by J. P. Lane
“Thank you for the invitation, but I have no time to come to New York. I just got back from London,” she said icily.
Too late, Lauren realized she had made a fatal slip, but regret did not subdue her anger.
Still consumed by outrage, she failed to notice Logan had gone quiet and when she finally did notice, she mistook his silence as a natural response to her cool reception to his invitation. Thousands of miles from him, she could not see the look on his face, could not read the rapid processing of his thoughts as he instantly put two and two together. What she had no way of knowing was he had immediately connected her to Margaret by way of something as obscure as their strong resemblance to each other. Neither could she have guessed her revelation had triggered a recent memory of his, the memory of a clandestine meeting at the Ministry of Finance and Margaret Thomas’ clumsy effort to protect the identity of the London courier. He had not bought the minister’s line about not remembering the person’s name, but he had chosen not to pursue the matter. It was a minor and relatively unimportant detail at the time. But it had suddenly ceased to be a minor and unimportant detail.
Logan’s analytical mind shifted into high gear. Where did he go with this now he had good reason to believe Lauren was the courier? Did he approach Margaret Thomas about the matter? But there was no point at this stage. The plan would be implemented in a matter of less than two weeks. Besides any hint Lauren had leaked information would put her in bad standing. But, he reasoned, was it fair to consider that a leak? Lauren couldn’t possibly know of his involvement in the plan. Therefore she would have no reason to think mention of her trip would be of any particular significance to him. The truth was Lauren had not told him the reason for her London trip. But he was now curious to know when she was there.
“I don’t mean to pry, but when were you in London?”
“Not too long ago,” she answered breathing an inner sigh of relief. He obviously didn’t know it was she who had delivered the package. He wouldn’t have asked if he knew. But she had been careless. She had divulged too much in the little she had said. She had to be more careful.
Logan was tempted to try and find out more, but he knew backing out of the weekend as fast as possible took precedence over anything else. Lauren had made that easy enough by declining his invitation.
“Well, I’m sorry you’re too busy to make it to New York,” he said, hoping he sounded sincere.
There was nothing from the other end of the line.
“Are you still there?” he asked thinking they may have been disconnected.
“I’m sorry, yes I am. I’m just thinking,” she replied.
If he could have read her mind he would have known she was thinking what a tangled web she had found herself caught in. Here was a man who ignited something within her that had never been lit before. Here she was putting him off because of pride. And incongruously, here she was fearful he might discover it was she who had gone to London on a dubious mission for Margaret, when in essence it had been on his account as well. They were in it together, whatever it was. But what had the thing they were involved in got to do with her when all was said and done? She had her life to live after all. A door had opened with his call and it might never open again – not for New York, dinner, lunch, or anything else. Lauren came to a decision.
“When did you have in mind?” she asked.
“Have what in mind?” Logan asked perplexed by her question.
“When were you thinking of me coming to New York?”
Logan was completely thrown off guard. Not quite knowing how to handle her sudden and unexpected change of heart, he hedged.
“I’ll understand if you can’t tear yourself away from work. I know you’re busy. Are you sure you can make it?”
“I can probably get away this weekend.”
“You can?” he grimaced.
“But there’s something we need to be clear about.”
“What’s that?” he asked absently as he desperately tried to find a way out of the corner he found himself backed into.
What on earth would he do with her for an entire weekend? He couldn’t be mad enough to think of having any kind of relationship with her after what he’d just learned. She was much too close to home. And he thought too much of her to simply take her to bed and say goodbye. His feelings, though he wasn’t quite sure what they were, ran a tad deeper than a casual tryst. He could have that with anyone at any time.
Her voice cut through his quandary. “Casual trysts are not my thing,” she announced.
Logan was speechless. Then he laughed despite himself.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing, nothing,” he replied as his laughter subsided. “I have a comfortable guest room or two.”
There was no response.
“Or I could put you up in a hotel if you find such close proximity uncomfortable,” he suggested, certain her choice would be the hotel.
“That sounds perfect.”
“Which is perfect?” he asked uncertainly.
“Your guest room. I thought that was a given.”
Logan held his forehead in bewilderment. He had the distinct impression she didn’t want to be staying with him. Now their weekend appeared to be a fait accompli regardless of his efforts to back out of it. They said the woman was the boss. He was beginning to understand why. There was no point trying to out-maneuver a woman. It required a complete absence of logic to do that.
“Shall I make your reservations now then? Friday to Sunday sound good to you?” he asked with reluctant acceptance that his was a lost cause.
“That’s perfect,” Lauren said happily.
Logan toyed with a brass paperweight Bella had given him the Christmas before. He turned it this way and that absentmindedly. For the first time he noticed the inscription. You’re the boss.
THIRTY
He met her at JFK on that Friday afternoon feeling like a man about to face a firing squad. As she walked towards him wheeling nothing but a carry-on, he took her in: the glow of her brown skin, the mane of dark hair, the surprise of jeans. He had never seen her in jeans. He thought they looked rather good on her.
“Well, here I am,” she smiled shyly as she came up to him.
He made as if to give her a peck on the cheek and then remembering, caught himself.
“So you made it,” he said hesitantly. “Had a good trip?”
“Yes, it was good, thank you,” she replied searching his face.
“Good, good,” he muttered relieving her of her carry-on.
“Is this all your luggage?”
“Yes… Yes, I usually travel light.”
He hesitated awkwardly. “Well, the car’s waiting outside.”
It was fall Lauren suddenly remembered as she spotted the first leafless tree on the drive into Manhattan. With a flawless sky turning the afternoon golden, the weather stood out in sharp contrast to the dreary day she had spent in London. She had not been able to get that trip out of her mind during her flight to New York. She prayed Logan wouldn’t bring it up, though she suspected he had forgotten about it. He had made no further mention of it when they had last spoken. But that was not the only thing weighing heavily on Lauren’s mind while she gazed out the car window as the car drove through Queens. The conversation she had overheard at Margaret’s house was rearing its ugly head again.
He called from New York today then?
I agree it’s becoming too dangerous.
Does he happen to know about that suspicion surrounding his brother-in-law’s shipping company?
Lauren glanced at Logan furtively. She could not imagine that whatever he and Margaret were involved in was not above board. She had every faith in her aunt’s good character. Nevertheless, it took every bit of control she had to refrain from asking questions. What were they involved in? What necessitated such secrecy? What would make them take the kind of risk they took having someone deliver that check? Now she was actually in New York with Logan, it dawn
ed on her that being in close proximity to him for any length of time would be a nightmare. She did not know how much longer she could restrain herself from talking about it.
The car was making its way onto the Grand Central Parkway when Logan broke their uncomfortable silence. “That’s the old World’s Fair site over there,” he pointed.
“What year was that World’s Fair, 1965?” Lauren asked following his gaze.
Logan gave her an impressed look. “You’re right. 1964 to 1965. You’re a bit young to remember that. How did you pull those dates off the top of your head?”
“How about if I tell you fifty-one million people attended that World’s Fair?” Lauren grinned impishly.
“Good Lord. You’re a walking encyclopedia. Okay, let’s see if you can answer this one. Who was the first person inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame?”
Lauren thought for a minute. “Mmmm, there was more than one artist if I recall. Let me see. Elvis Presley, James Brown, Ray Charles, Buddy Holly, Jerry Lee Lewis…”
“Okay, okay, you win,” Logan laughed. “You’re something else.”
They were crossing the Triborough Bridge, and the skyline of Manhattan was now coming into view, when Lauren remarked, “The weather’s nice.”
“The weather’s been perfect. We should have a beautiful weekend,” Logan smiled.
Lauren gave him a quizzical look, but did not ask him to clarify whether his remark pertained to them personally, or simply the weather. Her stomach started to flutter and she turned and looked out her window again. Something was happening and it was happening too fast. She had vowed not to fall into his arms at the drop of a hat, but she had been in New York not half an hour and her resolve was already beginning to weaken. Sitting there in the car so near him, she found herself aching for him to reach out and hold her hand; fighting the impulse to take his. Though they did not touch, she could feel his presence as strongly as if their bodies were one. She wondered what he was thinking as he lapsed back into silence and looked straight ahead as if she wasn’t there.
Logan was going out of his mind by the time they turned onto East River Drive and made their way to midtown. He was not one for small talk, but the prolonged lack of conversation was not helping matters as he fought his growing urge to grab Lauren and kiss her, make love to her right then and there on the backseat. In an effort to distract himself from his almost uncontrollable desire for her, he clumsily grasped at the first thing that came to mind, “How’s the McGuire investigation going?”
Lauren’s face fell. “Why did you ask?”
He was saved not a minute too soon. The car was pulling up in front of a building with a porte-cochère, a uniformed doorman was coming over to them with recognition in his eyes, the driver was hopping out and opening their doors for them. “Here we are at last,” Logan exhaled with relief as he stumbled out of the car.
Logan’s apartment at the San Remo was not what Lauren would have expected. She had thought to find the same style of old mahogany furniture that furnished his cottage in the mountains. Her eyes swept with interest around the foyer, falling on a sleek console table, its only companion in the otherwise sparse room, a painting in the Cubic style hanging above it. Before she had a chance to examine the signature, they had entered the living room, which she noticed was also minimalist in the extreme. The few items of ultra modern furniture seemed to float in an expanse of white broken only by steel grey carpeting and a seating area floored in blond wood. On the far wall hung an enviable collection of paintings by a renowned island artist. Lauren turned to her right where a stretch of windows met her gaze. She walked over to them and looked down at Central Park shadowed by early evening.
Logan came and stood beside her.
“What an incredible view of Central Park,” she murmured in open admiration.
“Nothing like the view from the mountains back home.”
“You said back home. Isn’t this your home?” she asked curious about his statement.
Pensively he replied, “There are two types of homes – the one where you live, and the one where your heart resides. They’re not necessarily the same. It’s a fortunate man who lives where his heart is.”
“That sounds a bit maudlin.”
“It’s just the reality of modern life. We’ve become nomads, pitching our tents in one place or another for whatever reason, often separated from our loved ones by thousands of miles. Just as often separated by oceans. Sometimes I wonder if there’s any point to it.”
The last remnants of daylight were making way for evening. The city was being lit accordingly. Manhattan was, as always, spectacular. It was a great place to live if you lived well, or even reasonably well. But there was much truth in what Logan had just said, Lauren mused. It applied to so many people, so many families that had been ripped apart because of adverse political circumstances. She herself had relatives scattered all over the globe, some whom she hadn’t seen for years. She doubted they would ever return to the island, find the strength within themselves to undergo yet another major upheaval, because after living abroad for so long, it would be a major upheaval for them. A South African she dated when she was at university in London had once said he could never return to South Africa to live. “You can never go back,” he had told her. She wondered if Logan could.
“Do you think you might come back home to live when you retire?” she asked him.
“It’s not impossible. Come, let me show you to your room. I’ll fix us a drink while you get settled.”
He had a vodka tonic waiting for her when she returned to the living room.
“You are remarkable,” she smiled as he handed it to her.
“Why do you say that?”
“You remember what I drink. You only ever got me a drink once.”
“Call it selective memory,” he smiled faintly. He clinked his glass against hers. “Here’s to New York.”
“Here’s to New York,” she echoed uncertainly.
“So,” he asked, “Have you thought about what you might like to do while you’re here?”
Lauren hesitated. In her rush to get away, she hadn’t given it a thought.
“There are some decent shows on right now,” he suggested. “I have tickets to one, if you’re interested.”
Lauren wondered how to tell him she found theater boring for the most part. “Do you like the theater?” she asked cautiously.
“Not particularly.”
She gave him a quizzical glance. “Then why did you suggest it?”
“Just thought you might enjoy a good play.” What he omitted to say was he thought the less time they were alone, the better.
“Besides,” he added, “It’s not something you get to do every day. I live here. I can avoid the theater any time I like.”
“Since we’re being honest, I’m not fond of theater either. Let’s give that one a miss,” Lauren admitted with relief.
Well, that’s one potential moment of suffering off the list, Logan thought eyeing her. Curious to know if she also shared his dislike for opera he asked, “What about opera?”
Lauren’s eyes lit up. “I love opera! Are you taking me to the opera? Logan, you are wonderful!”
He thought about her featherweight carry-on.
“Did you bring something to wear to the opera?” he asked with dread.
He could not believe he was actually arriving at the confounded Metropolitan Opera House. Hadn’t he told his personal assistant to toss the invitation? Luckily Bella had done no such thing, though not so luckily now he thought about it dolefully. He would have been happy enough to oblige Lauren with a classical concert or something of that ilk if that was her heart’s desire, but La Traviata of all things? He detested opera! Worst of all, he had been forced into black tie for the occasion. What other unpalatable surprises did the woman have up her sleeve?
He glanced at her, she enthralled with the experience, stunning in a simple red floor length sheath that slid over her slim body. De
ciding that, if nothing else, made the experience marginally endurable, he took her arm and they entered the lobby.
“So, here we are at the Met,” he muttered straightening his bowtie.
“I can’t believe I’m actually here,” she gushed, rewarding him with a light peck on the cheek. “Thank you so much, Logan. You’re a darling! I can’t tell you how much I love La Traviata.”
THIRTY-ONE
A steaming cup of coffee froze midway to Lauren’s lips as Logan said, “There’s something we need to talk about.” His frown deepened as he flipped the omelet out of the pan onto a platter and placed it on the breakfast table declaring firmly, “I really don’t like opera.”
Confused, Lauren gaped at him. “Why did you take me to the opera if you didn’t want to go?” she asked shakily.
Logan shrugged dourly. “Put it down to a moment of weakness.”
Suddenly Lauren laughed. “You’re sweet, you know that?” she teased as relief that she had been spared an inquisition came spilling out. “A bit of a curmudgeon, but deep down you’re a real old softy.”
Logan sat and poured himself a cup of coffee. “Softy or not, there will be no more opera for this guy.”
“Okay, I won’t drag you off to the opera again if you hate it so much,” she promised. “And I won’t cajole you into taking me shopping either,” she added with a devilish look.
“That wasn’t as horrific as I feared it would be,” he admitted grudgingly as he served the omelet. “Little more than half an hour to choose a dress and a pair of shoes is a record. You’re fast. I’ll give you that much.”