First Loves: A Loveswept Contemporary Romance

by Stone, Jean

  “Meg? This is Roger,” she heard. She put her face in her hands. “I wanted to congratulate you on today’s verdict.” She reached over and turned down the volume. When the message stopped, she rewound the tape without listening.

  The next morning Meg dressed in a beige linen suit. She walked the two blocks down to Park, then turned right toward the office. She blocked out the morning-street sounds, the hurrying-people sounds, and thought about the Golden Key Spa. It wasn’t fair. Aside from the fact that she didn’t want to be Avery’s token public-relations girl, Meg simply didn’t know what to do on vacation. She’d never had one, never wanted one. There would be too much time to think about too many things she’d spent too many years trying to forget. She’d tell Avery today that she wasn’t going to the spa. It wasn’t as though he could fire her. She was, after all, a partner.

  As she reached the corner on Sixty-third, Meg brushed against a wire rack at a newsstand. She grabbed the edge to keep it from falling. A squatty little man with brown teeth reached out to help, just as a stack of newspapers flopped to the pavement. Meg looked down at the mess. A bold black headline screamed from the front page: “ICE MAIDEN COOPER GETS ANOTHER ONE OFF.”

  Another damn headline, another assault by the press.

  Beneath it was a picture of Meg coming down the courthouse steps, the crowd from Holly Davidson’s trial in pursuit.

  And there, tucked between today’s headline and yesterday’s picture, was a small, fuzzy photo from Meg’s college days, the photo that had been frozen in her mind, returning to life over and over for so many years in her dreams. It was the photo that had started—and ended—it all.

  It was of Meg … together with him.

  2

  A putrid smell of stale semen hung in the bedroom. Alissa Page turned on her back, wondering if it was the stink or the groaning snores of her husband that had awakened her. She assumed that Robert had not been home long; she wished he’d had the decency to shower before coming to bed.

  She stared at the dark ceiling, listening to the steady roar of his breathing. Tomorrow she would tell him it was time for separate bedrooms. There had to be a place in this twenty-four-room mansion where Alissa could get a decent night’s sleep. It wasn’t as though they needed to sleep together any longer: they hadn’t had sex for years, at least not with each other. It was a situation they’d never discussed, for they were, after all, one of the finest families within their Atlanta-and-beyond elite social circle. Old money. Prominent name. Civilized.

  Robert snorted and shifted onto his side. Alissa sighed and wondered what his patients would think of the director of the world-renowned Center for Infectious Disease—brilliant research physician, Dr. Robert Hamilton Page—if they could see him, hear him, or smell him now.

  She squinted at the Cartier clock on the nightstand: three-thirty. There was no use staying in bed when she had a party for twelve hundred to plan. She pulled herself up, slipped a long silk robe around her tiny, overdieted frame, then tucked her feet into white satin mules and tiptoed from the room.

  As Alissa moved across the thick carpet on the balcony toward the wide, curved staircase, tears fell from her eyes. She wondered for the thousandth time who Robert’s lover was. Was it someone new? A nubile, young research assistant, perhaps? Or had he been seeing the same one for years? A married woman? Alissa tried to convince herself it didn’t matter: she and Robert had been married twenty years, and he hadn’t left her yet, wouldn’t leave her or the girls. Of that she was certain. Fairly certain.

  She slowly descended the staircase, unsure why Robert’s infidelity still bothered her so much. At first, of course, it had. And along with it had come an ache of fear such as Alissa had never known. The girls had been young: Michele only ten; Natalie, eight. Alissa had found a receipt from the Hyatt Atlanta in Robert’s shirt pocket. It was dated November 7, the weekend he was supposed to be at a conference in Dallas. Or so he had said. For months Alissa had wondered what she’d done wrong. She was, after all, the perfect wife, the perfect mother. Her only crime, she’d decided, was that she was no longer twenty.

  It was then that Alissa had begun going to the Golden Key Spa twice a year for relaxation and pampering. She’d had a few nips and tucks on her face and neck—“Catch it before it falls” had become her motto—renovated a bedroom into a closet for the hundreds of outfits and matching accessories she’d begun to purchase, and poured her energies into becoming the premier hostess of Atlanta. Now, at forty-two, Alissa Page was the one whose parties anyone-who-was-anyone craved an invitation to. Still, Robert had not stopped cheating. But Alissa was now too busy to notice. Almost. And Robert was, at least, discreet.

  At the foot of the stairs Alissa wiped her tears, glad that it was nighttime and there was no one to see her cry. She passed through the huge marble foyer to the tall double doors that led to the library. Just as she turned the heavy brass handle, she noticed a thin strip of light under the door.

  “Mother!”

  The sharp cry of sixteen-year-old Natalie was followed by a scrambled squeaking of flesh on the leather sofa and a frantic rustle of clothing. Alissa adjusted her vision to the light. A young man she didn’t immediately recognize stood beside the sofa now, his brown hair ruffled, his cheeks flushed, his pants clutched in his hand in front of his crotch. Alissa sighed.

  “Party’s over, Natalie,” she said. “Get to bed.” Then she added, “Alone.”

  The young man hurried past Alissa.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Natalie called out. But the only response was the firm latch of the outside door closing behind him. Natalie pulled her cropped cashmere sweater over her firm young breasts, her nipples, Alissa noted, still stiff and expectant. Better luck next time.

  “Mother,” Natalie said, “you pick the damnedest time to prowl through the house.”

  “I wasn’t prowling, Natalie.” She walked to the wet bar and poured brandy into a snifter. “And besides, I’d think you’d be discreet enough not to bring your parties home.”

  “You make it sound like I’m some kind of whore.”

  Alissa shrugged and downed the brandy in a quick gulp. The liquid singed her throat. “Just be thankful I was the one who came in here, not your father.”

  Natalie was silent. She zipped up her skirt and straightened her mane of chestnut hair—thick, healthy hair, so unlike her mother’s fragile blond wisps, so like Robert’s.

  “Who was he, anyway?” Alissa asked.

  “John. John Wentworth.”

  The name stunned Alissa like a negative RSVP. Wentworth. Of course. He had his father’s lust-filled eyes, his mother’s stern mouth. “Wentworth?” she asked with applied indifference. “As in Grant and Betty Wentworth?”

  “Of course. I thought it would please you to know that I’m dating someone who drives a Porsche.”

  Alissa felt the sarcasm of Natalie’s words. But as rebellious as her daughter was, it appeared she was finally cultivating at least one positive trait. “Well, if you intend to hold on to him, you’d better think twice about having sex so easily.”

  “Oh, Mother. Give it a rest. We’re not virgins anymore. Not like when you were sixteen.” With that Natalie strolled past her and left the library.

  Alissa poured another shot into the snifter. “No,” she said to the empty room. “You certainly aren’t.” She sipped the brandy this time and wondered what she should do. Should she ground Natalie? On what charge? Fornicating on the premises? Maybe she should tell Robert. Let him deal with it. Then she remembered the way he’d flown into a rage when he’d discovered she’d taken Michele to get the pill. That was last year. Michele had been seventeen. Robert had seen the gynecologist’s bill. What he didn’t know was that prior to that Alissa had taken Michele to get an abortion. The pill was the least of their problems, but it was the only one Robert had found out about. And he couldn’t even handle that.

  Alissa took another swallow and scanned the shelves of leather-bound medical books,
interspersed with classics. She wondered how he’d feel if he knew that after that escapade with Michele, Alissa had made sure that Natalie also began taking the pill. One couldn’t be too careful these days. Natalie was right about one thing: they weren’t virgins anymore. Alissa mused that today young girls seemed to go directly from the cradle to satin sheets. Or leather sofas. She only prayed that someone would come up with a cure for AIDS before it affected any of them. Maybe that someone would be Robert. God. If that ever happened, what a party she could plan.

  She turned the small key that was kept in the lock of the desk drawer and reached behind Robert’s Smith & Wesson .38-caliber “self-protection” for her silver cigarette case. Robert had long ago stopped trying to get her to quit smoking: in return she had agreed never to smoke in public, or when he was around. She took out a long, thin cigarette, and as she went to pick up a lighter, Alissa noticed the new issue of Town & Country on the desktop, the one she’d seen that afternoon. Her hand stopped in midair, then began to tremble as she felt the sting of reality once again. Slowly she opened the magazine; slowly she turned the pages. Past the slick, glossy ads; past the colorful photos. And then, there it was. The “Parties” section. Where only the most sociable ladies throughout the country were featured as they attended the most important charity events, dressed in their finest gowns, adorned with their showiest jewels. Alissa knew this section well, for she had graced these pages often enough: five times, last year alone.

  But now it wasn’t Alissa’s own face that smiled back at her in black and white. For there, in the photo of the Peach Valley Gala, was Michele Page, her elder daughter, flashing her eighteen-year-old smile, elegantly flaunting her youth and beauty. It was Michele’s picture there now, not hers.

  As she stared at the photo, Alissa raised a hand to her throat, to the tightened skin, free of lines, free of puckers. Chicken skin that disgusting flesh that drooped in tiny folds from the chins of older, less savvy women—would never be allowed to mar Alissa’s appearance. She reached up and ran her fingers lightly around the corners of her eyes. No crow’s-feet, no visible webs of age. And yet … and yet …

  The trouble with having daughters, Alissa thought, is that you feel yourself age more quickly. You look at them and are reminded too readily that it seems a hundred years since you could get away without blusher. You envy their ability to confidently go braless, or worse, sleeveless. Then they bring home boyfriends who, you have to accept, would rather be with them than with you, for no matter how flat your stomach or how well sculpted your thighs, any male in his right mind must assume that a woman, once past forty, is a lump of limp, a pile of sag, dried up, no turning back.

  Alissa lit her cigarette and sucked in a deep drag of smoke. Then she realized maybe it had been this photo, not Robert’s scent or sound, that had awakened her in the middle of the goddamn night.

  The banquet room at Chez Luis was decorated in the requested sea-foam and forest-green tones; several round tables were properly linened and laced, adorned with fresh aqua lilies in appropriate crystal luncheon-sized vases. There were no candles: there never were in the daylight hours. Not when the gathering had been planned by someone who knew what she was doing.

  Alissa checked her watch. She hoped to get this meeting over with quickly; it was, after all, Tuesday, and she had a much more important meeting after this. One which, today, she needed more than ever.

  She moved to the head table and positioned herself by the clusters of potted ferns to review her notes. She had dressed in a pale-aqua silk suit to complement the decor, accented by matching silk pumps and the perfectly coordinating teardrop opals that hung demurely from her ears and around her delicate throat. The best part was that none of the ladies would know that underneath her silk suit she wore a skimpy lace teddy. Nothing else.

  From the ambience of the room to the attire of the hostess, Alissa Page knew the importance of planning a perfect luncheon, even when its purpose was merely to plan yet another event. And, Alissa knew, no one in Atlanta could do any of this quite the way she could. She hoped all forty-three members of the Women’s. Federation for Atlanta would show. She would assign them their tasks, and the WFFA September Homeless Benefit would be under way.

  Alissa smiled as she scanned the index cards filled with her notes. It amused her that she had thought of a party for the homeless. As if anyone remotely connected with the benefit could relate. The closest they’d come to homelessness was when the savings-and-loan scandal had resulted in two of their “dearest” friends losing their horse ranches and their Palm Springs retreats to cover their debt. Robert had instructed Alissa to remove their names from guest lists; it would not look good for the CID if they continued fraternizing with felons.

  Of course, she wasn’t completely without compassion. Or awareness. On one of her “getaways” just the week before she’d seen a group of socially conscious artists raising money for the homeless. They were selling their paintings to camera-carrying tourists in the funky shops of Atlanta’s Underground. Though she’d smiled and said he could keep the painting, Alissa had given one artist a fifty-dollar bill. After all, if it hadn’t been for Aunt Helma and Uncle Jack, she, too, might have been destitute, homeless, alone.

  Alissa blinked. Unthinkable. She quickly straightened the index cards and shifted on one foot. She wished the luncheon were over.

  Several women drifted into the room chattering and laughing.

  “But did you read about Louise Cotton?” came one high-pitched voice.

  “Oh my God! Imagine … finally divorcing that husband of hers.”

  “And his millions.”

  “More like billions.”

  “Alissa,” one of them called, “did you hear?”

  Alissa put down her notes. “Yes, it’s quite something, isn’t it? I’ve sometimes thought of doing it myself.”

  Everyone chuckled, because everyone knew there was no way Alissa would divorce Robert. Without him she would have nothing, be nothing. Without their husbands none of them would be anything.

  Alissa smiled, sat down, and felt the sensuous comfort of lace rubbing her crotch. She checked her watch again. Twelve-fifteen. Only a couple more hours to wait.

  Sue Ellen Jamison, of the Rockford Jamisons, approached the head table. Somewhere on the other side of sixty, Sue Ellen had upheld Atlanta society since long before it became fashionable. Her stocky frame was always impeccably groomed, her white hair always in place.

  “Darling,” she said to Alissa, “what a simply gorgeous photo of your Michele in “Parties.” No one ever referred to Town & Country by its title. After all, there was only one important section in the magazine, and to these ladies it simply was the magazine.

  Alissa tightened her grip on her index cards. “Yes,” she said clearly, “we’re quite proud of her.”

  “Both your girls are so lovely, dear. You’ve done a wonderful job. Simply wonderful.”

  Just wonderful, Alissa wanted to say. You should have seen my sixteen-year-old fucking on the living-room couch a few hours ago. Instead she smiled back and said, “Thank you, Sue Ellen. Coming from you, that means a lot.”

  Sue Ellen laughed. “The next generation is coming of age. Looks like I’ll be the grandmother of Atlanta before you know it.”

  “More like the Grand Lady, Sue Ellen,” Alissa said convincingly. “And don’t forget,” she continued, wanting to change the subject, “I’ll be counting on you to line up the most fabulous entertainment for the homeless benefit.”

  Sue Ellen nodded. “As soon as a theme is decided, you know I’ll do whatever I can.”

  Alissa smiled, knowing Sue Ellen was dying to know who would lead the theme committee. Next to Alissa, as chairperson of the event, this would be the woman with the most power. Everyone expected her to give the job to Fran Charles, a frustrated artist whose husband sat on nearly every important board in the city. His connections had, in the past, turned numerous galas into extravaganzas at minimum cost.

 
; The room filled; seats were taken. Alissa knew the ladies would be on time. They always were. They had busy lives, busy schedules. They knew that to make anything happen, you had to be organized.

  Over sorbet, between the endive salad and the poached salmon, Alissa decided whom she would name as chairperson of the theme committee. She would have to work closely with the woman; she decided to give it to someone she must get to know better. It was something she’d thought about doing for several months; after last night it now seemed imperative.

  She set down her spoon and stood. “This year,” Alissa announced, her authoritative voice coated in sugar, “with the Olympics coming up, the city is putting on a new face. An exciting face, one of freshness and energy. Therefore, I’ve decided to follow that lead and appoint someone to head the theme committee who can bring new ideas and create new challenges for us all.” People were glancing at one another from table to table. Fran Charles folded her hands in her lap.

  “To head the theme committee for our homeless benefit, I appoint Betty Danforth Wentworth.” She resisted the urge to add, “whose son is fucking my daughter.”

  Betty, for whom no amount of grooming could mask the pursed lips and perpetual scowl, stood and eagerly accepted the position. Alissa noted the beige Caché suit that Betty wore. Grant Wentworth managed his wife’s fifth-generation peanut-and-cotton industry; Alissa wondered if Betty consciously dressed in beige and white to promote the family crop.

  Silence filled the room, followed by polite applause. Alissa knew there would be criticism behind her back. But no member of the WFFA would challenge the selection. Not even gracious, talented, and most likely now totally pissed-off Fran Charles. Alissa smiled as she felt a sudden rush of empowerment. She checked her watch again and wondered if across town, on the thirty-second floor of the Danforth Peanut and Cotton Properties Building, Grant Wentworth was doing the same.

  Alissa let herself into the condominium with the key Grant had given her shortly after their affair had started. She knew she probably wasn’t the first woman to take up Tuesday-afternoon residence there, but in the past four months she’d come to think of this as “their” place … their haven from life.