"Don't get out," he told her, walking around to the other side of the car.
She only had a few seconds to puzzle over his actions when his intentions became clear. He was going to ride home in the front seat with her! "Mr. Stewart," she sputtered, "you can't… company policy doesn't allow—"
"What's this?" He held up the biology book he had found on the seat between them.
"Mr. Stewart… you're not supposed—" His gaze locked on her eyes, and she was transfixed, unable to break the contact.
When he spoke to her again, his voice lost all formality, becoming friendly instead, with a hint of intimacy. "I thought we decided to use first names the other night, Janet."
Her mouth dropped open. "You know? When did you… ?"
He reached over to tip her hat back on her head. "Almost from the beginning. Even us corporate-lawyer types are trained to be observant." He smiled. "But then your actions were a dead giveaway."
"Why didn't you say something before now?"
"Like?"
" 'Good evening, Ms Franklin,' would have been good for openers."
He twisted in the seat so that he faced her. "Somehow your behavior led me to believe you preferred to remain incognito."
Needing something physical to do to help her hide her embarrassment, she started the car and pulled out into the sparse late-evening traffic. They had gone less than a block by the time a smile was tugging at her mouth. "I was afraid of what you might do if you found out I was your driver."
"I have to admit I was a little nervous the first few miles," he teased gently. "But after it became obvious you knew how to handle this car, I settled right down. By the way, your newly acquired accent is charming," he added, holding the book he had found on the seat up to the light to read its title. "Doing double duty tonight?"
She decided to ignore the crack about the accent. "One of the main reasons I took this job was because of the amount of free time I have to study while I wait for customers. That, and the good pay."
"You said you're a sophomore?"
"Uh-huh."
"Whatever inspired you to start school—"
"So late in life?"
"I wouldn't exactly call—" He studied her face. "What are you, about twenty-seven, twenty-eight?"
"Twenty-seven."
"Though twenty-seven isn't late, I'm willing to bet you're a little older than most sophomores at Stanford."
She had a standard flip reply to Eric's implied question, but she decided he deserved better. He seemed genuinely interested. Uncharacteristically—she rarely revealed her inner self to people she hardly knew—she told him her story.
"I fell in love when I was still young enough to believe in fairy tales and 'they lived happily ever after' endings. Robert and I were married right out of high school. The plan was that I would get a job and would work full-time while Robert went to college. We had an understanding that as soon as he finished school, I would go. Well, I worked and he went to school and everything went along according to plan. Only when he received his bachelor's degree, he decided he really couldn't get anywhere in business without a master's, which would take two more years. By this time we couldn't make it on my income alone, so Robert got a part-time job. With both of us working and Robert going to school, it finally reached the point that we only saw each other a few hours each week." She shrugged.
"Finally he got his degree, and we had some free time to spend together. It took us less than two months to discover we had nothing in common anymore. After a little soul-searching, we decided it would be best if we went our separate ways."
"So now you're putting yourself through school?" The lawyer in him recoiled. It seemed grossly unfair that she had fulfilled her part of their bargain and Robert hadn't.
Janet flashed him a knowing smile. "Robert wanted to help, but I told him I'd rather do it on my own. That way, all the strings would be broken, and we could part friends. Besides, I didn't want to be a financial drain on him if he should happen to meet someone else someday."
Eric stared at her. What she had told him seemed almost suspiciously generous. "You're a… remarkable person."
"No, I'm not—just practical." She smiled. "You have to remember that at the time Robert and I separated, I had no idea I would be accepted at Stanford. If I had, I might have reconsidered his offer. When we were divorced, the budget I'd figured for myself was one third what it turned out I'd need." The last thing she wanted was to sound like Pitiful Pearl. "But then it all turned out okay after all. I qualified for grants and scholarships I hadn't counted on, so with a little careful planning, I get by."
They traveled awhile in companionable silence. "What are you studying?" Eric asked, breaking the silence.
She glanced at him, trying to judge what his reaction would be to her answer. She was sure her reply wouldn't make sense to him. Few people understood her thinking. Those who came the closest said she belonged in another decade, back with the flower children of the sixties or seventies. "I'm majoring in education. I want to teach high school in a ghetto."
He took a minute to absorb the information. "Why a ghetto?"
"No speech about wasting all that money going to Stanford when I could get my teaching credentials at a State University for a tenth the cost?"
"It never occurred to me."
Trying to decide if he were putting her on, she glanced over to see if she could read his expression. It had been a long time since she had shared her dream with anyone. It was tempting. "I believe a wasted mind is a tragedy, and that education is the road out of poverty."
"I see."
She had forgotten one of the main reasons she rarely spoke about her dream. Whenever she tried to put her feelings into words, she invariably came off sounding like the Florence Nightingale of the classroom—a combination of bland and nauseatingly sweet—mayonnaise on white bread, honey on sticky buns. "I want to make a difference in children's lives." Oh great! Now she sounded as if she was on a power play! It was useless. How could she hope to make someone who lived in the rarefied world of corporate law understand about teaching in ghettos?
"What inspired you to want to teach?"
She had reached his house. She pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine before answering him. "A lot of people have asked me that." Most of them with scarcely hidden incredulity, she might have added. "I keep meaning to come up with some dynamite story, something filled with inspiration and pathos that would really impress people, but I haven't gotten around to it yet."
"I'll settle for the truth."
She shrugged. "Frustration, I guess. The welfare cycle is one of those things that everyone talks about, but no one actually does anything about—kind of like the weather."
"I think it's an admirable—"
"Oh, please, don't," she groaned. "I'm neither admirable nor remarkable, just a little crazy and a whole lot stubborn."
"How about thirsty?"
"Pardon me?"
"Would you like to come in for a drink?"
It was on the tip of her tongue to say yes, but her sensible side reigned in her enthusiasm. She already liked him too much; adding fuel to the fire would be just plain dumb. "I really shouldn't They're expecting me back at the shop."
"I almost forgot." Of course she wouldn't want to stay. She had put in a long day and was undoubtedly anxious to get home.
As her last official duty of the night, Janet got out of the car and went around to open Eric's door. "I hope you'll think of Coachman the next time you have need for a limousine service," she said with a formal little bow, a twinkle in her eye.
Eric reached into his pocket to get his wallet. "Damn—" he said, suddenly remembering. "I forgot to go to the bank yesterday." He gestured helplessly, acutely embarrassed. "I don't have any money…"
Janet couldn't resist. "If you're in a pinch, I could loan you a few dollars."
"No… that's not what I meant."
He looked so stricken she decided to let him off the
hook. "If you're worried about a tip, why don't you take it off what I owe you?"
He stared at her for several seconds. "Are you sure you can't come inside?"
"I'd better not." Slowly she closed the door. Despite the damp chill of the air, she felt warm.
Eric held out his hand. "It's been fun. I'm glad we had a chance to meet under less… shall we say, trying, circumstances."
Her hand, given in friendship this time, fit easily and comfortably into his. "Me, too."
He walked her to the other side of the car and opened her door. "Drive carefully."
"I always do." She laughed lightly. She started the car, looked up again, smiled and waved goodbye.
Eric stepped onto the porch and returned her wave. He waited until she had reached the end of the block before he went inside. The house seemed unusually quiet and empty as he closed the door behind him. His heels tapping against the tile floor made a hollow vacant sound. Normally he was content to be alone. Tonight he wished he had company in the cavernous old house. He thought about Janet as he tossed his keys onto the hall table and went into the living room to fix himself a drink. She intrigued him. He liked tenacity in people—and gutsiness.
He wandered over to the window to watch a ship as it headed into the bay, his hand cradling a brandy snifter containing a generous splash of the golden-brown liquid. The seed of his deep-seated wanderlust, long in conflict with the practical side of his personality, had found fertile ground in the hours he had spent in front of this window as a child. The ships that entered and left the bay had seemed magically free to an eight-year-old boy confined to a house perched on the edge of a cliff. For four years, while his parents and grandparents and doctors and nurses hovered over him, their demeanors always carefully optimistic, he had lived a secret life filled with all the adventures he could imagine as he mentally sailed with the ships he watched emerge from under the Golden Gate. Someday he would fulfill the promise he had made to himself as a child. He would sail to those places of his dreams.
He raised the glass to take a sip of the now-warmed brandy. What a shock it would be for his colleagues the day he announced he was taking a hiatus from corporate law to sail around the world. "Surely not the staid, dependable, never-miss-an-appointment Eric Stewart" they would undoubtedly say. But then, their surprise would be his fault; he had given few clues of the vagabond that lurked inside the sober lawyer.
A sudden overwhelming desire to be on his boat in Sausalito struck him. The two-masted sailing vessel, still a few years shy of full restoration, was his real home. The hours he spent refinishing and restoring The Promise were a puzzle to his friends and family, who were unaware of his eventual plans for the ship. He preferred that they think him a little strange for wanting to live on a boat, rather than crazy, for premeditating an absence from his career. It was easier that way. Besides, how could anyone who hadn't spent all those years with his nose pressed to a window, watching ships sail away to adventure, understand what drove him to sail his own?
Tenacity—precisely what he liked in Janet Franklin. He swallowed the last of his brandy and turned away from the window. A slow smile curved his lips as he walked across the thick wool carpet to return the glass to the bar. Tenacity was definitely a plus, but Janet's long legs, blue eyes and thick black hair weren't exactly chopped liver.
4
It never failed. Every time Janet was in full makeup, her nose itched. At least twice a month, when her turn rolled around, she would spend an hour carefully applying the exaggerated smile and thick black eyebrows and then, the instant she plopped the pink wig on her head, her nose would start its thing. Being a clown was hard enough work without added irritations.
It was a glorious sunshiny Tuesday, and apart from her itchy nose and a parking ticket, the day had gone well. Since nine o'clock that morning, she had delivered twenty-eight dozen balloons to places all over the city—balloons that said everything from "get well" to "bon voyage." And the tips had been even better than normal, which meant she had enough money to make her first official payment to Eric. She had planned to mail him a check, but when her last delivery turned out to be in the heart of the financial district, she decided she might as well drop the money at his office and save the postage.
Pulling into a space reserved for deliveries, Janet took Eric's business card out of the glove compartment and stuffed it in her pocket, then hopped out of her Volkswagen and opened the trunk, where she kept all the paraphernalia connected with her job. With well-practiced motions, she fit a balloon over the end of the compressed helium tank and filled it with gas. After tying the end of the balloon in a knot, she added a string and a big red bow. Her visit to the building was going to look official.
She entered the lobby and, as usual, people turned to stare. She didn't mind. After the dozens of times she had already worn the wildly exaggerated makeup, bright pink wig and a baggy suit with big polka dots and ruffles for cuffs, she was used to being stared at. The costume instilled a peculiar kind of bravado in her. Since she was convinced her own mother wouldn't recognize her, she felt freed from her usual inhibitions. Dressed as she was, she could walk up to a grumpy-looking executive or a crying child with equal ease and would apply the same effort to making them smile. The job had given her insight into how an actor, painfully shy offstage, could work up the courage to perform in front of thousands of people.
Still, for all her boldness, she would not have come to Eric's office in costume if, on the way to the opera, she hadn't overheard him tell the Goodsons that he would be out of town this week. He already had reason enough to think she was a little strange; the last thing she needed was to give him confirmation.
As she waited for the elevator, she slipped his card out of her pocket. Eric Stewart… Brannigan, Andrew, Schench & Stewart…Attorneys at Law…Suite 2536…The Embarcadero. Impressive. She ran her finger across the names to feel the heavy embossing. Opulence was subtly but plainly stated in the quality of the printing and paper.
When the elevator doors swung open she hesitated. Perhaps it wasn't such a good idea for her to show up in a conservative lawyer's office in a clown costume after all. She and Eric were on friendly terms now, and she might be risking bungling that friendship by chasing away his sober-minded clients. But the question of whether to enter the elevator was decided for her when she was bumped and jostled forward by those who knew where they were going and had no time for those who did not.
Watching the floor numbers flash on the indicator in front of her, she thought, what the heck. She'd walk into his office, hand the envelope to the receptionist and be right back out the door again before anyone had a chance to notice her.
At last the number twenty-five flashed on the tiny screen, and she stepped out into a hallway. On the wall opposite the elevator was a list of suite numbers, with arrows indicating their direction. Eric's office was to the left. Halfway down the hall, she found a set of double doors discreetly lettered with the firm's name. Unconsciously Janet patted her wig and straightened her costume before reaching for the doorknob and entering.
The office was everything she had expected it to be-all glass and brass with forest-green, knee-deep carpeting and eggshell-white sofas and chairs. The paintings on the walls were originals, and she was sure the bronzes on the tables were Bennetts. In her garish costume, she felt as out of place as a whale in Kansas.
Now that she was already inside, the only thing she could do was guts it out. Holding her chin at a jaunty angle, she squared her shoulders and waded through the ridiculously plush carpeting. "I have a delivery for Mr. Stewart," she said to the perfectly coiffed, stunningly dressed Loni Anderson look-alike sitting behind the receptionist's desk.
"Just a moment, I'll get him for you."
Janet let out an involuntary squeak of alarm; her eyes grew wide. "He's here?"
"I believe so. At least he was fifteen minutes ago."
Janet's panache deserted her. "He was supposed to be out of town this week."
The receptionist's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You said something about a delivery?"
"Delivery? Oh… yes, I did, didn't I? Just a moment." In her haste to dig the envelope from her pocket, Janet dropped it on the floor. As she made a grab for it, she accidentally let go of the balloon. Retrieving the envelope, she said, "Here," and handed it to the woman. Without waiting for a reply or a receipt, she headed for the door.
"Ma'am?"
Janet turned. "Yes?"
"Your balloon?"
"Oh…" She hurried back across the room and reached for the dangling string just as the door that led to the attorneys' offices opened and Eric stepped out. Dressed in a charcoal-gray, three-piece pin-striped suit and carrying a sleek black Porsche briefcase, he looked every inch the high-powered lawyer.
Janet mentally groaned. Of all the harebrained ideas she had ever had, coming to Eric's office dressed in bright pink and orange polka dots easily make the top ten. Her mouth went dry; she tried to swallow. She was trapped. Panicked thoughts raced through her mind. Though she was confident she could make it out the door without Eric recognizing her, she knew the minute he opened the envelope he would realize who had brought it.
Her momentary hesitation was just enough for Eric to get a good look at the features beneath the greasepaint. "Janet?"
Her heart sank to her toes. How—when no one else could have—had he recognized her? "What are you doing here?" she sighed.
A Week from Friday Page 5