"And then one day, about two months before Christmas, Nicky stopped waiting at the window and suddenly became a whirlwind of activity. By then his father had been dead for nearly a year. His mother had remarried, and she'd just had a baby boy, though none of us knew about the baby. Anyway, Nicky became a bundle of energy; he did every chore he could think of that would earn him a nickel for doing it. He saved up all his money, and about two weeks before the holidays talked me into taking him shopping for 'an extraspecial present.'
"I thought he was searching for a gift for his grandmother, because he dragged me in and out of a dozen stores looking for something that was 'just perfect for a lady.' Not until late in the afternoon did I discover that he wanted to buy a Christmas present for his mother.
"In the bargain section of a huge downtown department store, Nicky finally found his 'extra-special present'—a lovely little enameled pillbox marked down to a fraction of what it should have cost. Nicky was ecstatic, and his enthusiasm was contagious. In five minutes he'd charmed the salesclerk into gift wrapping it, and me into taking him over to his mother's house so that he could present her with the gift."
Mary glanced at Lauren with tear-brightened eyes. "He… he intended to bribe his mother into coming back to him, only I didn't realize it." She swallowed and then continued, "Nicky and I took the bus to Grosse Pointe, and he was so nervous he could hardly sit still. He kept making me check to see if his hair and clothes were tidy. 'Do I look all right, Mary?' he kept asking me again and again.
"We found the house without any trouble—a palatial estate that was beautifully decorated for the holidays. I started to ring the doorbell, but Nicky put his hand on my arm. I looked down at him, and I have never seen a child look so desperate. 'Mary,' he said, 'are you sure I look okay to see her?' "
Mary turned her face toward the restaurant window and her voice shook. "He looked so vulnerable, and he was such a handsome little boy. I honestly believed that if his mother saw him, she'd realize that he needed her, and she'd at least visit him from time to time. Anyway, a butler let us in, and Nicky and I were shown into a beautiful drawing room with an enormous Christmas tree that looked as if it had been decorated for the window of a department store. But Nicky didn't notice that. All he saw was the shiny red bicycle with the big bow on it that was beside the tree, and his face positively lit up. 'See,' he said to me, 'I knew she didn't forget me. She's just been waiting until I came to see her.' He reached out to touch the bicycle, and the maid who was dusting the room almost snapped his head off. The bicycle, she told him, was for the baby. Nicky pulled his hand away from it as if he'd been burned.
"When his mother finally came downstairs, her first words to her own son were, 'What do you want, Nicholas?' Nicky gave her the present and explained that he'd chosen it for her himself. When she started to put it under the tree, he insisted that she open it right then…"
Mary had to wipe her eyes as she finished, "His mother opened the package, glanced at the dainty little pillbox and said, 'I don't take pills, Nicholas— you know that.' She handed it to the maid who was dusting the room, and said, 'Mrs. Edwards takes pills, however. I'm sure she'll put it to good use.' Nicky watched his gift go into the maid's pocket, and then he said very politely, 'Merry Christmas, Mrs. Edwards.' He looked at his mother and said, 'Mary and I have to go now.'
"He didn't say anything else until we got to our bus stop. I was fighting back tears the whole way, but Nicky's face was… expressionless. At the bus stop, he turned to me and pulled his hand out of mine. In a solemn little voice he said, 'I don't need her anymore, Mary. I'm all grown up now. I don't need anybody anymore.'" Mary's voice quavered. "It was the last time he ever let me hold his hand."
After a moment of painful silence, Mary went on, "From that day forward, to the best of my knowledge, Nick has never bought a gift for a woman— other than his grandmother and me. According to what Ericka has heard from Nick's girlfriends, he is extravagantly generous with his money, but he never gives them gifts, no matter what the occasion is. He gives them money instead and tells them to pick out something they'll like; he doesn't care whether it's jewelry or furs or anything else. But he doesn't pick it out himself."
Lauren remembered the beautiful earrings he'd given her, and the way she'd contemptuously informed him that she didn't want them. Her heart turned over. "Why would his mother want to forget about him, to pretend he didn't exist?"
"I can only guess. She was from one of the most prominent families in Grosse Pointe. She was an acclaimed beauty, the queen of the debutante ball. To people like that, bloodlines mean everything. They all have money, so their social status is based on the prestige of their family connections. When she married Nick's father, she became a social outcast from her own class. These days, that's changed—money is its own prestige. Nick moves in her social circles now and completely eclipses her and her husband. Of course, being handsome in addition to being outrageously rich doesn't hurt him a bit.
"At any rate, in the early days Nick must have been a living reminder of her fall from social grace. She didn't want him around, and neither did his stepfather. You would have to know the woman in order to comprehend such coldhearted, utter selfishness. The only person who matters to her, other than herself, is Nick's half brother—she positively dotes on him."
"It must be painful for Nick to see her."
"I don't think it is. The day she gave his present to the maid, his love for her died. He killed it himself, carefully and completely. He was only five years old, but he had the strength and determination that enabled him to do it, even then."
Lauren had a simultaneous urge to strangle Nick's mother and to find Nick and lavish on him her own love, whether he wanted it or not.
Just then Tony materialized at the table and handed Mary a small piece of paper with a name on it. "You've had a phone call from this man. He says he needs some papers that are locked in your office."
Mary glanced at the note. "I guess I'll have to go back. Lauren, you stay and finish your lunch."
"Why did you not eat your pasta?" Tony frowned accusingly at both women. "Does it not taste good?"
"It isn't that, Tony," Mary said, putting her napkin on the table and reaching for her purse. "I was telling Lauren about Carol Whitworth, and it ruined our appetites."
The name roared in Lauren's ears and pounded in her brain. A silent scream of denial rose up in her throat, cutting off her breath when she tried to speak.
"Laurie?" Tony worriedly squeezed her shoulder as she continued to stare in paralyzed horror at Mary's retreating back.
"Who?" she whispered frantically. "Who did Mary say?"
"Carol Whitworth. Nick's mama."
Lauren raised her stricken blue eyes to his. "Oh God," she breathed hoarsely. "Oh God, no!"
Lauren took a cab back to the building. The shock had faded slightly, leaving in its place a cold numbness. She walked into the marble lobby and went over to the reception desk, where she asked to use the phone. "Mary?" she said when the other woman answered. "I'm not feeling well—I'm going home."
Wrapped in her robe that night, she sat staring into the empty fireplace in her apartment. She pulled the afghan she had knitted the previous year closer around her shoulders, trying to ward off the chill, but it was inside her. It shuddered through her every time she thought of her last visit to the Whitworths: Carol Whitworth serenely presiding over an intimate little gathering where three people were plotting against her own son. Her son. Her beautiful, magnificent son. Oh God, how could she do that to him!
Lauren shivered with impotent fury and clutched at the afghan with fingers that longed to scratch and claw at Carol Whitworth's regal face—that vain, unlined, haughty, lovely face.
If there was any spying being done, Lauren felt sure it was Philip, not Nick, who was doing it. But if it was Nick, if he really was paying someone to leak information on the Whitworth Enterprises bids, she wouldn't blame him. If it had been within her power at that moment
, she would have brought Whitworth Enterprises crashing down around Philip's ears.
Nick might love her; Mary thought he did. But Lauren would never know. The moment he discovered she was related to the Whitworths, he would kill whatever feelings he had for her, exactly as he had killed his feelings for his mother. He would want to know why she had applied for a job at Sinco, and he would never believe it was coincidence, even if she lied to him.
Lauren cast a bitter, contemptuous glance around the silken love nest where she was ensconced. She'd been living like Philip Whitworth's pampered mistress. But no longer. She was going home. If she had to, she would get two jobs and teach piano too, to make up for the difference in salary. But she couldn't stay in Detroit. She'd go insane watching for a glimpse of Nick everywhere she went, wondering if he ever thought of her.
"Feeling better?" Jim asked the next morning. Dryly, he added, "Mary said she was talking about Carol Whitworth, and it made you ill."
Lauren's face was pale but composed as she closed his office door and handed him the sheet of paper she'd just rolled out of her typewriter.
He unfolded it and scanned the four simple lines. "You're resigning for personal reasons—what the hell does that mean? What personal reasons?"
"Philip Whitworth is a distant relative of mine. I didn't know until yesterday that Carol Whitworth is Nick's mother."
Shock jerked him erect in his chair. He stared at her in angry confusion, then he said, "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you asked why I was resigning."
He watched her silently, the rigidity slowly fading from his features. "So you're related to his mother's second husband," he said finally. "So what?"
Lauren hadn't expected an argument. Exhausted, she sank into a chair. "Jim, when is it going to occur to you that as Philip Whitworth's relative, I could be spying on you for him?"
Jim's amber eyes turned sharp and piercing. "Are you, Lauren?"
"No."
"Has Whitworth asked you to?"
"Yes."
"And you agreed?" he snapped.
Lauren didn't know it was possible to feel this miserable. "I thought about it, but on my way to be interviewed here, I decided I couldn't do it. I never expected to be hired, and I wouldn't have been…" Briefly, she told him how she had met Nick that evening. "And the next day you interviewed me and offered me a job."
She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. "I wanted to be near Nick. I knew that he worked in this building, so I accepted your offer. But I have never relayed one bit of information to Philip."
"I can't believe this," Jim said shortly, rubbing his fingers over his forehead as if he was getting a splitting headache. The moments ticked away in silence. Lauren was too desolate to notice or to care. She simply sat there, waiting for him to pronounce sentence on her. "It doesn't matter," he said finally. "You aren't quitting. I won't let you."
Lauren gaped at him. "What are you talking about? Don't you care that I could be telling Philip everything I know?"
"You aren't."
"How can you be sure?" she challenged.
"Common sense. If you were going to spy on us, you wouldn't walk in here to resign and tell me you're related to Whitworth. Besides, you're in love with Nick, and I think he's in love with you."
"I don't think he is," Lauren said with quiet dignity. "And even if he is, the minute he discovers who I am related to, he won't want anything to do with me. He'll insist on knowing why I happened to apply for a job at Sinco, and he'll never believe it was coincidence, even if I was willing to lie to him, which I'm not…"
"Lauren, a woman can confess almost anything to a man if she chooses the right time to do it. Wait until Nick comes back, and then—"
When Lauren refused with a firm shake of her head, he threatened, "If you resign without notice like this, I won't give you a good reference."
"I don't expect one."
Jim watched her leave his office. For several minutes he was very still, his brows drawn together in a thoughtful frown. Then he slowly reached out and picked up the telephone.
"Mr. Sinclair." The secretary bent down beside Nick, her voice lowered to avoid disturbing the seven other major U.S. industrialists seated around the conference table discussing an international trade agreement. "I'm sorry to disturb you, sir, but there's a Mr. James Williams on the phone for you…"
Nick nodded, already sliding his chair back, his face betraying none of the alarm he felt over this emergency interruption. He couldn't imagine what disaster could have arisen that would warrant Mary's having Jim call him here. The secretary showed him to a private room, and Nick snatched up the telephone. "Jim, what's wrong?"
"Nothing, I just needed some guidance."
"Guidance?" Nick repeated in angry disbelief. "I'm in the middle of an international trade meeting and—"
"I know, so I'll be quick. The new sales manager I hired can come to work for us three weeks from now, on November fifteenth."
Nick swore in irritation. "So what?" he snapped.
"Well, the reason I'm calling is because I wanted to know if it would be all right if he reports for work in November, or if you'd rather have him wait and start in January as we originally discussed. I—"
"I can't believe this!" Nick interrupted furiously. "I don't give a damn when he starts, and you know it. November fifteenth is fine. What else?"
"That's about all," Jim replied imperturbably. "How's Chicago?"
"Windy!" Nick snarled. "So help me, if you've gotten me out of this meeting just to ask me that—"
"Okay, I'm sorry. I'll let you go. Oh, by the way, Lauren resigned this morning."
The announcement hit Nick like a slap in the face. "I'll talk to her on Monday when I get back."
"You won't be able to—her resignation's effective immediately. I think she plans to leave for Missouri tomorrow."
"You must be losing your touch," Nick gritted sarcastically. "Usually they fall in love with you, and you have to transfer them to another division to get them out of your hair. Lauren saved you the trouble."
"She's not in love with me."
"That's your problem, not mine."
"The hell it is! You wanted to play bedtime games with her, and when she wouldn't, you worked her until she was pale and exhausted. She's in love with you, and you've made her take messages from other women, made her—"
"Lauren doesn't give a damn about me!" Nick snapped furiously, "and I haven't got time to discuss her with you."
He slammed the phone into the cradle and stalked back into the conference room. Seven men glanced up at him with a mixture of polite concern and accusation. By mutual agreement, none of them was taking calls except in extreme emergency. Nick sat down in his chair and curtly said, "I apologize for the interruption. My secretary overestimated the importance of a problem and had the call forwarded here."
Nick tried to concentrate on the business at hand and nothing else, but visions of Lauren kept floating through his mind. In the middle of a heated discussion over marketing rights, he saw Lauren laughing, her face turned up to the sun, her hair blowing around her shoulders as they sailed on Lake Michigan.
He remembered looking up into her enchanting face.
"What happens to me if this slipper fits?"
"I turn you into a handsome frog. "
Instead she'd turned him into a raving maniac! Jealousy had been driving him insane for two weeks. Every time her phone rang, he wondered which lover was calling her. Every time a man looked at her in the office, he had a wild urge to smash the man's teeth down his throat.
Tomorrow she'd be gone. On Monday he wouldn't see her. It was best for both of them. It was best for the whole goddamned corporation; his own executives were sidling out of the way when they saw him coming!
The meeting adjourned at seven o'clock, and when dinner was over, Nick excused himself to go up to his suite. As he walked down the main corridor of the fashionable hotel toward the elevators, he passed the wind
ow of an exclusive jewelry shop. A magnificent ruby pendant surrounded by glittering diamonds caught his eye and he paused. He looked at the matching earrings. Perhaps if he bought Lauren the pendant… Suddenly he felt like a small boy again, standing beside Mary, buying a little enameled pillbox.
He turned away and stalked down the corridor. Bribery, he reminded himself savagely, was the lowest form of begging. He would not beg Lauren to change her mind. He would not beg anyone for anything.
He spent an hour and a half on the telephone in his suite, returning calls and dealing with business matters that had arisen in his absence. When he hung up, it was nearly eleven. He walked over to the windows and gazed out at the twinkling Chicago skyline.
Lauren was leaving. Jim said she was pale and exhausted. What if she was ill? What if she was pregnant? Hell, what if she was? He couldn't even be certain if it was his child or someone else's.
Once he could have been certain. Once he had been the only man she'd ever known. Now she could probably teach him things, he thought bitterly.
He thought of the Sunday afternoon he'd gone to her apartment to give her the earrings. When he'd tried to get her into bed, she'd exploded at him. Most women would have been satisfied with what he was offering, but not Lauren. She had wanted him to care, to be involved emotionally with her as well as sexually. She had wanted some sort of commitment from him.
Nick stretched out on the bed. It was just as well that she was leaving, he decided furiously. She should go back home and find some small-town jerk who'd grovel at her feet, tell her he loved her and make any commitment she wanted.
The meeting reconvened at precisely ten o'clock the following morning. Because all the men present were industrial giants whose time was extremely valuable, everyone was punctual. The chairman of the committee looked at the six men seated around the conference table and said, "Nick Sinclair will not be here today. He asked me to explain that he was called back to Detroit this morning on an urgent matter."
Double Standards Page 17