“No, but we have the table waiting. May I show you in?”
“No, thank you. I’ll wait at the fireplace.”
The “21” Club was crammed with lunch-hungry bodies. Business executives, high-fashion models, well-known actors, producers, the gods of the publishing world, and a handful of dowagers. The Scions of Meccas. The restaurant was alive with success. The fireplace was a peaceful corner where Kezia could wait before entering the whirling currents with Whit. “21” was fun but she wasn’t quite in the mood.
She hadn’t wanted to come to lunch. It was strange the way it was all getting a little bit harder. Maybe she was getting too old for a double life. Her thoughts turned to Edward. Maybe she’d see him at “21” for lunch, but he was more likely to be found at Lutèce or the Mistral. His luncheon leanings were usually French.
“How do you suppose the children would feel about it if we took them to Palm Beach? I don’t want them to feel I’m pushing out their father.” The wisp of conversation made Kezia turn her head. Well, well, Marina Walters and Halpern Medley. Things were certainly progressing. Item One for tomorrow’s news. They hadn’t see her discreetly folded in one of the large red leather chairs. The advantage of being small. And quiet.
And then she saw Whit, elegant and youthful and tanned, in a dark gray suit and Wedgewood blue shirt. She waved at him and he walked over to her chair.
“You’re looking awfully well today, Mr. Hayworth.” She held out a hand to him from her comfortable seat, and he kissed her wrist lightly, then clasped her fingers loosely in his.
“I feel a lot better than I did with a jeroboam of champagne under my belt the other night. How did you weather that?”
“Very nicely, thank you. I slept all day,” she lied. “And you?” She smiled at him and they began to thread their way toward the dining room.
“Don’t make me jealous. Your sleep-ins are an outrage!”
“Ah, Mr. Hayworth! Miss Saint Martin …” The headwaiter led them to Whitney’s customary table, and Kezia settled in and looked around. Same old faces, same old crowd. Even the models looked familiar. Warren Beatty sat at a corner table, and Babe Paley had just walked in.
“What did you do last night, Kezia?” Her smile was one he could not read.
“I played bridge.”
“You look like you must have won.”
“As a matter of fact, I did. I’ve been on a winning streak since I got home.”
“I’m glad for you. Me, I’ve been losing at backgammon consistently for the past four weeks. Bitching rotten luck.” But he didn’t look overly worried, as he patted her hand gently and signaled to the waiter. Two Bloody Marys and a double steak tartare. The usual. “Darling, do you want wine?” She shook her head. The Bloody Marys would be fine.
It was a quick lunch; he had to be back in the office at two. Now that the summer was over, it was business as usual: new wills, new trusts, new babies, new divorces, new season. It was almost like a whole new year. Like children returning to school, socialites marked the years by “the season,” and the season had just begun.
“Will you be in town this weekend, Kezia?” He seemed distracted as he hailed her a cab.
“No. Remember? I have that weekend thing with Edward.”
“Oh, that’s right. Good. Then I won’t feel like such a meanie. I’m going to Quogue with some business associates. But I’ll call you on Monday. Will you be all right?” The question amused her.
“I’ll be fine.” She slid gracefully into the cab, and smiled up into his eyes. Business associates, darling? “Thanks for the lunch.”
“See you Monday.” He waved again as the cab pulled away, and she sighed comfortably from the back seat. Finito. She was off the hook till Monday. But suddenly, there was nothing but lies.
* * *
The weekend was perfect. Bright sunny skies, a light breeze, little pollution and a low pollen count, and she and Mark had painted the bedroom a bright cornflower blue. “In honor of your eyes,” he told her as she worked diligently around the window. It was a bitch of a job, but when they had finished, they were both immensely pleased.
“How about a picnic to celebrate?” He was in high spirits and so was she.
She ran down to Fiorella’s for provisions, while he called around to borrow a car. A friend of George’s offered his van.
“Where are we going, sire?”
“Treasure Island. My own treasure island.” And he began to sing snatches of absurd songs about islands, interspersed with a great many cackles and guffaws.
“Mark Wooly, you’re a madman.”
“That’s cool, Cinderella. As long as you dig it.” There was no malice in the “Cinderella.” They were too happy and it was too fine a day. And Mark had never been malicious.
He took her to a little island in the East River, a nameless gem near Randall’s Island. They looped off the highway, and through litter and a bumpy little road that seemed to go nowhere, crossed a small bridge, and suddenly…. magic! A lighthouse and a crumbling castle all their own.
“It looks like the fall of the House of Usher.”
“Yes, and it’s all mine. And now it’s yours, too. Nobody ever comes here.” New York gazed somberly at them from across the river, the United Nations, the Chrysler Building and the Empire State looking sleek and polite, as the happy pair lay on the grass and opened a bottle of Fiorella’s best Chianti. Tugboats and ferries floated past, and they waved to captains and crewmen and laughed at the sky.
“What a beautiful day!”
“Yeah, it really is.” He put his head in her lap and she leaned down and kissed him.
“Want some more wine, Mr. Wooly?”
“No, just a slice of the sky.”
“At your service, sir.”
Clouds were gathering, and it was four in the afternoon when the first lightning flashed past the clouds.
“I think you’re going to get that slice of the sky you ordered. In about five minutes. See how good I am to you? Your wish is my command.”
“Baby, you’re terrific.” He sprang to his feet and flung out his arms, and in five minutes it was pouring rain and lightning flashed and thunder roared, and they ran around the island together hand in hand, laughing and soaked to the skin.
When they got home, they showered together, and the hot water felt prickly on their chilled bodies. They walked naked into the new blue bedroom, and lay peacefully in each others’ arms.
She left him at six the next morning. He slept like a child, his head on his arms, his hair hiding his eyes, his lips soft to her touch.
“Goodbye, my beloved, sleep tight.” She kissed him gently on one temple, and whispered into his hair. It would be noon before he awoke, and she would be far from him by then. In a different world, chasing dragons, making choices.
Chapter 6
“Good morning, Miss Saint Martin. I’ll tell Mr. Simpson you’re here.”
“Thanks, Pat. How’ve you been?”
“Busy, crazy. Seems like everyone has a new idea for a book after the summer. Or a new manuscript, or a royalty check that got lost.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean.” Kezia smiled ruefully, thinking of her own plans for a book.
The secretary took a quick look at her desk, gathered up some papers, and disappeared behind a heavy oak door. The literary agency of Simpson, Wells, and Jones did not look very different from Edward’s law firm, or Whit’s office, or the brokerage house that had the bulk of her account. This was serious business. Long shelves of books, wood paneling, bronze door handles, and a thick carpet the color of Burgundy wine. Sober. Impressive. Prestigious. She was represented by a highly reputable firm. It was why she had felt comfortable sharing her secret with Jack Simpson. He knew who she was, and only he and Edward knew of her numerous aliases. And Simpson’s staff, of course, but they were unfailingly discreet. The secret had remained well guarded.
“Mr. Simpson will see you now, Miss Saint Martin.”
“Thank y
ou, Pat.”
He was waiting for her on his feet behind the desk, a kindly man close to Edward’s age, balding and gray at the temples, with a broad fatherly smile, and comforting hands. They shook hands as they always did. And she settled into the chair across from him, stirring the tea Pat had provided. It was peppermint tea today. Sometimes it was English Breakfast and in the afternoon it was always Earl Grey. Jack Simpson’s office was a haven for her, a place to relax and unwind. A place for excitement about the work she had done. She was always happy there.
“I have another commission for you, my dear.”
“Lovely. What?” She looked up expectantly over the gold-rimmed cup.
“Well, let’s talk for a moment first.” There was something different in his eyes today. Kezia wondered what it was. “This is a little different from what you usually do.”
“Pornography?” She sipped the tea and half suppressed a smile. Simpson chuckled.
“So that’s what you want to do, is it?” She laughed back at him and he lit a cigar. These were from Dunhill, not Cuba. She sent him a box every month. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you then. It’s definitely not pornography. It’s an interview.” He watched her eyes carefully. She so easily got the look of a hunted doe. There were some zones of her life where even he would not dare to tread.
“An interview?” Something closed in her face. “Well, then I guess that’s that. Anything else on the agenda?”
“No, but I think we ought to talk about this a little further. Have you ever heard of Lucas Johns?”
“I’m not sure. The name says something to me, but I can’t place it.”
“He’s a very interesting man. Mid-thirties, spent six years in prison in California for armed robbery, and served his sentence in Folsom, San Quentin—all the legendary horror spots one hears about. Well, he lived through them, and survived. He was among the first to organize labor unions inside the prisons, and make a lot of noise about prisoners’ rights. And he still keeps a hand in it now that he’s out. I gather that’s his whole life; he lives for the cause of abolishing prisons, and bettering the prisoners’ lot in the meantime. Even refused his first parole because he hadn’t finished what he’d started. The second time they offered him parole, they didn’t give him a choice. They wanted him out of their hair, so he got out and got organized on the outside. He’s had a tremendous impact on the public awareness in terms of what really happens in our prisons. Matter of fact, he wrote a very powerful book on the subject when he first got out a year or two ago, can’t quite remember when. It got him a lot of speaking engagements, television appearances, that sort of thing. And it’s all the more amazing that he’d do that, since he’s still on parole. I imagine it must be risky for him to remain controversial.”
“I would think so.”
“He served six years of his sentence, but he’s not a free man. As I understand it, they have some sort of system in California called the indeterminate sentence, which means you get sentenced rather vaguely. I think in his case the sentence was five years to life. He served six. I suppose he could have served ten or twenty, at the discretion of the prison authorities, but I imagine they got tired of having him around. To say the least.”
Kezia nodded, intrigued. Simpson had counted on that.
“Did he kill anyone in the robbery?”
“No, I’m fairly certain he didn’t. Just hell-raising, I think. He had a rather wild youth, from what I gathered in his book. Got most of his education in prison, finished high school, got a college degree, and a master’s in psychology.”
“Industrious in any case. Has he been in trouble since he got out?”
“Not that kind of trouble. He seems to be past that now. The only trouble I’m aware of is that he is dancing a tightrope with the publicity he gets for his agitation on behalf of prisoners. And the reason for this interview now is that he has another book coming out, a very uncompromising exposé of existing conditions, and his views on the subject are sort of a follow-up to the first book, but a good deal more brutal. It’s going to create quite a furor, from what I hear. This is a good time for a piece about him, Kezia. And you’d be a good one to write it. You did those two articles on the prison riots in Mississippi last year. This isn’t unfamiliar territory to you, not entirely.”
“This isn’t a documented piece on a news event either. It’s an interview, Jack.” Her eyes sought his and held them. “And you know I don’t do interviews. Besides, he’s not talking about Mississippi. He’s talking about California prisons. And I don’t know anything more about them than what I read in the paper, just like everyone else.” It was a weak excuse, and they both knew it.
“The principles are the same, Kezia. You know that. And the piece we’ve been offered is about Lucas Johns, not the California prison system. He can tell you plenty about that. You can read his first book for that matter. That’ll tell you all you need to know, if you can stomach it.”
“What’s he like?”
Simpson restrained a smile at the question. Maybe … maybe … He frowned and replaced his cigar in the ashtray. “Strange, interesting, powerful, very closed and very open. I’ve seen him speak, but I’ve never met him. One gets the impression that he’ll tell anyone anything about prisons, but nothing about himself. He’d be a challenge to interview. I’d say he’s very guarded, but appealing in an odd way. He looks like a man who fears nothing because he has nothing to lose.”
“Everyone has something to lose, Jack.”
“You’re thinking of yourself, my dear, but some don’t. Some have already lost all they care about. He had a wife and child before he went to prison. The child died in a hit-and-run accident, and the wife committed suicide two years before his release. Maybe he’s one of those who has already lost…. Something like that can break you. Or give you an odd kind of freedom. I think he has that. He’s something of a god to those who know him well. You’ll hear a lot of conflicting reports about him—warm, loving, kind, or ruthless, brutal, cold. It depends on whom you speak to. In his own way, he’s something of a legend, and a mystery. No one seems to know the man underneath.”
“You seem to know a lot about him.”
“He interests me. I’ve read his book, seen him speak, and I did a little research before I asked you to come in and discuss this with me, Kezia. It’s just the kind of piece I think you might be brilliant with. In his own way, he’s as hidden as you are. Maybe it’ll teach you something. And it’s going to be a piece that will be noticed.”
“Which is precisely why I can’t do it.” She was suddenly firm again, but for a little while she had wavered. Simpson still had hope.
“Oh? Obscurity is now something you desire?”
“Not obscurity, discretion. Anonymity. Peace of mind. None of this is new to you. We’ve gone over it before.”
“In theory. Not in practice. And right now you have a chance to do an article that would not only interest you, but would be an extremely good opportunity for you professionally, Kezia. I can’t let you pass that up. Not without telling you why I think you ought to do it, in any case. I think you’d be a fool not to.”
“And a bigger fool yet if I did it. I can’t. I have too much at stake. How could I even interview him without causing a certain ‘furor’ myself, as you call it. From what you’re telling me, he’s not a man who passes unnoticed. And just how long do you think it would take for someone else to notice me? Or Johns himself, for that matter. He’d probably know who I am.” She shook her head with certainty now.
“He’s not that sort of man, Kezia. He doesn’t give a damn about the social register, the debutante cotillions or anything else that happens in your world. He’s too busy in his own. I’d be willing to bet he’s never even heard your name. He’s from California, he bases himself in the Midwest now, he’s probably never been to Europe, and you can be damn sure that he doesn’t read the social pages.”
“You can’t be sure of that.”
“I’d almost sw
ear to it. I can sense what he is, and I already know what he cares about. Exclusively. He’s a rebel, Kezia. A self-educated, intelligent, totally devoted rebel. Not a playboy. For God’s sake, girl, be sensible. This is your career you’re playing with. He’s giving a speech in Chicago next week, and you could cover that easily, and quietly. An interview with him in his offices the next day, and that’s it. No one at the speech will know you, and I’m certain that he won’t. There’s no reason at all why K. S. Miller won’t cover you adequately. And that’s all he’ll know or care about. He’ll be much more interested in the kind of coverage you’re giving him than in what you do with your private life. That’s just not the sort of thing he thinks about.”
“Is he a homosexual?”
“Possibly, I don’t know. I don’t know what a man does during six years in prison. Nor does it matter. The point is what he stands for, and how he stands for it. That’s the crux here. And if I thought, even for a moment, that writing this piece would cause you embarrassment, I wouldn’t suggest it. You should know that by now. All I can tell you is that I am emphatically sure that he won’t have the faintest idea about, or interest in, your private life.”
“But there’s no way you can be sure of that. What if he’s an adventurer, a sharp con man, who picks up on who I am, and figures out some angle where that could be useful to him? He could turn right around and have me all over the papers just for interviewing him.”
Simpson began to look impatient. He stubbed out the cigar.
“Look, you’ve written about events, places, political happenings, psychological profiles. You’ve done some excellent work, but you’ve never done a piece like this. I think you could do it. And do it well. And I think you should. It’s a major opportunity for you, Kezia. And the point is: are you a writer or not?”
“Obviously. But it just seems terribly unwise to me. Like a breach of my personal rules. I’ve had peace for seven years because I’ve been totally, utterly, and thoroughly careful. If I start doing interviews now, and if I do this one … there will be others, and … no. I just can’t.”
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