly somber as the TV cameras photographed them for the six o’clock news.

He took January back to the Pierre. And for the next three hours the drawing room housed an avalanche of celebrities, café society, and clinking glasses. Security men stood on guard as the paying of respects turned into a gala cocktail reception. He stood by January’s side until she showed visible signs of fatigue. Sadie led her off into the bedroom, but the party continued. New arrivals continued to flow through the door. He watched his mother play hostess. Even the old man seemed to be having a marvelous time. There was something barbaric about the whole thing. He glanced at the shining silver frames on the piano. Most of the famous faces were represented in person in the huge drawing room at the Pierre. All but one. His eyes rested on Karla’s picture. He walked over and stared at it. The eyes were distant, with a hint of loneliness, just as they had been today.

He saw Sadie come out of the bedroom. She tiptoed over and told him January was resting. She had taken a sedative. And when he was sure no one noticed, he slipped out of the apartment.

He knew where he was going. He had thought he could never go there again, that he could never face that doorman, or the elevator man. But suddenly it didn’t matter. After looking
into her eyes today, he knew he could face them all—an army of them. He had to see her!

Nevertheless his relief was enormous when a strange doorman stood in front of her building. Of course—he had never come around at noon. The doorman stopped him with a perfunctory, “All guests must be announced.” For a moment he hesitated. If Karla sent back word that she wouldn’t receive him he would have the embarrassment of facing this strange doorman.

But now all that seemed so unimportant. He gave his name and waited while the man lumbered inside to the house phone. This hulk of a stranger in the braided uniform would have the privilege of talking to her . . . and perhaps
he
might not. He lit a cigarette while he waited. It seemed forever. Maybe she hadn’t come home. If the doorman said she was out, it might be the truth. But he’d never know.

The doorman walked back slowly, as if his arches pained him. David ground out his cigarette and waited.

“Apartment Fifteen A,” the doorman said. “Front elevator.”

For a moment David stood very still. Then he strode through the lobby quickly. This was no time to allow himself to feel any nerves. He was grateful that the elevator was waiting. And when he got off, she was standing at the door of her apartment.

“Come in,” she said quietly.

He followed her inside. The sunlight turned the murky East River into shades of yellow gray. He saw a tugboat inching its way, causing miniature waves in the water as it passed. “I had no idea you had such a view,” he said.

“Perhaps because you have only seen it at night,” she said quietly.

“Or perhaps I never really looked,” he said.

For a moment neither of them spoke. Then he said, “Karla . . . I can’t live without you.”

She sat down and lit one of her English cigarettes. Then, almost as an afterthought, she extended the pack to him. He shook his head. Then he sat beside her. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

She nodded slowly. “I believe that you mean it . . . now.”

“Karla, I’m sorry about that night,” he said stiffly. Suddenly it all rushed out. “Oh, God, I must have been insane. I can’t even blame it on being drunk, because I got drunk intentionally. To give me the nerve to come over, to make that scene.” He looked down at his hands. “It’s just that the whole scene was closing in on me. The constant worry of time, of how long we would have, when would you suddenly take off again. But today when I looked at you I got my head together and I knew what it was all about. I love you. I want to be with you . . . openly. I want to marry you—if you’ll have me. Or I’ll stick around as your consort if that’s the way you want it. I’ve lived all my life worrying about inheriting Dee’s money, and now it looks like I’m supposed to spend my life trying to get at January’s money. And I was willing to go along that way until I saw you at church. Because until that moment I had nothing better to do. But when I saw you again—”