Time After Time (45 page)

Wrong, wrong
response,
she realized. Why hadn't she
just given him the same answer she'd given Susy earlier — ' 'You
do, do you?" He would've had to accept that, and he'd be in her
arms still. Instead he was standing up; lifting his clothes from
the back of the chair; walking back to the side of the
bed.

"Tomorrow. We'll talk," he
said, still unable to keep his voice within the range of a
whisper.

Some men were like that,
she knew. They'd never learned to whisper because they never had
anything to hide.

"Yes," she
whispered.

****

Tomorrow came and nearly
went without the summit taking place. Liz was tied up in the
morning; Jack wasn't free in the afternoon. She was reluctant to
see him at the shipyard; he was reluctant to have Susy sent off for
his sake. It was obvious to both that they wanted to meet on
neutral territory, and yet when Jack suggested that they have
dinner at the Cooke House, Liz declined: she wanted something more
downscale. She suggested Burger King. He thought that was
funny.

They agreed, finally, to
meet at a middle-of-the-road restaurant on downtown Thames Street
called Mean Cuisine, one of the summer's bumper crop of new
eateries. It hadn't been given either the seal of approval or the
kiss of death by Newport's locals — that would have to wait until
fall — but in the meantime it would be filled with nice, anonymous
tourists.

Liz was late: it was hot,
it was Friday, and everyone on the planet seemed to think the place
to cool down was along Newport's waterfront. Liz had to weave her
way through, around, and sometimes over a crush of strolling,
aimless tourists; by the time she fetched up at Jack's table, she
was in no mood to confess to anything but her irritation that he
hadn't agreed to come to her house.

He was on his second glass
of wine. She thought he looked melancholy, but his greeting was
mild enough: "You look hot. Did you walk?"

Liz took that to mean she
looked like hell. She excused herself with a tight little smile and
went to freshen up. The ladies' room was lit by soft, flattering
lights — but even they weren't enough to hide her sweat-dampened
hair and flushed face.

Dammit!
So much for the trendy, sophisticated look. Her
rayon dress felt hot and clingy, and if she wasn't mistaken, that
was a blister throbbing against her brand-new shoes. She touched up
her lipstick and marched back out in a grim frame of mind. The
point of it all was to end it all, so what did it matter how she
looked as she did it?

Jack, on the other hand,
looked as cool and confident as ever. Yes, indeed. The man had some
awfully good genes to pass down. Too bad he wouldn't be passing
them down through her.
Well, that's
life,
she decided, letting him pull out
her chair for her. Although that was the whole problem, wasn't it?
That she couldn't give what he had, life?
Too bad, too bad,
she thought, her
mind racing through the scenario that was about to be played
out.
No little Susies for you, fella, not
from me. Sorry I can't
oblige.

"Hi," she allowed herself
to say.

His smile was as edgy as
her mood. "I wish you looked happier to be here," he confessed,
filling her wineglass for her.

"I'm just exhausted from
all our pretrial negotiations," she quipped.

He called her on that.
"Who's on trial?"

"I suppose," she said
faintly, "our relationship."

He nodded once. "Maybe it
is."

Too soon! They were
cutting to the chase too soon! She couldn't bear to have this
discussion, not right off the bat like this. She did a wrenching
emotional somersault and said cheerfully, "This looks like a pretty
nice place. Care to lay odds on whether it makes it through the
winter?"

"Let's wait till we've
tasted the food," he said, opening his menu.

It'll taste like
cardboard, all of it,
she thought, but
aloud she said, "Southwestern cuisine is all the rage."

"I guess."

While Jack surveyed the
menu half-heartedly, Liz launched into a monologue on how
wonderfully
plans were
proceeding for the costume-party benefit. She was
so
pleased to be working
with Meredith (who actually was turning out to be pretty damned
helpful). As for the other members of the honorary committee—Diana
and Johanna and Cuddie and Bebe and Hope—well, no doubt they would
prove indispensable, in due course.

Liz lied about other
things, too. She told Jack that the fund-raiser would cost less
than her original rough estimate (which could only happen if she
charged nothing for her time, something she was prepared to do).
She told him that advertising for the program book was going
amazingly well. And she told him that considering how late they'd
jumped into the benefit, early interest was extremely
encouraging.

"So we're hoping to sell
up to two hundred tickets at sixty dollars each. Are you sure that
East Gate can accommodate two hundred people, even with the
tents?"

"It won't be the first
time," he said.

"Okay, because we print
the tickets tomorrow. And you're absolutely, positively sure you
have no objections to the dinner party for thirty that precedes the
general event?"

"Not if Meredith is
convinced she can move the meal tickets for three hundred bucks a
pop," he said, picking over his broiled lobster. "It amounts to a
nice piece of change for Anne's Place."

"I always wonder why some
high roller doesn't just write out a check for the target amount,"
Liz confessed with a sigh. "It seems so much more
efficient."

"That's called a will,
darlin'. While the high rollers are still alive and kicking,
benefits are how it's done."

"Of course. What was I
thinking?" she said, betraying just a little bit of attitude. She
smiled a brisk smile and said, "Well! Now we can take a tax
deduction for this dinner."

He wasn't amused.
"Liz—"

"Oh, and what about the
fire?" she said quickly, rerouting his thoughts once again. "Any
more news?"

His face darkened. "Not so
far. It's hard to prove it was arson. Spontaneous combustion in a
paint shed isn't unheard of, which is why we have big vents, and a
long list of rules about disposing paint-soaked rags. No one's come
forward to take credit, if that's what you mean."

"Do you think it
could
be—" She looked
around them and lowered her voice. "You know — the
developers?"

"You know my feelings on
that. I think it's someone who's hell-bent on taking down the yard,
and the list of suspects is damned short. All I can do is increase
our security and warn the help to be on the watch."

"Any sign of your venture
capitalists? Or have they fled forever?"

"I don't think they're
coming back," he said with no apparent regret. "Newport is a
world-class harbor and should be able to attract world-class races.
I've begun to pin my hopes on the new City Council; they seem
interested in doing what has to be done to bring in the business.
The question is, can I can hold on that long?"

He topped off his glass,
and hers, and said, "Liz—"

"No! Boy, this really is —
just — delicious!" she said, with no idea what she was putting into
her mouth.

"Don't," he said quietly.
"Don't put this off any longer. It's no way to run a relationship.
I hate double-talk; I thought you did, too."

When she said nothing, he
took the initiative. "I ... look ... I'll admit it, Liz: I don't
know why I said that about wanting a Susy last night. It just came
out," he admitted with a baffled look. "You couldn't have been any
more astonished than I was. It was as if someone else were saying
the words."

Liz took that to mean he
was sorry he'd said anything; that it had all been a mistake. But
the relief she felt was tempered by the onset of a deep, dull ache.
"I'm glad to hear that," she said, her voice catching. "Because it
really did seem too ... too—"

"Soon?"

"Yes. I mean, we're only
just getting to know one another ... and ... well, you have to
admit: a relationship goes through a level or two before it reaches
the let's-have-a-baby stage."

It was so ironic. Her own
relationship with Keith never did reach that last wonderful stage.
She sighed nervously, hoping she'd put an end to the
discussion.

Jack nodded, almost
solemnly. "You're right, of course. But I seem in a fierce hurry
about life lately. I suppose it has something to do with having
reached forty. A man starts to look around — to wonder, has he
missed the boat? But it's not just that, Liz. Truly, it's
not."

His eyes burned brightly
as he said, "You know I'm crazy about you. Liz. You
know
that. And I'd have
to be a damned fool not to realize that you ... you do care for
me?"

"Yes," she
murmured.

"Deeply?" he asked in a
guileless follow-up.

"Yes," she said
again.

He pushed his plate away
from the table's edge and folded his forearms there, leaning
closer, ready to read her lips if need be. "Then tell me why I
can't — omeday, if all goes well — have a Susy with
you."

It was such a simple
request. He wasn't asking her why she believed in ghosts, or what
she thought was the best way to lower long-term interest rates. He
wanted to know why they couldn't have a baby together. Someday. If
all went well. He deserved a straight answer.

And she couldn't give it.
"Why you can't, is—" She shook her head and tried again. "It's
because I, ah, really am done with that phase of my
life."

He was trying not to look
disappointed. "But you're only — what, not yet thirty-six? I know
you have a pretty wonderful little girl — Susy's great —
but

doesn't she make you want
another?" he asked softly.

Liz said, "Not
necessarily."

"Is this because I didn't
take your career seriously? Because you know that's not true
anymore." He gave her a lopsided, heart-melting smile. "You know
I'm a reformed chauvinist."

"No, that's not it," Liz
said in a strained voice.

His own voice was tight
with emotion as he said, "Is it because you could never care for me
enough to overcome the agony of Keith?"

She looked out the window
at a pair of young lovers stopping, hand in hand, to read the menu
posted outside. "I was devastated," she admitted without looking at
Jack. "But that's not the problem."

He reached out across the
table to take her hand. "Then what
?
You
know
that I'm not after a fling with you. You've
probably known that since day one. It's not as if I've been any
good at hiding it."

She turned back to face
him. "Actually, you were pretty
good," she
said as an unwanted, infuriating tear rolled out.

"Hey, what's this?" he
said softly, wiping the tear away from her cheek. "I thought the
problem was when one person was serious and the other one wasn't,"
he said, surprised.

No doubt he'd seen plenty
of that — not to mention, plenty of tears. She tried a feeble smile
of reassurance. "No problem there."

He didn't really look
encouraged, but he plowed on anyway. "And if you care deeply about
me, and if I'm crazy about you ... then presumably ... this
relationship could go somewhere? Somewhere I've never been
before?"

"I don't know," she said,
squirming in pain. "I don't."

"Ah." It was a blow, a
shock to his system, she could see that. His cheeks flushed to a
dark shade. For a moment he said nothing, composing himself behind
a sip of wine. Then he said in a low, careful voice, "I guess I
assumed that women cared about things like — like love, and
marriage."

"And a baby carriage?
Isn't that a little old-fashioned?" she asked out of sheer
desperation.

He laughed awkwardly,
obviously out of his element on the whole subject. "You know me,"
he said, tight-lipped. "Just a simple, old-fashioned kind of
guy."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry,
Jack," she said, withdrawing her hand from his — because it seemed
the height of hypocrisy to treat their confrontation as a romantic
interlude anymore. "But you're
rushing
everything," she
wailed.

"Rushing?" He looked
genuinely astonished. "I've waited all my life for you.
Rushing?
I've wandered
through a
wilderness
of women looking for you. And now that I've finally found
you—" He laughed again, apparently amazed that she could be so
dense. "No; if anything, I wish I could turn back the clock a
decade or so. I want you so much, Liz. I can't imagine letting you
slip through my fingers."