by Jean Stone
Kris lay her hand on her flat, taut stomach. “I can’t believe this is going to happen.” She also couldn’t believe that for all her usual wordiness, she could not think of anything more intelligent to say.
Young Doctor Kildare smiled again. “Get dressed. My assistant will schedule your tests.”
“Thank you, doctor. Thank you.”
He nodded and left the room. Kris remained on the table for several moments, thinking about how this would change her life and about how without Abigail and Maddie she would never have had the courage to face her true self.
If it hadn’t been for Kris, Maddie would have turned around and flown back to New York. But because of her big mouth, because of her lie, she was forced into spending at least one day in L.A. pretending she had something important to accomplish, pretending she was too busy on her “scouting expedition” to go to the doctor’s with Kris.
Parker had not been on the plane yesterday.
Whether Bobby had been wrong about his father’s schedule, or Parker had simply changed his mind, Maddie had no idea. She only knew she’d scanned every seat from first class to coach, and her ex-husband was nowhere to be seen.
Of course, she had wanted to cry. She had wanted to tell Kris the truth. But Maddie had been too embarrassed and knew there was no way Kris would understand. It was bad enough that Maddie was chasing a man, Kris would think, let alone that she’d paid for this out of her own pocket with money she could ill afford to blow.
So instead of crying she’d gone to L.A., spent half a day shopping on Rodeo Drive, let Kris buy her an overpriced dinner at Morton’s, and acted as if she couldn’t wait to get up in the morning and begin her scouting expedition, whatever that was.
Now Maddie sat on a concrete bench outside United Artists—her third studio tour of the day—and rubbed her feet. The low heels that Abigail insisted must be worn with pants were about to cut off her circulation. She’d give anything for a long cotton skirt and her comfortable, broken-in sneakers. She’d give anything to scrub the Red Door makeup from her face; she’d give anything to be home.
Home. Where Sophie would cook her a warm, comforting dinner; where the boys would distract her by relating the adventures of their day.
When Parker had been with her, meals had been different. “Let’s do Japanese tonight,” he said when sushi first came into New York vogue. “The boys need some international exposure beyond pizza.”
It hadn’t mattered that Bobby and Timmy were only five years old; spontaneity and adventure were Parker’s way, and Maddie never failed to love it.
“He brings out the spirit in you,” Sophie had said, long before the divorce.
And Maddie knew it was true, for when she was with Parker everything had been fun. Everything had been magical. And so very right.
But Parker wasn’t here now and L.A. wasn’t home. She lowered her eyes, checked her watch, and realized it was still too early to trudge back to the bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel.
Then she pulled a brochure from her camera bag and decided she might as well take a bus tour to the Homes of the Stars. If nothing else, she’d be so tired that Kris might believe she’d been working her tail off all day.
Later that evening Maddie unlocked the door of the bungalow, tossed down her things, and realized this would be the time she’d ordinarily stuff down half a bag of cookies. But thanks to Abigail—and the merciless, fitness-freak Andrew—the only thing she wanted now was a San Pellegrino. With lime. She wished her need for Parker could be eliminated as easily as her cravings for chocolate chip cookies.
Kris, however, skipped in from the adjoining room and greeted her with a bottle of champagne. “A toast,” she cried, “to the rest of our lives.”
“Toast it yourself,” Maddie said, heading for the closet that held her luggage. “I’m going home.” Lies or no lies, she hated not knowing which continent Parker was on; it made her feel empty and off balance and very, very alone.
“You can’t go home yet,” Kris said, following close behind. “Don’t you want to hear what happened today?”
“I know that I got some great research shots. I know that I’ve had enough of L.A.” She pulled out the empty suitcase. “And yes, of course, I want to hear how you made out. You can tell me while I pack.”
Kris reached out. “Please don’t go Maddie. Not yet. I need you here. I’m going to have a baby.”
Maddie laughed. “You don’t need me for that, Kris. Besides, I thought you were used to doing things alone.” She stuffed yesterday’s Rodeo Drive purchases into the open bag, then caught the look on Kris’s face. Her dark eyes seemed clouded, her brow seemed shrouded with fear. It was something Maddie had never seen before, at least not on her friend. It was, she knew from her own experience, a look of …
Need?
Kris Kensington?
She suddenly remembered she’d seen the same look on Abigail’s face. First Abigail, now Kris. As though needing someone was a contagious, almost-fifty disease to which even the strongest were apparently susceptible.
“Do you mean it?” Maddie asked, trying to show that she really did care. “They’re going to do it?”
Sinking down onto the bed, Kris nodded. She raised the bottle and pointed to the label. “I figured this would be my last chance at champagne. You know how they are today about alcohol and pregnant women.”
Maddie stopped packing. “Kris, this is wonderful. I’m so happy for you.”
“Well, it’s not a done deal yet. They have some tests to do first. Shit. I hope they’re not psychological tests.”
Plucking her spray gel (Vincenté’s own private label) and round styling brush from the bureau, Maddie dropped them into her bag. “They’ll probably want to make sure you’re old enough to know what you’re doing.”
Kris laughed.
“But what about the father, Kris? Do you … do you get to pick?”
“Pick? You mean like will he be black or white?”
“Well … I didn’t think of that …”
“Of course you did, Maddie. The truth is, I’m not sure. Race has never been a big issue with me. But chances are a kid who is three-quarters white will probably have a better shot at success than one who is three-quarters black. Or maybe not. Who knows.”
“You’re a celebrity, Kris. I shouldn’t think it would matter.” She wanted to add that things rarely mattered for people who were pretty and rich and had been all their lives and would never have to worry about being anything but. Instead Maddie reminded herself that she was entitled to a life, too, entitled to stop being Maddie the martyr as Kris had called her. And she was going to begin by not changing her mind about finding Parker simply because Kris looked needy. If anyone could handle this, Kris Kensington could.
“The truth is, I’ve only ever wanted to be happy,” Kris said. “I’d like my kid to be happy, too.”
Happy. Maddie stared into the suitcase. That was what she wanted, too. And there was only one way she was going to get it. She pulled open the drawer and scooped out her underwear and her nightgown.
“Please stay, Maddie,” Kris asked quietly. “Abigail was right. Today, for the first time, I realized what a huge decision this is for me.” Then she smirked. “Besides, I’ve never had sex without being kissed.”
“You’ll be fine.”
“But we could shop some more. The clothes here are so much more hip than in New York.”
“I can’t, Kris. I have to get to my studio and get the shots developed. I’m on a deadline.” Deadline might be a word Kris could relate to. And believe. She walked to the phone. “I’m going to try and catch the red-eye.”
Kris stood up. “I thought we were in this together.”
“We are, Kris. But I have to get back …”
“To your studio? Or to your ex-husband?”
Maddie asked the operator to connect her to TWA. Then she turned back to Kris. “You think I’m a fool, don’t you? For wanting him back?”
Kris
flicked her eyes. “Not necessarily a fool. I simply don’t understand why anyone would let their life revolve around a man. Especially at your age.”
“And I don’t understand why anyone almost fifty would want to have a baby. But I’m not judging you, Kris. Those were the rules.”
“Well,” Kris said as she grabbed her bottle and stomped from the room, “you’re not exactly supporting me, either.”
“Kris … I’m sorry,” Maddie called after her, but then TWA came on the line and her attention was diverted. Yes, she could get a seat on Flight 702 if she could reach LAX by nine o’clock. She reserved the space and gave her credit card information. She got her way; she was going home.
But when Maddie hung up she felt like a shit for letting Kris down. Still … there was Parker to find. And whoever would have thought Kris would want or need anyone?
God, she thought, brushing back the Warm Autumn Haze bangs from her forehead, why do people have to change?
Abigail sat in the library thumbing through the atlas. It was nearly two o’clock in the morning, but she’d been unable to sleep. Edmund had left this morning for Lima, where some Peruvian collector supposedly had a few choice Gauguins. So Abigail was alone again, alone to lay out the blueprint of her future.
After her decision last night, there was only one more detail to plan. She knew how she would survive financially, at least for a little while. She knew how she would fake her death.
All she needed now was to figure out where to go.
Madrid might be fun—she’d always loved the Spanish language and used to speak it fluently, long before being bilingual was trendy, long before she had more to do than take frivolous lessons between aerobics classes and try to be a trophy wife for a man who hadn’t wanted that.
She turned to the map of the United States. Should she remain in this country? Would she be happier on more familiar turf?
Suddenly the phone rang. Abigail jumped, slapping the atlas closed. Who on earth would be calling this late at night? She sprang for the phone before it could wake up Louisa.
Was there trouble?
Had Edmund’s plane crashed?
Did Sondra have a miscarriage?
Her thoughts whirled as her heart thumped wildly. “Yes?” she cried into the receiver.
“Abigail?” the voice asked. “It’s me, Kris. Christ, you sound awful.”
She slumped back into the gilded chair. “You scared me half to death. It’s almost two in the morning.”
“Oh. Sorry. I needed to talk.”
“Talk to me as long as it’s to tell me you’re coming home. I’ve got most of the details of my plan worked out …”
“I won’t be back for at least another week. Maybe two.”
Abigail stopped. She stared into the phone. “Two weeks? This is a joke, right?”
“No joke, girl. They’re going to shoot me up with some lucky guy’s sperm next week. I might be singing lullabies after all.”
An ache of disappointment crept through Abigail. “Oh, Kris. That’s wonderful.” She hoped her voice sounded sincere.
“Yeah. I guess out here they don’t care how old you are. I only hope it works. The doctor said it might take a few tries.”
“A few tries? Do you have to stay out there the whole time?”
There was silence. “I forgot to ask. I’m so used to doing everything alone. Hey, that reminds me, Maddie’s on her way home.”
Abigail groaned. Somehow she sensed that Maddie wouldn’t be much help. Maddie was too soft, too afraid of taking risks. Besides, she wasn’t streetwise. No, Kris was definitely the one Abigail needed. Kris, who wouldn’t try to talk her out of it; Kris, who would help her devise the foolproof plan. “I’m tired of trying to transform Maddie. Between you and me, I don’t think it’s going to work.”
“It won’t if she doesn’t relax. She kind of pissed me off anyway. I asked her to stay. She wouldn’t.”
“Maybe we should forget about her …” Abigail started to say, then realized that the last thing she needed was to alienate Maddie. Maddie, after all, knew Abigail’s wish. Alienating her might cause problems later. A flash of Enquirer headlines—the real story, as told by Abigail Hardy’s friend—raced through her mind. She closed her eyes and felt the familiar feeling of once again being trapped.
“I don’t think she’s too thrilled at what I’m doing,” Kris continued.
Abigail opened her eyes and sighed to herself. “I think she’s probably jealous. She looks at you and thinks you have it all already.”
“Me? I thought what mattered to her was a man. I certainly don’t have one of those.”
“Not true. You have as many of those as you want. Whenever you want. I think Maddie’s always envied that. Ever since we were kids.”
“Whatever. I only know I’m excited. And a little bit scared. And if you ever tell anyone that, I’ll kill you.”
“You don’t have to kill me. I’m going to do that myself, remember?” Her eyes quickly roamed the library, as though someone might be listening. No one was there. “I know how I’m going to do it, Kris.”
“How?”
“Well talk when you get back. In the meantime, keep me posted. And think of a decent place for me to live. The damn atlas is no help at all.”
“Seattle might be a great place for an initial test market,” Larry said as they sat with the executive board of Rupert’s Department Stores. “We’ve only been syndicated there for a short time, and it would help boost Abigail’s visibility.”
Abigail squiggled a note across her pad. Seattle. She studied the word, then carefully outlined each letter. Seattle, she thought. The opposite coast. Another world. A place where she was not yet an everyday, every-household name.
“Abigail?” Fran Whiting asked.
She stopped doodling and looked up at Rupert’s national vice president of sales. “I don’t know,” she responded. “Whatever.”
Two board members—men—stopped cleaning their fingernails. One woman stopped playing with her hair. A collective sigh of exasperation breezed through the room. After all, they had already agreed to ten million dollars, not five. They had agreed to all the points Larry had requested. Yet Abigail stalwartly refused to say yes.
“Do you like the designs?” Fran asked.
Leaning across the conference table, Abigail peered at the prototypes of dinnerware, complete with coordinating utensils, canisters, teapots, and cookware. Matching fabrics for curtains, wallpaper borders, table linens, and pot holders were depicted on large layout pads.
Everything, of course, was designed using her trademark ivories and beiges lightly accented with gold—the barest of the neutral zone, created to make the food presentation and the floral centerpieces the heroes. Or heroines, depending on one’s point of view.
The designs were quite extraordinary, but Abigail knew that once she gave final approval, negotiations would accelerate.
She knew she was stringing them along. As for Rupert’s, she didn’t much care. But she hated being unfair to Larry, though in the end he would silently thank her for not complicating matters with a future that did not exist.
“I’ll have to think about it,” she said, then rose from her chair.
Larry stood as well. The Rupert executives followed.
Melvin Archer, the board president, adjusted his French cuffs. “We don’t want to push you, Abigail,” he said with the gravelly voice of a man on the edge of retirement, a man who had smoked too many cigarettes and had spent too many decades in the chaos of retail. “But, as I’m sure you’re aware, time is marching on. We’d like to have the Abigail line ready to break in the spring.”
She nodded. “I’ll have an answer for you by Thanksgiving.” She did not add that by Thanksgiving, hopefully, she would be gone.
Slinging the strap of her briefcase over one shoulder, Abigail kept her eyes on the door, unable to look at the faces of frustration. “Box up a couple of those samples and send them to my office. We’ll b
e in touch.”
With Larry following close on her tan Bali heels, Abigail marched from the boardroom, knowing she had clearly irritated them all.
It wasn’t until they were safely on the elevator, the door closed behind them, alone in the car, that Larry spoke.
“Abigail, are you okay?”
“Of course.”
“The designs are superb.”
“I know.”
“They’re doing more than they promised.”
“I know.”
“Even the ten million …” He clipped his words. “So what’s the problem?”
“Problem? No problem. I just want to be certain that Rupert’s is the best outlet for us. We do have others with a financial stake in the business.”
The “others,” of course, did not really matter. Abigail held 40 percent of Hardy Enterprises; Larry, 15. Ten percent was Sondra’s; the rest was divided in 5 percent blocks among various investors, all of whom Abigail had chosen, all of whom were grateful for the hundreds of thousands she’d earned for them and consequently never challenged her executive decisions.
Edmund owned no stock, as he had requested. Another wedge of male independence that had helped widen the gap in their bed.
The elevator stopped; the doors opened. As they stepped into the slate atrium of the Rupert Building, Abigail tried to act as if nothing had happened, as if she weren’t aware that Larry was upset. As if she didn’t know he had a perfect right to be.
Kris needed help. She sat in the lounge of the doctor’s office—the reference room, the perky blonde nurse had called it—and scanned the pages of potential fathers for her child, if one could trust anything they’d said.
Black. White. Christian. Jew.
Six-two. Five-ten. Five-ten. Five-ten.
Some college. Some not.
Investment banker. Iron worker. Stunt man. Songwriter.
“Doctor, lawyer, Indian chief,” she grumbled and slammed down the book, convinced that the five-tens were probably more like five-six in boots, that the “some college” probably meant they lived near a campus. She’d have a better chance at getting who she wanted by parking herself at the nearest bar and waiting for Mr. Right to saunter in. At least his lies couldn’t be much worse than the ones these guys had put on their bios before they’d jerked off into a jar.