Passion's Promise

by Danielle Steel

  “Circulate, I think, if it’s humanly possible.” She smiled quietly at him, and he squeezed her arm.

  A photographer hired by their hosts snapped a picture of them looking lovingly at each other, and Whit slipped an arm about her waist. She was comfortable with him. After her night with Mark, she felt benign and benevolent, even with Whit. It was odd to think that at dawn that morning she had wandered the streets of SoHo with Mark, then left him reluctantly at three that afternoon to phone in her column to her agent, clear her desk, and rest before the onslaught of the evening. Edward had called to see how she was, and they had chuckled for a few moments about her mention of their lunch in the morning’s column.

  “How in God’s name can you call me ‘dashing,’ Kezia? I’m over sixty years old.”

  “You’re a mere sixty-one. And you are dashing, Edward. Look at you.”

  “I try very hard not to.”

  “Silly man.” They had moved on to other topics, both of them careful not to mention what she had done the night before….

  “More champagne, Kezia?”

  “Mm?” She had drifted through the first glass without even noticing it. She had been thinking of other things: Edward; the new article she’d just been commissioned to write, a piece on the outstanding women candidates in the upcoming national elections. She had forgotten all about Whit, and the Marshes’ party. “Good Heavens, did I finish that already?” She smiled at Whit again, and he looked at her quizzically.

  “Still tired from the trip?”

  “No, just a little dreamy. Drifting, I suppose.”

  “That’s quite a knack in a furor like this.” She exchanged her empty glass for a full one, and they found a secluded corner where they could watch the dance floor. Her eyes took in all the couples and she made rapid mental notes as to who was with whom, and who was wearing what. Opera divas, bankers, famous beauties, celebrated playboys, and an extravagance of rubies and sapphires and diamonds and emeralds.

  “You look more beautiful than ever, Kezia.”

  “You flatter me, Whit.”

  “No. I love you.”

  It was foolish of him to say it. They both knew otherwise. But she inclined her head demurely with a slender smile. Perhaps he did love her, after a fashion. Perhaps she even loved him, like a favorite brother or a childhood friend. He was a sweet man; it wasn’t really difficult to like him. But love him? That was different.

  “It looks as though the summer did you good.”

  “Europe always does. Oh, no!”

  “What?” He turned in the direction that had brought a look of dismay to her face, but it was too late. The Baron von Schnellingen was bearing down on them, with perspiration pouring from his temples, and a look of ecstasy at having spotted the pair.

  “Oh Christ tell him you’ve got the curse, and you can’t dance,” Whit whispered.

  Kezia burst into laughter, which the chubby little German Baron misinterpreted as delight.

  “I am zo happy to zee you too, my dear. Good evening, Vitney. Kee-zee-ah, you are exquisite tonight.”

  “Thank you, Manfred. You’re looking well.” And hot and sweaty. And obese, and disgusting. And lecherous, as usual.

  “It is a valtz. Chust for us. Ja? Nein, but why the hell not? She couldn’t say no. He was always sure to remind her of how much he had loved her dear departed father. It was simpler to concede one waltz with him, for her “father’s sake.” At least he was a proficient dancer. At the waltz in any case. She bowed her head gently and extended a hand to be led to the floor. The Baron patted her hand ecstatically and led her away, just as Whit whispered in her ear, “I’ll rescue you right after the waltz.”

  “You’d better, darling.” She said it through clenched teeth and a well-practiced smile.

  How could she ever explain something like this to Mark? She began to laugh to herself at the thought of explaining Mark and her anonymous forays into SoHo to anyone at the Maisonette that night. Surely the Baron would understand. He probably crept off to far more unusual places than SoHo, but he didn’t expect Kezia to. No one did. Not Kezia, a woman, the Kezia Saint Martin … and that was different anyway. Like the other men she knew, the Baron conducted his adventures differently, and for different reasons … or was it different? Was she simply being a poor little rich girl running away to get laid and play with her Bohemian friends? Were any of them real to her? Sometimes she wondered. The Maisonette was real. Whit was real. The Baron was real. So real it made her feel hopeless at times. A gilded cage from which one never escapes. One never escapes one’s name and one’s face and one’s ancestors and one’s father or one’s mother, no matter how many years they’ve been dead. One never escapes all the bullshit about Noblesse oblige. Or does one? Does one simply get on the subway with a token and a smile, never to return? The mysterious disappearance of the Honorable Kezia Saint Martin. No, if one leaves, one leaves elegantly and openly. With style. Not fleeing on a subway in total silence. If she really wanted SoHo, she had to say so, if only for her own sake. She knew that much. But was that what she wanted? How much better was SoHo than this? It was zabaglione instead of souffié Grand Marnier. But neither was very nourishing. What she needed was good, wholesome steak. Counting on Mark’s world for sustenance was like hiding with a six-month supply of Oreo cookies and nothing else. She simply had one world to offset the other, one man to complement another, and the worst of it was that she knew it. Nothing was whole…. “Am I?” She didn’t realize that she had said it aloud.

  “Are you vat?” the Baron cooed in her ear.

  “Oh. Sorry. Am I stepping on your foot?”

  “No, my beauty. Only my heart. And you dance like an angel.”

  Nauseating. She smiled pleasantly and swirled in his arms. “Thank you, Manfred.”

  They swept gracefully about once more, and at last her eye met Whit’s, as the waltz drew to a merciful close. She stood slightly apart from the Baron and thanked him again.

  “But perhaps they play another?” His disappointment was almost childlike.

  “You dance a very handsome waltz, sir.” Whitney was at their side, bowing slightly to the perspiring German.

  “And you are a very lucky man, Vitney.” Kezia and Whit exchanged a beatific glance and Kezia bestowed a last smile on the Baron as they glided away.

  “Still alive?”

  “Very much so. And I’ve really been hopelessly lazy. I haven’t talked to a soul tonight.” She had work to do and the evening was young.

  “Want to stop and talk to some of your cronies now?”

  “Why not? I haven’t seen any of them since I got back.”

  “Then onwards, milady. Let us throw ourselves to the lions, and see who’s here.”

  Everyone was, as Kezia had observed upon entering. And after a round of a dozen tables, and six or seven small groups standing near the dance floor, she was grateful to spot two of her friends. Whitnev left her to them, and went to share a cigar with his senior partner. A little congenial talk over a good Monte Cristo never hurt. He waved her on her way, and vanished in a cluster of black and white emitting the pungent fumes of Havana’s finest.

  “Hi, you two.” Kezia joined two tall thin young women who seemed surprised to see her arrive.

  “I didn’t know you were back!” Cheeks almost met as kisses flew into midair, and the three looked at each other with pleasure. Tiffany Benjamin was more than a little drunk, but Marina Walters looked bright and alive. Tiffany was married to William Patterson Benjamin IV, the number two man in the biggest brokerage house on Wall Street. And Marina was divorced. And loved it that way, or so she said. Kezia knew otherwise.

  “When did you get back from Europe?” Marina smiled at her, and appraised the dress. “Hell of a neat dress, by the way. Saint Laurent?”

  Kezia nodded.

  “I thought so.”

  “And so’s yours, Madame Hawkeye.” Marina nodded pleased assent, but Kezia knew it for a copy. “Christ, I got back two days ago,
and I’m beginning to wonder if I was ever away.” Kezia spoke while keeping a casual eye on the room.

  “I know the feeling. I got back last week, in time to get the kids back to school. By the time we’d done orthodontists, shoes, school uniforms, and three birthday parties, I forgot I’d ever been away. I’m ready for another summer. Where’d you go this year, Kezia?”

  “The South of France, and I spent the last few days at Hilary’s in Marbella. You, Marina?”

  “The Hamptons all summer. Boring as hell. This was not my most glowing summer.”

  Kezia raised an eyebrow. “How come?”

  “No men, or something like that.” She was creeping toward thirty-six and was thinking about having something done about the bags under her eyes. The summer before, she had had her breasts firmed up by “the most marvelous doctor” in Zurich. Kezia had hinted at it in the column, and Marina had been livid.

  Tiffany had been to Greece for the summer, and she had also spent a few days with distant cousins in Rome. Bill had had to come home early. Bullock and Benjamin seemed to require the presence of its director almost constantly. But he thrived on it. He ate it and slept it and loved it. The Dow Jones ticked somewhere in his heart, and his pulse rate went up and down with the market. That was what Martin Hallam said in his column. But Tiffany understood; her father had been the same way. He had been the president of the Stock Exchange when he finally retired to a month of golf before the fatal heart attack. What a way to go, one foot on the Exchange, and the other on the golf course. Tiffany’s mother’s life was less dramatic. Like Tiffany, she drank. But less.

  Tiffany was proud of Bill. He was an Important man. Even more important than her father. Or her brother. And hell, her brother worked just as hard as Bill did. Gloria said so. Her brother was a corporate lawyer with Wheeler, Spaulding, and Forbes, one of the oldest firms on Wall Street. But the brokerage house of Bullock and Benjamin was the most important on the Street. It made Tiffany someone. Mrs. William Patterson Benjamin IV. And she didn’t mind vacationing alone. She took the children to Gstaad at Christmas, Palm Beach in February, and Acapulco for spring vacation. In summer, they spent a month at the Vineyard with Bill’s mother, and then off they went to Europe; Monte Carlo, Paris, Cannes, St. Tropez, Cap d’Antibes, Marbella, Skorpios, Athens, Rome. It was divine. Everything was divine, according to Tiffany. So divine that she was drinking herself to death.

  “Isn’t this the most divine party you’ve ever seen?” Tiffany was weaving slightly and watching her friends. Marina and Kezia exchanged a rapid glance, and Kezia nodded. She and Tiffany had gone to school together. She was a nice girl too, when she wasn’t drunk. It was something Kezia would not put in the column. Everyone knew she drank, and it hurt to see her like that. It wasn’t something amusing to read at breakfast, like Marina’s boob lift. This was different, painful. Suicide by champagne.

  “What’s next on your agenda, Kezia?” Marina lit a cigarette, and Tiffany faded back into her glass.

  “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll give a party.” After I write that article I landed today….

  “Christ, you’ve got courage. I look at something like this and I cringe. Meg spent eight months planning it. Are you on the Arthritis Committee again this year?”

  Kezia nodded. “They asked me about doing the Crippled Children’s Ball too.” Tiffany awoke at the mention of that.

  “Crippled children? How dreadful!” At least she hadn’t said it was divine.

  “What’s dreadful about it? It’s as good a ball as any of the others.” Marina was quick to the fiesta’s defense.

  “But crippled children? I mean really, who could stand to look at them?” Marina looked at her, annoyed.

  “Tiffany darling, have you ever seen an arthritic at the Arthritis Ball?”

  “No … I don’t think so….”

  “Then you won’t see any children at the Crippled Children’s Ball either.” Marina was matter-of-fact, and Tiffany seemed appeased, while something slimy turned over in Kezia’s stomach.

  “I suppose you’re right, Marina. Are you going to do the ball, Kezia?”

  “I don’t know yet. I haven’t decided. I’m a little tired of the benefit circuit, frankly. I’ve been doing that stuff for a hell of a long time.”

  “Haven’t we all,” Marina echoed ruefully and flicked ashes into the waiter’s silent butler.

  “You should get married, Kezia. It’s divine.” Tiffany smiled delightedly and lifted another glass of champagne from a passing tray. It was her third since Kezia had joined them. A waltz was beginning again at the far end of the room.

  “And that, my friends, is my bad luck dance.” Kezia glanced around and inwardly groaned. Where in hell was Whit?

  “Bad luck? How come?”

  “That’s how come.” Kezia nodded quickly in the direction of the approaching Baron. He had requested the dance, and had looked high and low for her for half an hour.

  “Lucky you.” Marina grinned evilly, and Tiffany did her best to focus.

  “And that, Tiffany my love, is why I don’t get married.”

  “Kezia! Our valtz!” It was useless to protest. She nodded gracefully at her friends and departed on the arm of the Baron.

  “You mean she likes him?” Tiffany looked stunned. He was really very ugly. Even drunk she knew that much.

  “No, you idiot. She means that with creeps like mat hounding her, who has time to find a decent guy?” Marina knew the problem only too well. She had been scouting a second husband for almost two years, and if someone halfway decent didn’t hurry along pretty damn soon, her settlement would fizzle out and her tits would fall again, and she’d get waffles on her ass. She figured she had about a year to hit it lucky before the roof fell in.

  “I don’t know, Marina. Maybe she does like him. Kezia’s a little strange, you know. Sometimes I wonder if all that money coming to her so young affected her. I mean, after all, it would affect almost anyone. It’s not like you can lead a normal life when you’re one of the wealthiest …”

  “Oh for chrissake, Tiffany, shut up. And why don’t you go home and sober up for a change?”

  “What a rotten thing to say!” There were tears in Tiffany’s eyes.

  “No, Tiffany. What a rotten thing to watch.” And with that, Marina turned on her heel and vanished in the direction of Halpern Medley. She had heard that he and Lucille had just broken up. That was the best time to get them. Frightened and bruised, scared to death to manage life on their own, missing the children, lonely at night. She had three children and would be more than happy to keep Halpern busy. He was an excellent catch.

  On the dance floor, Kezia was whirling slowly in the arms of the Baron. Whitney was engaged in earnest conversation with a young broker with long, elegant hands. The clock on the wall struck three.

  Tiffany went to sit dizzily on a red velvet banquette at the back of the room. Where was Bill? He had said something about calling Frankfurt. Frankfurt? Why Frankfurt? She couldn’t remember. But he had gone out to the lobby … hours ago? … and things were beginning to whirl. Bill? She couldn’t remember if he had brought her tonight, or was he out of town and had she come with Mark and Gloria? Had she … damn, why couldn’t she remember? Let’s see, she had had dinner at home with Bill and the children … alone with the children? … were the children still at the Vineyard with Mother Benjamin? … was…. Her stomach began to spin slowly with the room and she knew she was going to be sick.

  “Tiffany?” It was her brother, Mark, with that look on his face, and Gloria just behind him. A wall of reproach between her and the bathroom, wherever the hell it was at whatever goddamn hotel they were in, or was this somebody’s house? She couldn’t remember a fucking thing, dammit.

  “Mark … I …”

  “Gloria, take Tiffany to the ladies’ room.” He didn’t waste time speaking to his sister. He simply addressed his wife. He knew the signs too well. All over the seat of the new Lincoln last time they’d driven her home.
And deep within Tiffany something withered further. She knew. That was the trouble. No matter how much she drank, she always knew. She could hear the tone in their voices so clearly. That never faded.

  “I … I’m sorry … Mark, Bill is out of town and if you could just drive me …” She belched loudly and Gloria rushed forward nervously while Mark shrank backwards with a look of disgust.

  “Tiffany?” It was Bill, with his usual vague smile.

  “I thought … you were …” Mark and Gloria faded into the background and Tiffany’s husband took her arm and escorted her as swiftly as possible from the halls where the last of the party was fading. She was too noticeable in the thinning crowd. “I thought….” They were moving through the lobby now, and she had left her bag on the banquette. Someone would take it. “My bag. Bill, my …”

  “That’s right, dear. We’ll take care of it.”

  “I … oh God, I feel awful. I have to sit down.” Her voice was barely a whisper, and her bag was forgotten. He was walking too fast, it made her feel worse.

  “You just need some air.” He kept a firm grip on her arm and smiled at passersby, the director on the way to his office … good morning … morning … hello … nice to see you…. The smile never faded, and the eyes never warmed.

  “I just … I … oh.” The cool night breeze slapped her face and she felt clearer, but her stomach rose menacingly toward her throat. “Bill….” She turned and looked at him then, but only for a moment. She wanted to ask him a terrible question. Something was forcing her to say it. To ask. How awful. Oh God, she prayed that she wouldn’t. Sometimes when she was very drunk she wanted to ask her brother the same thing. Once she had even asked her mother, and her mother had slapped her. Hard. The question always burned in her when she was this drunk. Champagne always did it to her, and sometimes gin.

  “Well just get you into a nice cozy cab, and you’ll be all set, won’t you dear.” He gently squeezed her arm again, like an overly solicitous headwaiter, and signaled the doorman. A cab stood with open door before them a moment later.