The Carlton Club (28 page)

But, he didn’t and the moment passed.

“I’d better go,” Janet said as she turned to put the key in the lock.

“Are you leaving today?”

“Yes.”

“What time? I’ll send a limo.”

“I’m not sure when I’ll leave. But don’t worry about me. I can get myself to the airport,” she said confidently.

“OK. I’ll see you Friday in San Francisco. Or maybe Thursday. Thank you again for what you did tonight.”

“It was good for me,” she said softly to his back as he left.

Kathleen looked at her Cartier watch and frowned.

“It’s exactly five minutes later than the last time you looked, right?” Betsey asked.

“Right. But it’s already three-thirty in Boston. They should have called him by now,” Kathleen said, stabbing a piece of butter lettuce with a silver salad fork, then, uninterested in eating, laying the fork back down on her plate.

“Mark knows we’re at the Club. He’ll call. I don’t understand why you are so anxious about this!”

“Because it may mean that Mark is moving to Boston in eight months.”

“That you both are moving to Boston.”

“I’m not sure of that, Betsey. I don’t know if Mark will want me to go with him.”

“Kathleen, he is so much in love with you. It’s so obvious. We’re all a little jealous,” Betsey said, looking at her own two month old wedding band.

“Well I’m a little jealous of you. You and Jeff know each other so well. You know how much you love each other. You know that it’s right to spend the rest of your lives together.”

“Don’t you know that about Mark?”

“I know it. I think I know it. It’s just that our relationship is so new.”

“So exciting, so wonderfully romantic,” Betsey added dreamily.

“But not real. Think about it, Betsey. I met him as his marriage was falling apart. We spent four months apart to give him time to get over it. The separation made us desperate to be together. Then, just as we were starting to see what it could be like, being together every day, Mark was shot—” Kathleen’s voice broke. The memory was still too frightening.

“But each of these crises brought you closer together,” Betsey said.

“But life isn’t a series of crises. It’s living every day. It’s being able to renew your love from within, not because a crisis reminds you. Even now, this Boston thing is forcing the issue.”

“So you’re not sure?”

“I’m sure, but I don’t think Mark is. And he is so cautious.”

“What do you want?” Betsey asked.

“Six months. OK, that’s greedy.
One
month,” Kathleen said, her violet eyes seeing a happy image. “One month in which our only crisis is that we are getting low on milk.”

“I just spent a month like that,” Betsey said. “It was a little boring!”

Kathleen laughed, shaking her head slightly. She stopped abruptly as she saw the waiter coming toward their table with a telephone.

“A call for you, Ms. Jordaine,” he said, connecting the phone to a plug near the table.

“Mark?”

“Hi.”

“You got the fellowship!” Kathleen could tell by his voice, by the way he said the one syllable word.

“Yes,” he breathed, excited.

“Congratulations. The guys at Peter Bent Brigham don’t know how lucky they are.”

“Maybe,” Mark began.

“You accepted, didn’t you?”

“I told them I’d let them know tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to discuss it with you.”

“Oh,” she said quietly. Oh.

Mark waited, expecting Kathleen to say something else. She didn’t.

“So,” he said, “how about dinner tonight? At Gerard’s?”

It was Kathleen’s favorite restaurant because it was so romantic.

“Sure,” she said slowly, wondering what it meant, what there was to discuss. “Shall I make reservations?”

“I’ve made reservations. For eight o’clock. I should be home by six-thirty.”

“I’ll see you then,” Kathleen said thoughtfully as she replaced the telephone receiver in its cradle.

He wanted to discuss something about his move to Boston with her. Or maybe he just wanted to tell her what he had decided and why. Maybe he was just going to explain why it was best for him to go by himself.

He had chosen her favorite place, but it was a public place. Was that good or bad? He knew that she would not make a scene in public. He should have known that she wouldn’t make a scene in private, either. She would accept what he told her because she knew that he would have thought about it carefully.

His voice was so eager, so excited, so loving and gentle, she reminded herself repeatedly throughout the long afternoon. She reminded herself, but still her stomach churned and waves of apprehension washed through her.

Mark had reserved their table at Gerard’s. It was the most romantic, situated in its own secluded corner. Kathleen wondered when Mark had made the reservation. They would not have gotten that table if he had only called today.

Kathleen watched the candlelight sparkling through the golden bubbles of champagne. She couldn’t look at him, even though she felt his eyes on her.

“So,” he began quietly.

“So,” she echoed, still gazing at the shimmering bubbles, her heart fluttering. Please don’t tell me it’s been a great few months
but,
she thought. Or that you want to move to Boston by yourself at first. Just tell me that you know it’s too soon to be certain and why don’t we see how we feel in spring?

“So will you marry me, Kathleen?”

“Marry you?” she asked, looking up then, needing to find his eyes.

“You seem so surprised.”

“I am,” she said softly. Her eyes were moist with joy. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. But you’re not,” he said, concerned.

“No. I am sure. Yes, Mark, I will marry you,” she said, looking into his eyes, searching for doubt or hesitation and finding none. Mark’s dark brown eyes were steady, full of love, happy. “Of course I will marry you.”

“When?”

“Whenever. Whenever you want,” Kathleen said, her mind spinning in a whirl of disbelief and joy. “How about in June? Just before we move to Boston.”

“Kathleen, we don’t have to move to Boston. Your family is here.”

“I
want
to move. I love Boston. It’s so charming and traditional, so steeped in history. Besides,” Kathleen said, twinkling, “I can’t wait to tell everyone that my husband the cornhusk will be doing his cardiology fellowship at the Bent Peter!”

“Who told you that charming nickname?”

“Hal, of course. Leslie’s cute little preppie intern. One day when you were still in the ICU, Hal regaled me with, as he called them, the academic sobriquets of Boston. Let’s see, Massachusetts General Hospital is The General. Beth Israel is The House of God. And Peter Bent Brigham is The Bent Peter. I like the medical community in Boston already.”

“You’re terrific.”

“So are you. You want to go to Boston, don’t you?”

Mark nodded. Then he said seriously, “What I want most is to marry you. If we move to Boston that’s icing on the cake.”

“Oh, Mark. I love you.”

“I love you, Kathleen.”

They held hands across the table, fingers entwined, gazes locked in a look of love and confidence. After a few moments, Kathleen frowned slightly.

“What’s wrong?” Mark asked instantly.

“I need to tell you about my financial situation,” she said, he had to know before he married her.

“OK. Why? Am I marrying into some debts?”

“No. Not debts, but responsibilities. Liabilities even.”

“I’m intrigued. Tell me,” Mark said lightly, unconcerned. He knew what Kathleen’s father did. He knew that Kathleen was used to doing whatever she wanted, going wherever she wanted, buying anything she liked, but Mark believed that it wasn’t essential to Kathleen’s happiness to spend money.

They had been so happy in his tiny apartment, the apartment Kathleen had painted herself. One day Mark would be able to support a more affluent life style for her. Kathleen seemed to know it would be a while and she never pushed. In fact, until now, she had never discussed money with him at all.

As if it didn’t matter to her.

Kathleen told Mark then, in their quiet secluded corner, at the table with the pink table cloth and white roses, about her money. About her trust funds and her income. About her virtually limitless wealth.

“Your trust funds earn more money than I will ever make. More money in one year than I could make in ten,” Mark said quietly.

Kathleen nodded, her eyes narrowed, trying to read his thoughts.

“I really had no idea,” he said.

“I know. And we—my family—don’t advertise it. That’s the liability part. My wealth could make us and our children targets. Which doesn’t mean we shouldn’t enjoy it. The interest alone is far more than we could spend in a year even if we tried, and of course you would never have to pick up another stethoscope in your life,” Kathleen said flippantly, then stopped, startled by the expression on Mark’s face. It looked like relief. Like peace. But why? Mark loved medicine. He would never give it up, would he?

The expression passed quickly, leaving Kathleen a little confused.

“I think your family, your family lawyers, will insist on a prenuptial agreement,” Mark said calmly.

“No! Don’t be silly,” Kathleen said, knowing they would strongly advise it. But it was her choice. Her money. Her marriage.

“I wouldn’t object to signing one. I’m not marrying you for your money. I plan to stay married to you forever anyway,” Mark said, smiling as he reached across the table to touch her face. He added soberly, “If anything did happen, I wouldn’t want your money. You have my verbal prenuptial agreement.”

“I don’t want it because nothing is going to happen. I want you to promise that you will use the money. To buy a house if we want one. To take wonderful trips. To set up your office with its own cath lab. We don’t need to struggle to make ends meet just because we don’t want to touch my money.”

“Just because?”

“Well, we can struggle to make ends meet if we want to, if it makes us feel like true newlyweds, but not because of any chauvinism about who should be the breadwinner. OK?”

Mark laughed.

“Kathleen, I really don’t feel threatened by your money,” he said truthfully. “Only amazed.”

“And tempted to spend it?”

“Sure. For us. For a house that you love. For a trip we want to take. For things that make you happy.”

“You make me happy.”

“You make
me
happy.”

“James, it’s Eric. I think we’ve successfully negotiated for the additional property.” Eric Lansdale sounded pleased.

“Great.”

“Charlie’s still hammering out the details, but it all looks very good.”

“Charlie?”

“Charlie Winter. She’s the corporate attorney. I’m sure you’ve spoken with her.”

“
Ms
. Charlotte D. Winter? Of course. We’ve spent hours on the phone discussing easements and utility accesses. I’ve never met her. Somehow Charlie doesn’t fit.”

“It will when you meet her. Which may be soon. The three of us should go to Maui in the next week assuming this is all wrapped up. Will you be able to get away?”

“Sure.”

“Good. Will you be at home this weekend? I may need to reach you if there are any problems. There has been some rumbling about subplatting and not selling us the whole property. I’d want your input on what plats we must have. You have a copy of the plats, don’t you?”

“Yes. Do you have my home number?”

“Yes. Let me check that it is correct.”

James half listened as Eric read the number. He had to give Eric Leslie’s number. He had no choice. It was where he would be.

“That’s right. But let me give you another number.”

Eric wrote the number James gave him on a slip of paper and put it in his briefcase.

Eric smiled. He didn’t know James Stevenson well, but he liked him. James was a tremendous discovery for Eric’s company, InterLand. He was the most creative architect Eric had ever known. Creative and nontemperamental. And nice. James was a nice man—hardworking, professional, talented—and apparently not married but involved. It was nice that James had someone.

“James,” Eric said still thinking about James’s personal life. “You are welcome to bring someone with you to Maui. It won’t be all business. We’ll take the company jet. Plenty of room.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

“If I don’t speak with you this weekend, we’ll talk Monday,” Eric said with finality. Charlie had just walked into his office.

“Fine. Have a nice weekend, Eric.”

Charlie spoke as soon as Eric replaced the receiver.

“Those guys were tough,” she breathed flopping with a sigh onto the couch in Eric’s office.

“Were?”

“I think so. Hope so. They may come back with a face-saving counter offer. They may want to keep a little of the land, but I think we’ve got them.”

“Good attorneys?”

“Good,” Charlie said smiling. “But not great.”

“You’re not an attorney, Charlie. You’re a shark. Ms. Charlotte D. Winter,” Eric said, his light blue eyes smiling at her, appraising her.

Charlie did look menacing in her attorney-at-law outfit with her attorney-at-law hairdo. Charlie wore a perfectly tailored, tweed suit with a silk blouse and a sensible, but expensive, Longines wrist watch. Her long, golden hair was pulled tight off her face into a secure chignon. Her soft, seductive eyes were hidden beneath a studied look of no nonsense efficiency.