Second Love

by Gould, Judith

  'No, I don't suppose it would.'

  Venetia pushed her glasses atop her head like a tiara, the better to eyeball the waiter as he left. She cocked her head to one side.

  'Now, are those cute buns? Or are those cute buns?'

  'Oh, Christ!' Dorothy-Anne muttered irritably, fighting the urge to grab Venetia and give her a good shake. 'Just when I need a sympathetic ear, not to mention a professional colleague, what do I have to put up with? 'Buns'!'

  'Heyyyyy! Don't lose your sense of humor. Baby, what's wrong?'

  Dorothy-Anne stared at her in outrage. 'What's wrong? You have to ask, what's wrong. Look around you! This place is what's wrong! It's usually so packed you have to make reservations the day before. Now look at it!'

  'Salmonella will do it every time,' Venetia said dryly.

  'Tell me something I don't already know.'

  Venetia eyed her severely. 'Honey, will you chill out? It is time you looked on the bright side.'

  'Th-the bright side!' Dorothy-Anne sputtered. She shook her head incredulously. 'My God! You've got to be kidding.'

  'No, child. I am serious. The reason I popped by was to bring tidings of great joy.'

  'Yeah,' Dorothy-Anne said morosely. 'Sure. Go ahead. Make my day.'

  'I aim to. Girl, get this action. Right before coming down here, I just got off the phone with White Plains. And guess what?'

  'The other shoe dropped?'

  'It most certainly did not!' Venetia sniffed, pretending affront. Then she leaned forward across the table and grinned. 'But what has happened is—are you ready? Cancellations have begun to slow. Baby, you heard correctly, but I shall repeat it anyway, just so you can read my lips. The cancellations are slooooowing. You wait and see. Another couple of days, and business will be booming.'

  'Here's hoping. Our cash flow wasn't all that great before this happened. But if things get any worse . . . '

  Dorothy-Anne bit down on her lip. She didn't need to complete the sentence. The Hale Companies' debt load was a threatening, looming cloud shadowing even the most trivial of their daily triumphs.

  'I hear you, honey,' Venetia said gently. 'But believe me'—she leaned forward and tapped a confident finger on the table—'by tomorrow, this outbreak will be yesterday's news.'

  'Not to the people who were stricken,' Dorothy-Anne retorted grimly.

  'No,' Venetia sighed, 'not to them.'

  'And certainly not to the guest who died—or his family.'

  'True. But the important thing to remember is that you have done everything you could—and more—to rectify a tragic situation. Ah. Here comes Cute Buns with my drink.'

  Dorothy-Anne, forced to endure Venetia's lapse into girlish adolescence, rolled her eyes heavenward. Was there anything, she wondered disgustedly, anything under the sun more ludicrous than a mature woman going all fluttery in the presence of a young man still in his teens? Really, there ought to be a law . . .

  'Senorita.' The waiter flashed his pearly whites as he set the margarita down with a flourish.

  'Muchos gracias,' Venetia said dreamily. 'Gracias, gracias, gracias.'

  'De nada,' he said. The black, innocent eyes shone in his lean, dark- complexioned face with rich and yet-unmined promises.

  Venetia watched him leave. He certainly has all the right things in all the right places, she was thinking. And he's treading time waiting on tables down here.

  Offhand, she could think of half a dozen men's fashion editors and stylists who would jump at the opportunity of signing him on.

  Which isn't exactly a bad way to break the ice, she considered. No, not bad at all . . .

  She picked up the glass, took a little sip, and put it back down.

  'Yummy.' She licked salt off her upper lip. 'Nothing like a good margarita.' Then, adjusting her facial muscles into an expression of appropriate solemnity, she said: 'Anyway, before Cute Buns there gets me totally distracted, there is one other significant item of good news.'

  Dorothy-Anne looked at her askance. 'And what might that be?'

  Venetia seemed surprised that she had to ask. 'Why, the response to your press conference. What else?'

  Dorothy-Anne flicked a derisive wrist. 'A highly unpleasant but necessary evil.'

  'Perhaps. But baby, let me tell you. The feedback has been nothing short of phenomenal. Yes.' Venetia rapped her knuckles on the table. 'Phe-nom-en-al!' She underscored each syllable with a rap.

  'And how, might I ask, did you jump to that conclusion?'

  'The usual way. We did an opinion poll.'

  'Polls! I should have guessed.'

  'Hey, don't knock them. The public perception is that you have bent over backward. Honey, no one is blaming you for the outbreak.'

  'Why, isn't that nice!' Dorothy-Anne said sharply. 'It makes all the difference!' She shook her head in disbelief. 'My God!' Her voice was so incredulous it descended a full octave. 'As if I'm worried about blame! Venetia! I voluntarily shouldered responsibility!'

  'I know, baby, but—'

  'And that aside, there's still the unresolved matter of our reputation. It's been irreparably damaged—'

  'Not irreparably.' Venetia shook her head firmly. 'There I beg to differ.'

  'Oh?' Clouds of suspicion, an obvious dimming of faceted aquamarines, shadowed Dorothy-Anne's eyes. 'How so?'

  'From the feedback I have gotten, you can forget worrying about our reputation. Don't get me wrong. I am not saying our reputation hasn't been . . . well, not compromised, exactly, but . . . let's say tarnished a little. Because it has been. But, girl, that is only temporary. A bit of spit here, and a touch of polish there, and we'll be right back where we were. On top!'

  'Aren't you forgetting something?'

  Venetia's smooth forehead furrowed. 'Like what?'

  'Like tour operators and travel agents. They have long memories.'

  'So?'

  'So, in the future, they're going to think twice about booking people with us.'

  Venetia tossed her head, her dark eyes glinting. 'Not necessarily,' she said, the corners of her lips forming a Cheshire smile.

  'Oh? And what makes you say that?' Dorothy-Anne sipped some iced tea. It was just the way she liked it. Refreshingly cool, not too sweet, and heavy on the mint.

  'Because,' Venetia said smugly. 'I haven't lost sight of what drives them.'

  'Ah,' Dorothy-Anne murmured, setting the tumbler back down. 'Commissions.'

  'Uh-huh! And girl? Trust me. When it comes to chasing a buck, travel agents and tour operators are second only to used-car dealers!'

  'In other words, you're suggesting we raise their commissions.'

  Venetia's smile broadened. 'That's right, honey. It's the one sure-fire bet to bring on communal memory loss—and have them fighting to throw business our way!'

  She paused to scrutinize Dorothy-Anne's reaction. 'Well? What do you think?'

  Dorothy-Anne was staring at her. 'What do I think? Venetia darling, I'm thinking that you're either shrewd, devious, or eerily clairvoyant . . . I'm still not exactly sure which.'

  'My God!' Venetia shook her head admiringly. 'You came up with the same idea! Now, why am I surprised?'

  Dorothy-Anne smiled sourly. 'A strategy I wish could be attributed to great minds and all that. However, in this instance, I'm afraid it's necessity—not to mention desperation—being the mother of invention. When you're cornered, there aren't a whole lot of options open to you.'

  'No, I don't suppose there are,' Venetia murmured, the brightness fading from her face.

  She gazed past Dorothy-Anne to the lush, nearly vertical hillside where the open-air rooms were tucked, hidden from view by thick tropical foliage. Only the silver sheets of water dropping from one cantilevered pool down to the next marked their locations. A breeze stirred the giant, Rousseau-like leaves and shifted the sun-dappled shadows; activity on one of the terraces startled a flock of parrots. Screeching, they took wing in a dazzling burst of color. She noticed the thatch-roofed funicular beg
inning its slow descent down the hillside. Electrically powered, and therefore silent, it didn't make a sound.

  She pulled her gaze back in. 'What about figures?' she asked. 'Do you have a specific commission raise in mind?'

  Dorothy-Anne shook her head. 'Not yet. I wanted to get your input first. What about you?'

  Venetia exhaled a deep sigh. 'Child, let me tell you. This is one area where this girl is stumped. Raising the commissions will cost us, and the tour groups we handle are already steeply discounted. Our profit margin averages . . . what? Around eight percent?'

  Dorothy-Anne nodded her head. 'Somewhere in that vicinity. Obviously, it depends on various factors.' She ticked them off on her fingers. 'Volume. Availability. Locale. How early a tour is booked . . .' She held up her hands. 'These all directly affect the bottom line. But I'm not telling you anything you don't already know.'

  'And eight percent severely restricts our generosity,' Venetia pointed out in a murmur.

  'I can't argue with that,' Dorothy-Anne said, her voice almost emotionless. 'Whether by hook or by crook, we have to jump-start our recovery, and fast. The only way to do that is to get our vacancy rate below twenty-two percent. That's our break-even point. Otherwise . . . '

  'Don't tell me,' Venetia said gloomily. 'We're in deep shit.'

  'What it all boils down to is volume,' Dorothy-Anne said. 'And there's the catch-22. The more rooms we can fill, the more generous we can be with commissions. Likewise, the more generous we are with commissions, the more rooms we have to fill.'

  'A quarter of a percent?' asked Venetia, testing the waters. 'Would that be enough?'

  'For short-circuiting long memories?' Dorothy-Anne laughed. 'My God! We can't afford to be cheapskates, not if we want customers in droves. I'd say the minimum would be a full percentage point. Ideally, it would be two.'

  'That much! Honey, aren't you going a bit overboard?'

  'Am I?' Dorothy-Anne's voice was soft. 'Venetia, we're fighting for our future. Our very existence is at stake! Or hasn't that sunk in yet?'

  'Believe me, baby, it has. Like a ton of bricks.' Venetia, in the process of lifting the margarita to her mouth, suddenly froze, the glass halfway to her lips. Behind Dorothy-Anne, the funicular had reached the bottom of the hill, and she'd caught sight of a single passenger stepping off.

  Can it be? Venetia wondered. Or are my eyes playing tricks on me? For if they weren't, she could swear that the man who'd gotten off was— could it be?—was it her imagination?—no—Hunt Winslow!

  'What's the matter?' Dorothy-Anne looked concerned. 'Darling, you look as if you've seen a ghost.'

  Venetia didn't look at her. 'Child,' she murmured, 'you haven't, by any chance, been holding out on me? Have you?'

  'About what?'

  But Venetia didn't reply. She raised a slender arm and waved until she caught the new arrival s attention.

  Hunt's face registered his reaction, a reaction that, like Venetia's, began as stunned disbelief, changed to incredulous surprise, and finally radiated pure, unaffected pleasure.

  'Venetia!' Dorothy-Anne cried, starting to turn around.

  But Venetia reached out, caught her by the arm, and applied pressure. 'Girl!' she spat out of the corner of her smiling mouth, 'will you stop being so obvious? Just stay put and play it cool. I want to see the cheeriest, sunniest smile you can muster. C'mon, now,' she cajoled. 'Say 'Cheese.''

  Cheese?

  Dorothy-Anne glared at her. 'I will do no such thing!' she huffed, prickly with dignity. 'I want to know what the hell is going on, or so help me God, I'm warning you, Venetia, I . . . I won't be responsible for my actions!'

  'Then don't be,' Venetia said with a shrug. 'It's no skin off my back. Because baby, this girl is making herself scarce.'

  With that, Venetia gulped her margarita, valiantly stifled a burp, and collected her tote. She pushed back her chair and popped to her feet.

  'Arrivederci,' she grinned. 'Baby, I'm outta here.'

  That did it. Despite her irritation, Dorothy-Anne's curiosity got the better of her. She twisted around in her seat, scanned the dining area.

  Empty tables, a smattering of diners, a man who vaguely resembled Hunt Winslow. . .

  She dismissed the resemblance out of hand, started to turn back around, then did a classic double take.

  Holy Moses.

  No vague resemblance—the real McCoy!

  Dear God in heaven. Hunt! In the flesh! Bearing down on her—him, that outrageously tall, beautiful male specimen.

  A whimper surfaced from deep within Dorothy-Anne's chest. 'Hunt?' she squeaked, her voice so disbelieving it trailed into thin air.

  She glanced up at Venetia with suddenly panicked eyes.

  'Hunt . . . Winslow?'

  'Uh-huh, baby,' Venetia confirmed. 'The one and only!'

  Dorothy-Anne watched, trembling, as he made a graceful beeline toward her with that easy familiarity, every step of that unmistakable, self-confident stride expressing urgency of purpose. And, while he might have been oblivious to the sensation he created, she was all too aware of the heads craning in his direction.

  The closer he came, the bigger he seemed to get, until he filled her vision entirely. At least, that was the impression from where she was sitting.

  'Venetia!' Dorothy-Anne wailed in distress. 'You can't leave me alone with him!'

  'Oh no?' Venetia's smile lengthened. 'Just watch me.'

  'And where are you off to when I need you most?'

  'I,' Venetia said loftily, shouldering her straw bag and pulling her glasses down over her eyes, 'am about to do my public service.'

  'Say that again?'

  'Well, what else would you call broadening a sheltered young man's horizons?'

  'Oh, Christ,' Dorothy-Anne said in disgust. 'I should have known. Go.'

  She flicked her hands.

  'Go. Rob the cradle.'

  'I fully intend to.' Venetia punctuated her smile with a slight lift of her eyebrows. 'Just remember, honey. Be sure and do everything I would do!'

  And with a waggle of her fingers, off she sailed, leaving Dorothy- Anne to fend for herself.

  Dorothy-Anne threw a glare at Venetia's receding back. It glanced off harmlessly, and she sat there, resting her chin on her hand. Brooding.

  Not fifteen feet away, Venetia slowed as she intercepted Hunt. 'She's all yours, baby,' she crooned, playfully goosing his arm. 'But take care. She's still very fragile.'

  She tilted her head forward, the better to level serious eyes at him over the tops of her shades. Wordlessly warning him that if he hurt Dorothy-Anne he'd have her, Venetia, to contend with.

  He read her loud and clear. 'You don't have to worry,' he assured her.

  Venetia nodded. 'You're a good man, Charlie Brown.' Then, turning her head, she tossed Dorothy-Anne a blazing smile over her shoulder. Enjoy! she mouthed wordlessly.

  And made herself scarce.

  Enjoy! Dorothy-Anne grumped crossly to herself. She scowled. What's to enjoy about being left in the lurch?

  Hunt swiftly closed the distance between them. He stopped when he reached the table, and stood there, staring down at her.

  She had a curious sensation of shrinkage, of the rest of the world dwindling to nothing. As if the two of them were the only people on the planet.

  She and Hunt.

  Hunt Winslow.

  Her heart was pounding wildly, knocking seismically against her rib cage. It seemed her sternum must surely crack under the repeated impacts.

  And what of him? What about Hunt?

  Could he be unaware of her sudden shortness of breath, her skyrocketing body temperature, the telltale flush that shot up her face as blatantly as the indicator on a thermometer?

  How could he not be? His mere proximity did things to her, dammit! Made her feel things she wasn't ready to feel.

  Guiltily she flashed back to the ballroom of the San Francisco Palace. Back to what she thought of as Before.

  Even now, after all th
is time and after all that had happened, she could still remember Governor Randle's jovial words. Verbatim.

  'Careful about Hunt here, Ms. Cantwell . . . . He's our lady-killer-about- state.'

  Oh yes, she remembered it perfectly. Just as she remembered the orchestra launching into 'I Left My Heart in San Francisco.' To which she and Hunt had danced cheek-to-cheek—even as, unknown to her, Freddie's body had lain amid the wreckage on that blizzard-lashed mountainside in Colorado.

  The mental image sent a shiver down her spine.

  I didn't know! If I had, I'd never have flirted with Hunt. She wished she could shed the guilt. Dear God, is it going to weigh on me forever? Is that what I deserve? She really didn't know.

  'Dorothy-Anne,' Hunt said softly.

  'Hunt,' she whispered back, feeling at a disadvantage by remaining seated.

  'Do you mind if I join you?' he asked, bowing his head ever so slightly.

  She sighed inwardly. As if she could refuse.

  'Please,' she said politely. She indicated the chair Venetia had vacated, wishing she had the bad manners and, above all, the willpower, to send him away.

  Unfortunately, she had neither.

  She stared down into her iced tea. When she raised her eyes again he was seated across from her, his warm smile tempered by a shadow of pain. So he was slightly discomfited too, was he? She remembered his wife and the scene she had created.

  What a pair we are! she thought. He saddled with a drunk and I with a ghost. Did he realize how irresistible and disarming that hint of tragedy made him? How it caused her to want to reach out and—

  No. She mustn't think that way. She mustn't think that way at all. 'I was just about to order lunch,' she said, using etiquette to cover her disconcerting sense of unease. 'Which do you prefer? Fish, rabbit in adobe, or authentic hot and spicy?'

  39

  Later:

  After the appetizer, which was mesquite-grilled shrimp, and during the main course, which the waiter served with much fuss, Dorothy-Anne told Hunt, 'Everyone has an ego, and God knows, I'm no exception.'

  She moved forkfuls of spicy huachinango a la Veracruzana around on her plate. Other appetites, which had nothing to do with food, had relegated eating to the back burner of her priorities.