The Wedding

by Danielle Steel

  “What makes you think I'm such a serious lawyer?” she asked, laughing again. They didn't even know each other's names, but that seemed relatively unimportant. She liked talking to him, and playing his game about what she did, and who she was. “Do I look that intense?” she asked, curious as to how he would answer, and he considered her for a moment, tilting his head as he looked her over, and then he shook his head. And she couldn't help noticing that he had a great smile. He was very handsome.

  “I was wrong.” He corrected himself thoughtfully. “You're a serious person, but you're not in a serious branch of law. How's that for an odd combination? Maybe you only represent prizefighters or skiers. Am I right?” He was teasing her and she laughed.

  “Why did you decide that I'm not in corporate or antitrust?”

  “You're not boring. You're serious and conscientious, but there's a lot of laughter in your eyes. Antitrust guys never laugh. So, was I right? Are you in sports law? … Oh, Jesus, don't tell me it's P.I. or malpractice. I'd hate to think of you doing work like that.” He winced as he set his empty glass down, and she grinned at him. It had been fun for a while, and she felt surprisingly at ease with him as she looked him in the eye.

  “I'm in entertainment law, in Los Angeles. I came here to talk to Mr. Weissman about one of his clients, and see some of our other contacts here. I represent people in show business generally, writers, producers, directors, actors.”

  “Interesting, very interesting,” he said, looking her over again, as though trying to decide if the information all fit together. “And you're from L.A.?” He looked as though he was surprised when she said she was.

  “All my life, except for seven years at Yale.”

  “I went to a rival school,” he said, and she held up a hand.

  “Wait. It's my turn now. This one's easy. You went to Harvard. You're from the East, probably from New York, or”—she squinted as she looked at him—” maybe Connecticut or Boston. And you went to boarding school … let's see, Exeter, or St. Paul's.” He was laughing at the profile she was describing, ultraconservative, ultrapredictable, totally upper-crust New York. He wasn't sure if the dark suit had done it, or the Hermes tie, or maybe a recent haircut.

  “You're close. I am from New York. I went to Andover. And I did go to Harvard. I taught at Stanford for a year, and now I'm—” She interrupted him and held up her hand again, as she looked him over. He didn't look like a professor, unless he taught in the business school, but he seemed too young and good-looking for that. If she'd been in L.A., she would have thought he was an actor, but he also looked too intelligent and not self-centered enough to be an actor.

  “It's my turn again,” she reminded him. “You've already told me too much. You probably teach literature at Columbia. But to be honest, I thought you were a banker when we first met.” He looked very Wall Street, and very respectable, except for the mischief in his eyes.

  “It's the suit.” He smiled, looking a little like her brother. He was almost as tall, and in an odd way, he reminded her of her father too. There was something familiar about his smile. “I bought the suit to please my mother. She said I needed something respectable to wear if I was going to come back to New York.”

  “Have you been away?” she asked. He still hadn't told her if he was a banker or a professor, and they were both enjoying the sparring, as the crowd finally began to thin out. There had been almost two hundred people milling around the Weissmans' elegant apartment, and it seemed almost empty now with roughly half that.

  “I've been away for six months, working somewhere else,” he gave her a clue. “I hate to tell you where.” He was highly amused by the things they had said about each other, and she was still trying to figure where he had been, and what he'd been doing.

  “You've been teaching in Europe?” He shook his head. “Teaching anywhere?” She was looking puzzled now. Maybe the suit had misled her. When she looked at his eyes, she could see that he had imagination, and he obviously liked assembling facts.

  “No teaching in a long time. But you're not far off. Shall I tell you?”

  “I guess so. I give up. It's all your mother's fault. I think the suit confused me,” she said lightheartedly, and they both laughed.

  “I can see why. It confuses me too. When I looked in the mirror tonight, I had no idea who I was. Actually, I'm a writer—you know, torn running shoes, English carpet slippers, old bathrobes, faded jeans, and Harvard sweatshirts with holes everywhere.”

  “I figured you were that type.” He looked great in the suit though, and she suspected that there was more in his wardrobe than torn sweatshirts. He was a terrific-looking guy, and she guessed him to be about thirty-five. He was actually thirty-four, and had sold his first book to the movies the year before. His second book had just come out, and was getting splendid reviews, and selling very well, actually much to his surprise. It was very literary, but it had been something he felt he had to write. Andreas Weissman had been trying to convince him that his real talent lay in commercial fiction, and he was about to begin writing his third book, and trying to broaden his horizons.

  “So where have you been for six months? Writing on a beach in the Bahamas somewhere?” It seemed very romantic to her, and all he could do was laugh at the suggestion.

  “A beach, but not the Bahamas. I've been living in Los Angeles for six months, in Malibu, adapting my first book for a movie. I was crazy enough to agree to write the screenplay and coproduce it, something I probably wouldn't do again, though I'm sure no one will ever ask me. A friend of mine from Harvard is producing it with me, and directing.”

  “Did you just move back?” It seemed so odd that he should be here, and they should meet, after he'd been in L.A. for six months. It was strange that among all the people there that night they had singled each other out. Both of them freshly arrived from California, drawn to each other like magnets.

  “I'm here for a week,” he explained, “to see my agent. I have an idea for a third book, and if I ever finish this damn screenplay I'm working on, I'm going to lock myself up for a year and write it. I've already had an offer to do a screenplay on the second one, but I'm not even sure I want to do it. I'm not sure if I'm cut out for Hollywood, or the film business. I've been trying to decide if I just want to come back to New York and stick to writing books from now on, and forget the movies. I haven't made up my mind yet. For the moment, my life is a little schizophrenic.”

  “There's no reason why you can't do both. You don't even have to write the screenplays yourself if you don't want to. Sell the books, and let someone else do that, it would give you more time to write your novel.” She felt as though she were advising one of her clients, and he smiled at the serious look in her eyes.

  “And if they butcher the book?” he asked, looking worried, and as she saw the expression in his eyes, she had to laugh.

  “Spoken just like a writer. The agonies of giving your baby up to strangers. I can't guarantee you it's without problems, but sometimes it's less stressful than writing the screenplay yourself, not to mention coproducing.”

  “I can believe that. Walking on nails is less stressful. The people out there drive me crazy. They have no regard whatsoever for the writing. All they care about are the cast, and maybe the director. The script means absolutely nothing to them. As far as they're concerned, it's just words. They cheat, they lie, they tell you anything that suits them just to get what they want. I think I'm getting used to it now, God forbid. But at first they really drove me nuts.”

  “It sounds like you need a good attorney in L.A., or maybe a local agent to give you a hand. You should have Andreas refer you to someone at CAA,” she said practically, as he smiled and held out a hand to her.

  “Maybe I should call you,” he said, finding the idea very appealing. “I haven't even introduced myself. Here I am, complaining at you, I'm really sorry. I'm Jeff Hamilton.” She met his eyes and smiled, as they stood very close to each other in the thinning crowd at the Weis
smans' party. She recognized his name as soon as he said it.

  “I read your first book. I liked it very much.” It had been quite serious, and at times very funny. But it had made an impression on her, and she'd remembered it, which said something. “I'm Allegra Steinberg,” she supplied.

  “No relation to the producer, I assume,” he said casually, still amused by the game they'd been playing, and the fact that they both lived in L.A. But she corrected him quickly. She was proud of her family, although she never rested on their laurels.

  “Simon Steinberg is my father,” she said calmly.

  “He passed on my first book, but I liked him a lot. He spent a whole afternoon in his office telling me what was wrong with it as a screenplay. And the funny thing was that I realized he was right. Eventually I made a lot of the changes he suggested. I've always wanted to call and thank him, but somehow I never got the chance.”

  “He's very smart about a lot of things,” she smiled. “He's given me some pretty good advice over the years.”

  “I can imagine that.” He could imagine a lot of things, but one of them was seeing her again after that night. She was starting to look around by then; she realized that another several dozen guests had left while she and Jeff were talking. “I guess I'd better go,” she said regretfully. It was long after nine o'clock, which was supposed to be the end of the party.

  “Where are you staying?” he asked, anxious not to let her slip away. There was something very unusual about her, and he had to resist an urge to reach out and touch her.

  “I'm at the Regency. What about you?”

  “I'm spoiled. I'm staying at my mother's apartment here in town. She's away on a cruise until February. It's quiet, but very convenient. It's just a few blocks from here.” He followed her casually to the foyer, along with half a dozen other guests. She claimed her heavy coat again, and he took his off a rack, with a long wool scarf. “Can I give you a lift somewhere?” he asked hopefully, after they thanked Mrs. Weissman for the party. Andreas was upstairs, deep in conversation with two young authors, looking as though he didn't want to be disturbed, so they left him, and went back downstairs.

  “I'm just going back to the hotel,” she said as they got in the elevator and started down. “I'll take a cab.” They crossed the lobby side by side, feeling comfortable together. He held the door for her, followed her out, and then gently took her arm. It was snowing again outside and the ground was very slippery.

  “Would you like to go for a drink someplace? A hamburger maybe? It's early, and I'd love to talk to you for a while. I hate meeting someone like this, getting all excited about them, and then suddenly they're gone. It seems so futile somehow. All that energy and excitement for nothing.” He looked at her hopefully, and he seemed very young. But there was something about her that fascinated him. He had no idea what it was, but she felt drawn to him as well. They both lived in Los Angeles; they were in related fields; they seemed to have a lot in common. But whatever it was, he didn't want to leave her yet, and she had no desire to go back to the hotel. It would have seemed so lonely after talking to him. And now they stood outside, watching the snow, her hand tucked in his arm.

  “I've got some contracts with me I ought to read,” she said unenthusiastically. They had faxed her a whole bunch of them that afternoon for Malachi O'Donovan's next tour. But she could always do them later. This seemed so much more important. It was as though she and Jeff Hamilton still had things to find out about each other, a story to tell, a mission to accomplish. “Actually, I'd love something to eat. The hamburger you mentioned sounds fine.”

  He looked pleased, and hailed a cab. They got one instantly, and he gave the driver the address of Elaine's. While he had been living in New York and writing his first book, he had often gone there. And whenever he was back now, he liked to stop by, in memory of old times.

  “I was afraid you wouldn't want to go out,” he admitted to her, looking handsome and boyish, his eyes bright, and with snowflakes in his hair. Going out with her meant a lot to him. He wanted to know more about her, her job, her life, the father he had met months before. He wondered why their paths had never crossed in L.A. It was as though they had had to come here to meet each other, and he was very glad they had, like two planets, finally colliding.

  “I don't go out very often,” she explained when he said as much to her. “I work all the time. My clients expect a lot from me.” Too much, according to Brandon, who hated the extent of the service she gave them. But it was part of her, part of who she was, and she liked it.

  “I never go anywhere,” he mused as they headed east in the cab. “Most of the time, I write at night. I like living in Malibu. Sometimes I walk on the beach late at night. It clears the head. Where do you live?” He was curious about her, and he hoped to see more of her, even before they left New York.

  “I live in Beverly Hills. I have a funny little house I bought when I came back from Yale. It's small, but it's perfect for me. It's got a great view, and a Japanese garden that's mostly rocks, so I can't kill anything. And when I have to, I just lock the door and leave.” She smiled at him. “Like now.”

  “Do you travel much?” he asked, and she shook her head.

  “I try to be there as much as I can for my clients. Except when I need to be with them somewhere else. Two of my current clients are musicians. Sometimes I meet them on their concert tours here and there for a day or two. But mostly I'm in L.A.” She had already promised Bram Morrison that she would try to fly in to see him on his tour. And if Mai O'Donovan wanted her to, she'd do it for him as well. They were both long, arduous tours, and she'd be traveling halfway around the world to hold their hands from Bangkok to the Philippines to Paris.

  “Would I know any of them?” he asked, intrigued again. She spoke of them as though they were sacred people she had vowed to protect from harm, and in some ways, she had.

  “Some.”

  “Are you allowed to say who they are?” he asked, as he paid the fare and they walked into Elaine's. It was crowded and loud, but the maitre d' recognized him immediately and signaled that they'd have a table for him in a few minutes. “So who are these clients you're so devoted to?” The way he said it made her feel as though he understood how she felt about them. And that didn't surprise him about her. It was a far cry from Brandon taking her to task for every spare moment she gave her clients.

  “You probably know most of them, and quite a few of them are pretty open about who their lawyers are. I can tell you those. Bram Morrison, and Malachi O'Donovan is a client now. Carmen Connors, Alan Carr off and on. To name a few.” She was proud of them, like a mother hen, and as Jeff watched her, he understood something about her, and about how loyal and protective she was, and he admired that part too.

  “Are you saying that they are represented by your firm, or those are personally some of your clients?” The names seemed too important for someone as young as she was. She looked about twenty-five. But she laughed at his question, and he realized that he loved it when she laughed.

  “No, those are my clients, specifically,” she explained. “There are others too, of course, but I'm not free to disclose those names. I think Bram would tell anyone who his doctor was, and Mai is pretty free about it as well. And Carmen tells the newspapers who represents her all the time.” She looked very matter-of-fact as she mentioned their names. They were the people who filled her life.

  “My God, that's quite a group, Allegra. You should be very proud of yourself,” he said admiringly. “How long have you been with the firm?” Maybe she was a lot older than she looked, he mused, but she laughed, reading his mind.

  “Four years. I'm twenty-nine. Thirty pretty soon, much too soon for me,” she complained, and he smiled at her.

  “I'm thirty-four, and you make me feel like I've been asleep for the last ten years. That's quite a load you're juggling, and they can't be easy people to represent.”

  “Some of them are,” she said, always anxious to be fair. �
��And don't be ridiculous, you've written two books and you're about to start a third, and you're writing a screenplay, and coproducing a movie. What have I done? Nothing but represent a bunch of talented people, people like you. I write their contracts, I negotiate for them, I do their trusts and wills. I protect them whenever I get the chance. I suppose that's creative in a way, but let's be honest here, nothing like what you do. So don't feel sorry for yourself,” she chided him. The truth was they were both accomplished people and they both loved what they did.

  “Maybe I need your services,” he said thoughtfully, thinking of his last conversation with Andreas Weissman only that morning. “If I'm going to sell another book to Hollywood, I should have an entertainment lawyer look at the contracts, at least.”

  “What did you do last time?” she inquired, curious about what Weissman did for him.

  “Andreas handled it all from here. It was pretty straightforward, and I can't say I got screwed. The deal was for me to get a fixed amount to write the screenplay, and I'll get a percentage of the gross, if the movie makes it. Since I'm producing it with a friend, I didn't want to get too aggressive. I did it more for the experience than the money. I seem to make that mistake a lot,” he grinned, but he didn't look as though he was starving. The suit he was wearing was expensive. “If I do this again,” he went on, “I want to get more out of it economically, and give up a lot less of my life to do it.”

  “I'd be happy to look at the contracts for you anytime.” She smiled, and he looked as though he liked that idea. A lot, actually.

  “I'd like that very much.” Jeff smiled at her, wondering why Andreas had never mentioned her, or offered to introduce them. In fact, it had never occurred to Andreas that his protégé, his young star writer, would take a shine to the beautiful blond attorney from L.A.