Nevertheless, after a few days she fell back into her old routines… but there were small differences. Instead of beginning the day with classical music and just enough time to get herself dressed and to the office by nine o'clock, she rose at five-thirty and hauled herself off to the dojo, the training hall in Kenmore Square where she practiced her judo and karate.
And at night, instead of relishing the quiet of her apartment and her aloneness, she often found herself sitting on her rooftop deck staring up at the sky, pretending she was on a yacht in San Francisco Bay.
Sheridan missed Richard more than she had ever imagined she would. She missed his arguments, his laughter, his lovemaking. And yet knowing he was coming to Boston when their week apart had ended made the missing bearable. Wherever she went, whatever she did, it was as if he were there with her. Stubborn and independent people though they were, somehow his spirit and hers were tangled up together, separate but inseparable.
On cool lonely nights in bed, she would force herself to imagine what she would do if he didn't return, and couldn't. On the surface her life had gotten back to its pre-Richard St. Charles normalcy—and she still wanted him. What about Richard, now that he was living without her "cockiness"?
She needn't have worried. On Sunday night his plane landed at Logan Airport, and he sauntered off wearing a charcoal worsted suit with a white button- down shirt, a regimental striped tie and cordovan wing-tip shoes. His hair was neatly trimmed and brushed.
If it weren't for the black eyes and roguish grin, Sheridan might not have recognized him.
"Hello, love," he said in his sandpaper-and-silk voice. "You look dazzling."
One night after work she had stopped at a boutique on Newbury Street and picked up a pair of slim crop pants and a flowered chintz shirt.
"Thank you. I… you…"
He grinned. "Think I'll pass as a proper Boston executive?"
"I think so. But why would you want to?"
"Why, love, to preserve your reputation, of course."
"You're having a grand time for yourself, aren't you?"
"Just being with you again is grand, Sheridan," he murmured.
He refused her offer to stay in her apartment—once again, to preserve her reputation—and installed himself at the Ritz, in an elegant room overlooking the Public Gardens. They made love on the big bed and afterward ordered room service.
In the ensuing days Richard insinuated himself neatly into her routines and revealed an extensive wardrobe of preppy clothes. Every minute she wasn't working they spent together; he also turned up at the office every day to join her for lunch. No matter how inconspicuous he tried to be, his presence in the halls of United Commercial prompted excited questions. Always Sheridan explained him away as "my friend, Richard St. Charles, from San Francisco." Of course, that was never good enough. Curious stares followed them.
One night at the Ritz Sheridan caught him pulling pricetags off a Brooks Brothers shirt. "What are you doing?"
"What does it look like?" he countered patiently.
"But that's a new shirt."
"Yes, it is."
"I thought—They're all new, aren't they? The shirts, the shoes, the suits. You didn't own anything like that until you met me."
He smiled. "No, actually I did, in the old days. I was the king of the pinstripes. Don't you like the new me?"
"I like you, Richard. I don't care if you wear pinstripes or T-shirts. But don't pretend to be someone you're not."
"Ah, now we're getting somewhere."
She sighed. "Those sound like your words to me, right?"
"As I said when I first met you, we all have our ruses. I want us to be together, Sheridan. I don't care how."
"But not at the risk of denying who you are!"
"Why not?" he queried, his eyes alert. "Isn't that what you're doing?"
She began to shake. "Then you don't like my life in Boston. You never intended to stay here. You just want to show me how dull and boring I am. Well, you've done a fine job of it! You're a terrific caricature of me and my friends. Has it been amusing, Mr. St. Charles? I hope it has. Because I'll tell you right now, the Sheridan Weaver you've been seeing the past two weeks is the real me."
"I never doubted that for a moment," he said steadily, "but is she doing what she really wants to do with her life?"
She snatched the shirt off the bed and threw it at him. "If you hurry, you can get to Brooks Brothers in time to return this. But don't say I didn't warn you, Richard. When the adrenaline rush ended, I started looking like an ordinary businesswoman, didn't I?"
"No, as a matter of fact, you didn't—which, I suppose, is half the problem, isn't it? Why do you persist in acting like an ordinary businesswoman?"
"What do you suggest I act like? Come, tell me, Mr. St. Charles. You know so much about me. Who am I?"
"Sheridan, please. Don't be upset. I didn't mean to imply—"
"Dammit, don't you see? I can't go back to San Francisco and be an extension of you! But I don't want you to stay here and be an extension of me." Her eyes filled with tears, which she brushed away angrily. "It's impossible, isn't it? There's just no answer."
She turned on her heels and walked out. Richard, stonily silent, didn't follow.
For two days Sheridan put in long hours at U.C. and the dojo. In some ways the work and exercise were a substitute for the sex she had had with Richard. They left her mind and body numb, and because there was no choice, she could sleep without agonizing over the loss of the solid male body beside her, in her.
In other ways her mind and body knew they were being duped, that no amount of work or exercise could replace the hours she and Richard had spent exploring and satiating each other's body and spirit.
And in all ways the work and exercise were never a substitute for the love she had for Richard. She missed his laughter, his companionship, even his anger.
Dammit, she thought, slamming her pencil down on her desk, why had he given in so easily? Why had she stormed out when all they had needed to do was talk?
Talk, talk, talk. They could talk forever and never come up with a solution. He wanted his old Sheridan Weaver back. But his old Sheridan Weaver had never existed.
Or maybe she was deluding herself? How else could she explain her rekindled interest in the martial arts? Even when she and Richard had been on more intimate terms, she had taken time for her workouts while he would go running on the banks of the Charles River. If she wasn't deluding herself, how did she explain her insidious boredom with the world of insurance? Her job hadn't changed in the course of a month. There were the usual problems and personalities to deal with—even if they didn't seem to hold the challenge that chasing down a missing father had.
Yet it seemed as if she had no real choices. Remaining for the rest of her career in a thirtieth-floor cubby with a window didn't intrigue her. But neither did watering roses on Russian Hill for the rest of her life. Somehow she wanted both her worlds to come together.
A shadow fell across her desk.
"Agnew," she said irritably, "I'm not in the mood. Get the hell out of my light."
"Ms. Weaver?"
The voice was not Donald Agnew's, but this time around she recognized it. Her head shot up. "Richard!"
He was wearing a T-shirt and natural linen pants. "Ms. Weaver," he said formally, "my name is Richard St. Charles. I'm a friend of your father's, Jorgensen Beaumont Weaver. He suggested I come to you with my problem."
"Richard, please…"
"You see, I have an extremely ticklish problem. A few weeks ago I purchased a diamond and emerald necklace from the Livingston collection for three hundred thousand dollars. During the past month or so, your father and I have become friends. He asked if he could borrow the necklace for one night, and I agreed."
"You're making this up, aren't you? You wouldn't really lend J.B. a necklace worth three hundred thousand?"
"I did, Sheridan."
"Oh, good God." She opened up her right-
hand drawer, dragged out the familiar amber bottle and poured herself a spoonful of the white liquid. "Maalox… ulcer acting up, first time in weeks."
"Nine-to-five schedules will do that to you. Shall I continue?" He straightened, still pretending that he didn't know her. "Apparently he used the necklace in his proposal of marriage to his secretary, Lucille Stein. He wanted her to wear it on their wedding day."
“Argh!" She pressed one forearm against her stomach and held up a hand. "It's okay, I'm all right. Just go on… please."
"Lucille—Ms. Stein—thought J.B. was playing a cruel joke on her. She said she'd loved him for all these years, and now he didn't respect her any more than to stick a paste necklace under her nose and pretend to want to marry her. How could he toy with her feelings that way, who was she but the woman who'd helped him out of so many scrapes, et cetera, et cetera. She was, he says, incredibly furious. He tried to explain that he was serious, but she insisted he wasn't, grabbed the necklace and stalked out."
"She grabbed the necklace!"
Richard nodded grimly, and suddenly Sheridan knew he wasn't fabricating some tale. "J.B. tried to follow her, but she'd learned a few tricks from him over the years and managed to disappear."
"Poor Lucy. I had no idea…"
"Poor Lucy! That woman has my necklace!"
"Mr. St. Charles, you like to live dangerously, don't you? Tell me, what do you want me to do?"
"Recover the necklace. Since it's a salvage job, I'm prepared to pay you half its value."
One hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Sheridan could live a long time on that kind of money. Or she could invest it. In one of Richard's horses, say. Or anything. She liked the possibilities. She liked the risks. She could feel her worlds uniting. She could be an MBA and an investigator. Life didn't have to be rigid. She could have her adventures, her independence, her routines. "Do you have any clue as to where she might be?" she asked.
Richard hesitated. "J.B. thinks she might have gotten herself into a high-stakes game with a few 'sleazes,' as Lucille might call them, and is going to gamble the necklace."
"Thinking it's a fake."
"Yes."
"Egad."
"He says you'll have a better chance of tracking her down because you're not as emotionally involved."
"She's been like a second mother to me!"
"But she's a woman to him. There's a difference."
The warmth in his voice drew her eyes to his, and she saw warmth there, too, and love and caring. Nothing had changed. She could see all the possibilities of a life with him. Without him life didn't exist, not for her. "Yes," she said, "there is a difference. I'll take the case, Mr. St. Charles. But you'll have to give me a few minutes. I have to type a letter of resignation."
"Sheridan…"
There was an edge of panic to his voice. She grinned up at him, her eyes big and round and filled with energy. "I'm sure, Richard. Very sure."
They rescued Lucille and the necklace from a gang of thieves off the coast of Hawaii. She was miffed at her own impulsiveness, but otherwise undaunted by the experience. "Guess I don't want to live J.B.'s life, after all," she said when she was safely aboard Richard's yacht. "It's much easier just to answer telephones—plenty of excitement for me. I can't believe the old buzzard was serious. Hmm. Hope he hasn't rescinded his offer."
Since she hadn't cost him three hundred thousand, after all, Richard and Sheridan assured her that he probably hadn't. Lucille went happily below, planning which shade of blond she'd dye her hair for the wedding.
"I have a mad urge," Richard said as they basked in the glorious Hawaiian sunshine, "to pitch that damned necklace into the ocean."
"What! It's worth—"
"Three hundred thousand. Yes, believe me, I know. But how much have I dropped on it already?"
"Well, it depends if you count the hundred thousand you lost to win the fake."
"I count it."
"That's one hundred, plus the three hundred you paid for the real thing, plus various and sundry expenses amounting to Lord knows what to lose it and get it back and… I guess you've dropped a lot."
"I guess." He crawled over and sat beside her on the deck. "But it would probably be found by some scoundrel if I toss it."
"Are you going to let Lucille wear it for her wedding?"
"Oh, you didn't hear that part, did you? She doesn't like it. Thinks it's gaudy and weighs too much. This, mind you, from a woman who still wears her hair like Marilyn Monroe. I believe she said she would just as soon get her jewelry at Woolworth's. Although she appreciates J.B.'s sentiment, wearing my necklace, said she, would give her heart failure."
Sheridan laughed. "Isn't she wonderful?"
"In her own way, yes, she is. She doesn't play to anyone else's tune—like her future stepdaughter." He smiled, moving closer. "I've been imagining how all those diamonds and emeralds would look reflected in your eyes. You're a beautiful woman, Sheridan. You could walk down the aisle in a judogi, or whatever you call that thing, and I don't think anyone would pay any attention."
"I could, could I? What aisle is this?"
"A figurative one. I always thought we'd be married on the yacht."
Not "my" yacht, she noted, just "the" yacht. It made a difference. She smiled, the tenderness in her heart reaching her eyes. "That's what I've always thought, too."
"Then—"
"I'll marry you, yes, and I'll wear the necklace and hope all who see the sparkle in my eyes know it's inspired by you, not the jewels. You're my light, Richard, my love, my joy. I love you."
"We're just beginning, love, you know that, don't you?"
Her face lit up with the anticipation of the times they had ahead of them together—the adventures, the love- making, the fights, the peace, the happiness. And this wasn't a dream. This wasn't a silly fantasy. It was their reality. Their life together would be wonderful.
Sheridan drew herself to him and kissed him lightly, lovingly. "Our life together will always be just beginning."
He held her face in his hands and smiled, saying nothing, for nothing needed to be said.
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