Passion's Promise (10 page)

What man? Whit? How ridiculous. And why was Simpson bringing all of this up now? He had never mentioned any of this before. Why now? "If you mean Whitney Hay-worth, I'm not engaged to him, and never will be. He could never cost me anything except a very dull evening. So you're worrying for naught on that score."

"I'm glad to hear it. But then what is it, Kezia? Why the double life?" She sighed deeply and looked down at her hands folded in her lap.

"Because somewhere along the way they convince you that if you drop the Holy Grail for even one instant, or put it aside for a day, the entire world will collapse, and it will all be your fault."

"Well, I'll tell you a well-hidden secret, it wont. The world will not end. Your parents will not haunt you; your trustee won't even commit suicide. Live for yourself, Kezia. You really have to. How long can you live a lie?"

"Is a pseudonym a lie?" It was a weak defense, and she knew it.

"No, but the way you handle it is. You use your pseudonyms to keep two lives totally estranged from each other. Two sides of you. One is duty and the other is love. You're like a married woman with a lover, prepared to give up neither. I think that's an awesome burden to cany. And an unnecessary one." He looked at his watch and shook his head with a small smile. "And now, I apologize. I've railed at you for almost an hour. But these are things I've wanted to discuss with you for a very long time. Do what you want on the Johns article, but give a little thought to what we've said. I think it's important."

"I suspect you're right." She was suddenly exhausted. The morning had drained her. It was like watching her whole life pass before her eyes. And how insignificant it looked in review. Simpson was right She didn't know what she'd do about the Johns piece, and that wasn't the point. The point went a great deal deeper than that. "I'll read the Johns book tonight."

"Do that, and call me tomorow. I can hold the magazine off till then. And will you forgive me for preaching?"

She smiled at him, a warmer smile. "Only if you'll let me thank you. You didn't say anything I wanted to hear, but I think I needed to hear it I've been thinking along those lines myself lately, and this morning arguing with you was like arguing with myself. Sweet schizophrenia."

"Nothing as exotic as that And you're not unique; others have fought the same battle before you. One of them should have written a book on how to survive it"

"You mean others have survived it?" She laughed over a last sip of her tea.

"Very nicely in fact."

"And then what did they do? Run off with the elevator man to prove their point?"

"Some. The stupid ones. The others find better solutions."

She tried not to think of her mother.

"Like Lucas Johns?" She didn't know why, but it had just slipped out. The idea was absurd. Almost funny.

"Hardly. I wasn't suggesting that you marry him, my dear. Only interview him. No wonder you made such a fuss." Jack Simpson knew the real reasons for the fuss. She was afraid. And in his own way, he had tried to calm her fears. Only one interview . . . once. It could change so much for her—broaden her horizons, bring her out in the open, make her a writer. If only all went well. It was only because he knew the chances of her being "found out" were so unlikely that he'd even encouraged it. She would hide forever if she got burned on this one, and he knew ft. Neither of them could afford that. He had thought it all over with great care, before suggesting the article to her.

"You know, you made a great deal of sense today, Jack. I must admit lately the 'mystery* has been wearing thin. It loses its charm after a while." And what he had said had been true. She was like a married woman with a lover. She had just never thought of it that way. . . . Edward, Whit, the parties, the committees; and then Mark and SoHo and picnics on magical islands; and separate from all that her work. Nothing fit It was all separate and hidden, and had long since begun to tear her apart. To what and to whom did she owe her first allegiance? To herself, of course, but it was so easy to forget that Until someone reminded her, as Jack Simpson had just done. "Will you tolerate a hug, kind sir?"

"Not tolerate—appreciate, my dear. I would thoroughly enjoy it." She gave him a brief squeeze and a smile as she prepared to leave.

"It's a damn shame you didn't make that speech ten years ago. It's almost a little late now."

"At twenty-nine? Don't be foolish. Now go away, and read that book, and call me tomorrow morning."

She left him with a last wave of a brown-kid-gloved hand, and a flurry of long suede coat.

The book jacket in her hand looked unimpressive as she perused it in the elevator. There was no photograph of Lucas Johns on the back, only a brief biography which told her less about him than Simpson had. It was odd, though; from what she had heard that morning, she already had a clear picture of the man. She anticipated something mean in his face, was sure he was short, stocky, hard, and perhaps overweight—and pushy as hell. Six years in prison had to do strange things to a man, and it surely couldn't add to his beauty. Armed robbery too ... a little fat man in a liquor store with a gun. And now he was respected, and she was being offered a chance to interview him. Still, despite all the talk with Simpson, she knew she couldn't do that. He had made some good points about her life . . . but an interview with Lucas Johns, or anyone, was still out of the realm of the possible, or the wise.

She did something foolish then. She went to lunch with Edward.

"I don't think you should do it" He was emphatic.

"Why not?" It was almost like setting a trap for him; she knew what he'd say. But she couldn't resist the urge to bait him.

"You know why not If you start doing interviews, it's only one step away from someone catching on to what you're up to. You might get away with this one, Kezia. But sooner or later ..."

"So you think I should hide forever?"

"You call this hiding?" He waved a hand demonstratively around the hallowed halls of La Caravelle.

"In a sense, yes."

"In the sense you mean, I think that's wise."

"And what about my life, Edward? What about that?"

"What about it? You have everything you want. Your friends, your comfort, and your writing. Could you possibly ask for more, except a husband?"

'That isn't on my list to Santa Claus anymore, darling. And yes, I could ask for more. Honesty."

"You're splitting hairs. And what you'd be risking for that kind of honesty would be your privacy. Remember the job you wanted so badly at the
Times
years ago?"

"That was different"

"How?"

"I was younger. And that wasn't a career, it was a job, and something I wanted to prove."

"Isn't this the same thing?"

"Maybe not Maybe it's a question of my sanity."

"Good Heavens, Kezia, don't be ridiculous. You're all wound up with whatever nonsense Simpson leveled at you this morning. Be reasonable, the man has a vested interest in you. He's looking at it from his point of view, not yours. For his benefit not yours."

But she knew that wasn't true. And what she also knew now was that Edward was afraid. Even more afraid than she was. But of what? And why? "Edward, no matter how you slice it, one of these days I'm going to have to make a choice."

"Over an interview for a magazine? An interview with some jailbird?" He wasn't afraid, he was terrified.

Kezia almost felt sorry for him as she realized what it was he so feared. She was slipping away from the last of his grasp.

"This interview really isn't the issue, Edward. We both know that. Even Simpson knows that."

"Then what in God's name is the issue? And why are you making all these strange noises about sanity and freedom and honesty? None of it makes any sense. Is someone in your lif e putting pressure on you?"

"No. Only myself."

"But there is someone in your life I don't know about, isn't there?"

"Yes." The honesty felt good. "I didn't know you expected to be kept informed of
all
my doings."

Edward looked away, embarrassed. "I just like to know that you're all right. That's alL I assumed that there was someone other than Whit"

Yes, darling, but did you assume why? Surely not "You're right there is."

"He's married?" He seemed matter-of-fact about it

"No."

"He isn't? I was rather sure he was."

"Why?"

"Because you're so ... well, discreet I suppose. I just assumed he was married, or something of the sort"

"Nothing of the sort. He's free, twenty-three years old, and an artist in SoHo." That ought to take Edward a while to digest. "And just for the record, I don't support him. He's on welfare and he loves it"

She was almost enjoying herself now and Edward looked as though he might have a fit of the vapors.

"Kezia!"

"Yes, Edward?" Her voice was pure sugar.

"And he knows who you are?"

"No, and he couldn't care less." She knew that wasn't entirely true, but she also knew he would never go to any trouble to snoop into the other side of her life. He was just curious in a boyish sort of way.

"Does Whit know about all this?"

"No. Why should he? I don't tell him about my lovers and he doesn't tell me about his. It's an even exchange. Besides, darling, Whitney prefers boys." She had not anticipated the look on Edward's face; it was not one of total astonishment

"Yes ... I ... I've heard. I wondered if you knew."

"I do." Their voices were quiet now.

"He told you?"

"No, someone else did."

"I'm sorry." He looked away and patted her hand.

"Don't be, Edward. It didn't matter to me. That sounds like a harsh thing to say, but Fve never been in love with Whit. We're merely a convenience to each other. That's not very pretty to admit, but it's a fact."

"And this other man—the artist—is it serious?"

"No, it's pleasant, and easy, and fun, and a relief from some of the pressures in my life. That's all it is, Edward. Don't worry, no one's going to run off with the piggy bank."

"That isn't my only concern."

"I'm glad to hear it." Why did she suddenly want to hurt him? What was the point of that? But he was appealing to her, tempting her, like an overzealous agent for a resort she had hated, who insisted on luring her back. And there was no way she would go.

He didn't mention the article again until they were waiting for a cab outside the restaurant. This had been one of the rare times they had discussed her business matters in public.

"You're going to do it?" "What?"

"The interview Simpson discussed with you." "I don't know. I want to give it some thought." "Give it a lot of thought. Weigh in your mind how much it means to you, and how high a price you're willing to pay for doing it. You might not have to pay that price, or you might well have to. But at least be prepared, know the chances you're taking."

"Is it such a terrible chance, Edward?" Her eyes were gentle again as she looked up at him.

"I don't know, Kezia. I really don't know. But somehow, I suspect that no matter what I say, you'll do it anyway. Or maybe I can only make matters worse."

"No. But I may have to do it." Not for Simpson. For herself.

"That's what I thought"

The plane landed in Chicago at five to the afternoon, with less than an hour to spare before Lucas Johns' speech. Simpson had arranged the loan of a friend's apartment on Lake Shore Drive. The friend, an elderly widow whose husband had been a classmate of Simpson's, was wintering La Portugal.

Now, as the cab circled the rim of the lake, Kezia began to feel a mounting excitement. She had finally chosen. Taken a first step. But what if it turned out to be more than she could handle? It was one thing to work over her typewriter and call herself K. S. Miller, and quite another to pull it off eye to eye. Of course, Mark didn't know who she was either. But that was different. His farthest horizon was his easel, and even if he knew, he wouldn't really care. It would make him laugh, but it wouldn't matter. Lucas Johns might be different He might try to use her notoriety to his advantage.

She tried to shrug off her fears as the cab pulled up in front of the address Simpson had given her. The borrowed apartment was on the nineteenth floor of a substantial-looking building across from the lake.

The parquet floors in the foyer echoed beneath her feet. Above her head was an elaborate crystal chandelier. And the ghostly form of a grand piano stood silent beneath a dust sheet at the foot of the stairs. There was a long mirrored hall which led to the living room beyond. More dust sheets, two more chandeliers, the pink marble of a Louis XV mantel on the fireplace glowing softly from the light in the hall.

The furniture beneath the sheets looked massive, and she wandered curiously from room to room. A spiral staircase led to another floor, and upstairs in the master bedroom she drew back the curtains and pulled up the creamy silk shades. The lake stretched before her, bathed in the glow of sunset, sailboats veering lazily toward home. It would have been fun to go for a walk and watch the lake for a while, but she had other things on her mind. Lucas Johns, and what sort of man he might prove to be.

She had read his book, and was surprised that she liked the sound of him. She had been prepared to dislike him, if only because the interview had become such a major issue between her and Simpson, and Edward. But the issue was herself, and she forgot the rest as she read the book. He had a pleasant way with words, a powerful way of expressing himself, and there were hints of humor throughout the book, and a refusal to take himself seriously, despite his passion for his subject. The style was oddly inconsistent with his history, though, and it was difficult to believe that a man who had spent most of his youth in juvenile halls and jails could be so literate now. Yet here and there he slipped consciously into prison jargon and California slang. He was an unusual combination of dogmas and beliefs and hopes and cynicism, with his own flavor of fun—and more than a faint hint of arrogance. He seemed to be many different things—no longer what he once was, firmly what he had become, a successful blending that he above all respected. Kezia had envied him as she read his book. Simpson had been right. In an indirect way, the book related to her. A prison can be any kind of bondage—even lunch at La Grenouille.