First Loves: A Loveswept Contemporary Romance

by Stone, Jean

  “… so visible?” Meg asked.

  “So rich.”

  “So sensation seeking?”

  “So attention getting.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “So what?”

  Danny curled the edge of the tablecloth. “So nothing, I guess. You’re right. Let’s talk about something else. Let’s talk about sex.”

  Meg laughed. “Let’s not. Let’s talk about something pleasant, instead.”

  Danny let out a low whistle. “Sounds like you need a new man in your life.”

  “I just got rid of one. I don’t need another.”

  “Roger Rabbit?”

  She smiled. “Barrett. Roger Barrett.”

  Danny sat back in his chair. She felt his eyes studying her. “I don’t get it, Meg. You have everything going for you. You’re bright, you’re successful, and you’re absolutely beautiful.” He leaned forward, smiled, and lowered his voice. “You do know how beautiful you are, don’t you? With that thick auburn hair, that luscious Carly Simon smile, those long, long legs …” He moaned softly, closed his eyes, and placed a hand over his heart. “Those incredibly long legs …”

  Meg laughed again. “Stop it, Danny.”

  He sat up. “But it’s all true, dammit, and you know it. So I don’t get it. Why can’t you just let go, Meg? Let go and love someone? Let someone love you?”

  She looked around the dimly lit room, at the cozy diners, smiling couples with intimate lives. How could she answer Danny’s question when it was one she’d been unable to answer herself for so many years? She looked back at Danny. “I tried,” she said. “I thought Roger was different. I thought this time things could be different.” Each time, with every man, Meg had thought it could be different. But none of them could penetrate the cocoon she’d wrapped tightly around herself and her feelings after she and Steven Riley had split up. None of them—not in over fifteen years—could compare with Steven. The first man she’d ever loved. The only one. And now she was capable of loving only her work, her career. She swallowed back the tears before they could form in her eyes. “We’re all different, Danny. You love having someone on your arm. In your bed. Someone. Anyone. As for me, I’m better off alone.”

  “Maybe you just haven’t met the right guy.”

  “This may surprise you, but there are other things in life important to women besides men.”

  “So this is all you’ve wanted? Fame? Fortune?”

  “What I wanted was to work hard. I hate the fame. You know that.”

  “Sure. You hate the pictures, you hate the headlines. But the money? That’s what you want. Working for Larson, Bascomb has given it to you.”

  Meg didn’t respond.

  “Come on, babe. That brownstone of yours is your dream palace.”

  She pictured Raggedy Man lying in the bay window, surveying East Eighty-second Street, waiting for her return. Loyal, loving Raggedy Man. Would he know the difference if she was rich or poor? Would he care? The image of her cat quickly vanished. In its place was one of a small, dingy room. The room in which she had grown up. She quickly blinked and sat upright in her chair.

  “Money makes life easier, Danny.”

  He raised his glass. “To money, then. Screw romance.”

  She cleared her throat and raised her glass to his. “To money,” she echoed, and wondered in her heart exactly whom she was trying to convince.

  Just then a figure appeared beside the table. “Ms. Cooper?” a voice asked.

  Meg glanced up at a young man with thick dark hair and a Pentax slung around his neck.

  “Jamie Holbrook. New York Globe. Any comment on today’s verdict?”

  Meg looked back at Danny. He shrugged. She shook her head. “Go away,” she said. “Leave me alone.”

  It was after eight when Meg let herself into her brownstone. She had declined Danny’s offer for a ride home. She was feeling a little too shaky, a little too vulnerable. If he asked to come inside, Meg was afraid she wouldn’t be able to say no. And she was fearful of what might happen after that.

  She flipped a switch, flooding the marble foyer with eager light, making the room seem less empty, less alone. Raggedy Man did not greet her; he never did. It was, Meg suspected, his way of saying “You left me alone all day. Now come and find me.” She found him in her study, sprawled across a pile of books on the floor. She tossed her briefcase onto the desk and bent to nuzzle the cat.

  There was a time when Meg had loved living alone. When she’d first moved to New York, there was nothing more comforting than to curl up in her tiny apartment and hear nothing but quiet. She would often sit for hours, not reading, hardly thinking, just savoring the solitude. The distant sounds of sirens wailing, horns honking, people rushing by, had provided a muted backdrop for the hint of life somewhere, outside, not there. Not in her world, her world that was finally peaceful, completely independent, totally free. Free from scandal, free from shame.

  In a few years, however, her feelings had changed. As Meg had watched others around her—acquaintances, co-workers, even strangers walking hand in hand with other strangers—she had begun to wonder what was wrong with her … why she couldn’t fall in love again—this time, with the right man … why she couldn’t find someone to marry, to have children with, to share her life with. She’d watched, and she’d wondered, and slowly, what had once been blissful solitude had become a chronic ache of loneliness. Her infrequent, yet futile, attempts at relationships had perhaps, she thought now, made things worse.

  She stood and slipped off her jacket, just as the doorbell rang. Meg sighed. She wondered if Danny had followed her home.

  It wasn’t Danny. It was Avery.

  “So,” he said. “You’re here.”

  Meg nodded. The white-haired, wide-shouldered man stepped past her and walked down the hall.

  “Come in,” she said, then closed the door and followed him into the study.

  He removed his cashmere coat and sat, his six-foot-four-inch frame filling the sofa. Despite his sixty-plus years, Avery still exuded a commanding presence both in and out of the courtroom. “I won’t bother to ask why you didn’t show up at Holly’s party,” he said.

  Meg rubbed the back of her neck and leaned against the desk. “Avery, you know I don’t do well at those things.”

  He reached into his breast pocket, withdrew a long white envelope, and handed it to Meg without comment. She frowned. He folded his arms across his chest and nodded once. “Open it.”

  She peeled back the flap and pulled out a brochure. Clipped to the top was a hand-scrawled note on shocking-pink stationery: “I’ve made arrangements for you to have a vacation here. Set your own dates. They’re expecting your call.” It was signed, “Thanks, Holly.” At the bottom of the page was an added note: “P.S. My mother’s friends love it here.”

  Meg took off the clip and looked at the cover of the brochure. There was a full-page color photo of a castlelike building surrounded by lush green grounds. The title read: “Golden Key Spa. Escape to Luxury in the Berkshires.” Across the bottom was a subtle addition, “For the Discerning Woman.”

  She laughed. “What the hell is this?”

  Avery didn’t answer.

  She opened the brochure. Scattered across the pages were hazy mood photographs of women being manicured, pedicured, facialed, and massaged. One shot showed two women nibbling on salads and sipping on something that looked like mineral water with a twist of lemon, thank you, darling, and a spritz of lime. Meg laughed again and pitched the brochure into her wastebasket.

  “It’s not a joke,” Avery said quietly.

  “What is it, then? A thank-you gift?”

  “From a grateful client.”

  “Well, it’s ridiculous. To begin with, if I was ever going to take a vacation, the last place I would go would be to some snotty spa for the ultrarich.”

  Avery unfolded his arms and poised his fingertips together in an A-frame configuration. Again he made no comment.

  An uns
ettled feeling crept into her. She moved behind the desk and sat down. “Her ‘mother’s friends love it.’ Is that supposed to impress me?”

  Avery stroked a cleanly shaven cheek—cleanly shaven, Meg suspected, especially for Holly Davidson’s victory party. Press photos always reproduced better without a five o’clock shadow. A small knot formed in her stomach.

  “Avery,” she said, trying to soften her tone, “surely you understand I’d never fit in, in a place like that. Women who go to those places are pampered, snobby bitches.”

  He hoisted himself from the sofa and walked to the window.

  Meg tapped the edge of the desk. Dead air hung in the room. The pregnant pause of intimidation. The kind of silence that forced the other person to squirm. An effective trick, an attorney’s masterful ploy. Meg studied Avery’s back. She sighed. “I wouldn’t fit in, Avery,” she said.

  “You’ll fit in just fine.” Avery chuckled that fatherly chuckle, the one that always made Meg feel inadequate, infantile. “After all, you are a woman. And a woman’s got to do what a woman’s got to do.”

  Meg’s jaw tensed. “Look, Avery, I’m good at what I do and have a little money to show for it, but these women are from the big leagues. The ones who were either born with silver spoons dangling from their siliconed lips or made damn sure they found husbands who treat them as though they were.”

  “Precisely.”

  “What do you mean?” She sensed that Avery was going to insist she go. A tight stiffness inched up the back of her neck.

  “It doesn’t hurt to travel in the right circles, Meg. You made a huge name for yourself today. Now’s the time to capitalize on it. For your own sake, as well as for the firm’s.”

  “Avery, I’m a working woman, not a spa-going lady. All I want to do now is get involved with another case. The sooner the better.”

  He turned from the window and faced her. “This could be considered working. Call it public relations. It could only benefit the firm if you learned to mingle with the right people.”

  Meg averted his stare. She fixed her gaze on the top of her desk, at a pile of papers brought home from the office. Work was her world. Not vacations. Not mingling. It was the way she wanted it. It was the way it was. So this is all you’ve wanted? Danny had asked. Fame? Fortune? She quickly moved her eyes from the desk, from the facts of her life.

  “Think about it,” Avery said. “It would please the partners as well as me.”

  The partners, she thought. It seemed that no matter what she did, they expected more. And because she was a woman—the only female attorney in the firm—Meg kept pushing herself, proving herself, justifying that she was worth keeping. But Avery was the senior man, the boss. And even though he might be upset with her for a few days, Meg knew he’d forgive her. She was good at her job, and he respected that. If she refused to go, the partners would put a mental black mark beside her name, but they’d get over it. Eventually.

  She looked back at Avery. “I’ve thought about it. The answer is no. Now, what about my next case?”

  Avery smiled. “Nothing that one of the partners can’t handle for a couple of weeks.”

  “Avery …”

  “You might enjoy the Golden Key Spa. It might do you some good to get away.”

  He wasn’t backing down. Meg wondered if any of this would have happened if she’d gone to the damn party. Or spoken to the damn press.

  “There’s more to life than courtrooms and dockets, Meg.”

  “I doubt it.”

  He returned to the sofa and picked up his coat. His expression turned serious. “You’re a maverick, Meg. That’s a fine quality in the courtroom, but it could end up hurting your career. If you socialized more, you might find it easier to handle the more human niceties of the business.”

  Meg stood up. “Avery, I win your cases. Do me a favor and stay out of my personal life.”

  “As a criminal lawyer, you have no personal life. But you do have social responsibilities. And the firm expects you to live up to those responsibilities both in and out of court.”

  It was a blow she hadn’t expected. Meg had always presumed that if she spent her life working hard, success would be inevitable. Now Avery was throwing her a curve. An uncomfortable curve. Her resolve weakened. “I’ll hold a press conference tomorrow. I know the media wants comments.”

  “Meg,” he said firmly. “Don’t change the subject. I’d consider it a personal favor if you went to the spa.”

  Suddenly it all became clear. “You planned this, didn’t you?”

  He put on his coat and adjusted the silk scarf at his throat. “Holly asked if there was something special she could do for you. We talked.”

  “It was your idea.”

  “She wants to do something for you, Meg. The girl is genuinely appreciative.”

  “And she is worth thousands of dollars to the firm.”

  He nodded. “Many thousands.”

  You defend anyone who’s willing to pay the firm’s outrageous fees. Danny’s words again. Meg shuddered. Avery walked to the door. “I’ll think about it,” she said coldly.

  “Don’t take too long. I understand that spring is a lovely time in the Berkshires.”

  Meg sat in her study for over an hour, thinking one primary thought: Why was Avery trying to make her do this? Why couldn’t he accept her the way she was? Why wasn’t he just grateful to have a partner—junior though she was—who was good at what she did? But no. Avery was always thinking of the firm. How things looked for the firm. How the firm looked to the outside world. He’d called her a maverick. Maybe she was. But it couldn’t really hurt her career. Could it?

  Danny had once told Meg that Avery got to where he was by being an intimidating ass-kisser. Danny, Meg knew, was right, although she wouldn’t have admitted it to him. If nothing else, she knew the importance of loyalty. And now Avery was testing that loyalty.

  She plucked the brochure from the basket. The shocking-pink note came with it. “My mother’s friends love it here.” Meg wondered what Holly’s mother had been like. Had she really known about the alleged sexual abuse? Had she really done nothing about it? Meg thumbed through the photos of smiling women in the brochure. No matter how odd Mrs. Davidson might have been, there was one thing for certain: she had been nothing like Meg’s mother. Nothing like Gladys Cooper. And Holly’s dead father had been nothing like Meg’s.

  Meg set the brochure on the desk and closed her eyes. She envisioned Gladys Cooper, dressed in a stained housecoat, hair twisted around pink rollers. Surely there had never been a mother and daughter so unalike, so caustically different: Meg, quiet and sensitive; Gladys, boisterous and crass.

  “You’re just like your goddamn father,” Gladys would bellow as she poured another cup of coffee, lit another cigarette.

  But Meg didn’t know that for fact: she had never met her father, the over-the-road-truck-driving man who had patronized the diner in Bridgeport, Connecticut, where Gladys had served him ham and eggs and apparently other treats when he passed through town on Thursday nights. Meg didn’t even know his name: Gladys only referred to him as “your goddamn father.”

  “Your goddamn father was married,” Gladys told her one night when Meg was around seven or eight and had finally found the courage to ask about him. “He’d have left his wife and married me, though, but I got knocked up with you and he took off like a scared rabbit.” Then Gladys narrowed her eyes and looked at her daughter and said, “If it wasn’t for you, I’d have been happy.”

  Later that night Meg had been awakened by a disturbing, mournful sound that seeped through the thin wall of her bedroom. It was a sound she’d never heard before, but after a moment Meg realized what it was: it was the sound of her mother softly weeping. Meg slid down in her bed, pulled the covers over her head, and vowed she would never again ask about her goddamn father.

  She rubbed the back of her neck now, trying to erase the growing-up images. She’d spent her early years as “the kid with no
father” in an era when that was a rarity, even in Bridgeport. She was too timid to make friends, too afraid they would uncover her secret that the reason her mother wasn’t married, and wasn’t happy, was all her fault. Then there had been only one escape. It had come through books. Each night Meg had retreated to her dingy, small room and read and read and read, until the grating bells and whistles and cheers of her mother’s TV game shows finally ceased, until she was sure her mother was finally asleep, until she was certain there would be no more talk that day of her “goddamn father.” Or no talk at all, which in some ways was even worse.

  When Meg was in high school, she took a job in the library. It was there she discovered the world, as seen through grainy photographs in Life magazine. It was there that Meg knew there had to be more to her world than Bridgeport, Connecticut. More than a dingy, small room and a stale-smelling house that always needed something repaired.

  With the help of a compassionate guidance counselor, Meg applied to college. She became the valedictorian of her class and was accepted to Wellesley on a full scholarship. Four years and magna cum laude later, Meg Cooper was at the Bridgeport laundromat one night, getting ready to pack for Harvard Law School. She paid little attention to the screaming sirens that wailed past. When the dryer finished its tumbling, Meg slowly folded her clothes, placed them in the wood wicker basket, and began to walk the five blocks home. By the time she arrived, the small clapboard house was a pile of smoldering rubble. Gladys Cooper had never known that her cigarette had fallen between the cushions of the sofa.

  The only similarity, Meg thought now, between Holly Davidson’s mother and Gladys Cooper was that they were both dead.

  She picked up the brochure again. “The Golden Key Spa. For the Discerning Woman.” Was that what Meg had become? She looked around her study, at the rich appointments, the leather-bound books, the silk damask draperies. The problem was definitely the money. She had believed that money could insulate her from pain.

  Meg was still sitting at her desk at eleven-fifteen when the phone rang. She looked at the answering machine and let it connect. There was no one to whom Meg wanted to speak.