First Loves: A Loveswept Contemporary Romance

by Stone, Jean

  She picked up the welcome packet from the table next to the lounger, then sat down and began thumbing through the contents. Same old stuff. The daily listing of spa happenings, including everything from aerobics classes to body shaping to wellness seminars. God, Alissa noted, there was even a roundtable on menopause. She smirked, Maybe she should attend that one. Maybe that was part of her problem. Her hormones were beginning to go into overdrive, or under-drive, or whatever the hell they did on the dark side of forty.

  She turned to the other sheets in the folder: the standard directory of services—biofeedback, massage, aquatherapy, salt treatments. There was a brochure detailing each day’s menu, including the total calories and fat grams in everything from whole-wheat granola waffles to paillard of mallard duck. The names of the foods, Alissa knew from experience, sounded much more exotic than their taste. But, then, food didn’t interest Alissa. Why would it? There was nothing more revolting to Alissa than fat on the body. Anywhere on the body. It showed such a lack of discipline, and almost always indicated a person who was not in control.

  Control.

  She threw down the packet. None of this mattered. None of it meant shit. Because suddenly Alissa’s whole life was out of control. She tapped her foot, wrung her hands, then rummaged through her purse for a cigarette. She quickly lit one and inhaled deeply. There had to be a way to get her life back together. There had to be something to live for.

  Her thoughts kept returning to the homeless benefit. If she could somehow turn it into a premier showcase, a gala to end all galas … God, that would show them all. Grant Wentworth and his dowdy wife, Betty. Sue Ellen Jamison. All of them. She took another quick drag, stubbed out her cigarette in an alabaster candy dish, and began pacing the room.

  All she needed was an idea. The right idea.

  She moved to the French doors, pushed back the silk drapes, and stared out onto the private terrace.

  Then she turned from the doors and moved toward the bathroom, unclasping her jewels as she went. Her thoughts began to spin. She leaned into the glass-enclosed steam shower and turned the faucets. Think big, she commanded herself. Think bigger. She shed her clothes and let them fall into a puffy pile on the floor. She tested the water. Warm.

  Atlanta wasn’t New York. Or Washington. Still, maybe it was time to show the country—no, the world—that Atlanta was the new cosmopolitan city in the nation. A place that existed for more reasons than changing planes. So what if it wasn’t true? Alissa was no fool. She knew that if enough people were told enough lies, sooner or later everyone would believe them. The hell with the Olympics. Alissa Page would put Atlanta on the map.

  She rifled through the wicker basket of powders and gels on the long vanity and popped open the top of a bottle of all-natural body cleanser, thankful that they had glass bottles here, none of that plastic, private-label-hotel-chain crap.

  She set down the bottle and stared into the mirror. She could start with Ted Turner. And Jane. She could try to enlist their names, if not their support. Turner was, after all, the prince of Atlanta. Some had even called him the savior. And Jane. There was no arguing that a Hollywood connection would boost exposure.

  She scrubbed the lotion onto her body. A Hollywood connection would do more than make the “Parties” pages of T & C. It would make the tabloids. Robin Leach’s show. Maybe more. Her mind swirled with images of ball gowns and twinkling lights and flashlit photos of herself.

  Just as Alissa was about to step into the shower, the telephone rang. She stopped and looked around. She spotted the phone on the peach-marble deck of the sunken tub.

  It rang again.

  Wow, she thought with a laugh. Maybe that’s Ted and Jane now.

  She skipped to the tub and answered the phone. It wasn’t the Turners. It was Robert.

  “The girls told me where I could reach you,” he said.

  “Remind me to thank them,” she replied.

  “Alissa, we need to talk.”

  She held the phone to her ear and slowly rubbed more cleansing gel into her skin. What right did Robert have to call her now? To interrupt the most wonderful dream she’d had in a long, long time?

  She heard his sigh through the phone. “Are you coming back?” he asked.

  “To Atlanta? Or to you?”

  “Either. Both.”

  “I really don’t think you need me to come back to you, Robert.” She felt a small, closing sensation in her throat. “You see, as it turns out, I’m not your type.”

  “Alissa … please. Let me explain.”

  She said nothing.

  “This is very difficult for me,” he continued.

  And it’s not for me?

  “It’s something I’ve been living with for a very long time.”

  She looked around the bathroom, at the pale-peach fixtures, the gold-plated faucets. She focused on the bidet and was pleased, once again, that she’d finally had one installed in her master bath at home. Home.

  “Alissa, I need you.”

  “I doubt it,” she managed to say. “I’m forty-two years old, Robert. There’s little chance I’ll grow a penis between my legs.”

  It was Robert’s turn to be silent, but through the phone Alissa could almost see him wither.

  “Robert, I have to go. I’m meeting some people for dinner,” she lied, then hung up the phone.

  She went back to the shower, stepped inside, and closed the glass door behind her. Then she leaned against the wall, warm water spraying over her body, salt tears creeping down her cheeks, soaking into her pores, seeping through her skin, touching all those lost, lonely, little-girl places beneath the surface, within her soul. The glamorous vision of ball gowns and twinkling lights and mass-media coverage was gone—replaced by an image of Robert on the floor of his office having sex with that man.

  She ran her hands across her naked body and thought of all the times—long ago—he’d touched her here, here, and here. How he’d touched her with those sensitive, healing hands—passionless touches, perhaps. Touches more of caring than of lust. But had it meant nothing to Robert? Had her body revolted him? Had making love to her been only an act, a performance?

  Now those hands were touching a man, feeling those taut, masculine chest muscles, rubbing a soft, furry spot below the waist, grasping and rocking, back and forth, the firm, pink flesh of a penis.

  She wondered if—when they had still been making love—Robert had, even then, been having sex with men.

  She pulled her hands from herself and sobbed into them. Why had he done this to her? Why wasn’t she good enough for him? Why in the hell did he want a man?

  She cried for the loss of a bond she now knew she’d never had, for the aching emptiness within her heart, and for the white-hot flash of reality that told her she would gladly relinquish her parties, her photo spreads, her “Who’s Who” name in society, if only she could feel she was loved. She took her breasts in her hands once again, slowly caressing them, gently massaging them until the tips of her nipples tightened at her touch and a flush of warmth moved between her legs. And, then, for the first time in a long, long time, Alissa found herself yearning for the touch of the man who had once truly loved her, the touch of Jay Stockwell.

  Zoe was lonely without Scott and Marisol. And William. William. She pushed aside the tray of wilted vegetables. They had been bright green and crisp when they’d arrived at lunchtime. But that had been hours ago. For the past two days Zoe had barely eaten, yet she still felt fat, full. Maybe it was because she’d had no exercise, for she was still afraid to leave her suite. Leaving her suite would mean having to face the world. Leaving her suite would mean that someone might recognize her.

  She rose from the Duncan Fife dining table and crossed to the sitting area. On the cocktail table was the script Tim Danahy had given her. It lay there, as yet unopened. She’d left L.A. with such high hopes, such renewed energy. But since arriving at the spa it was as though Zoe had frozen. Her mind was immobile, unable to focus on h
er future, unable to care. Unable to come to terms with what this minute, this hour, this day, could possibly matter. Never mind tomorrow.

  She walked to the glass doors that led onto the terrace and gazed out across the magnificent grounds of the Golden Key Spa, at the explosive colors of springtime azaleas, at the dogwoods, the cherry trees. In the distance Zoe could see the enormous Federal-period main house, its grand, porticoed entrance, its sweeping circular drive. She’d read in the promotional literature that the dining room was there, the library, the conservatory, the seminar salons. She wondered if she’d ever have the nerve to go there.

  Beyond the main house were what had been the stables, which, according to the brochure, had been converted into a “total fitness center.” She supposed that was where she should be right now, bending and stretching and swimming and jogging … anything to get rid of twenty pounds of excess flesh. Not today, she thought. Maybe tomorrow.

  She walked back into the room and flopped onto the overstuffed love seat. She draped her legs over the arm, the hem of her fleecy robe sneaking up to midthigh. Zoe looked at her legs. The once shapely calves, the once narrow ankles, now seemed puffed and bloated, with threadlines of spidery veins now scattered indiscriminately.

  With the tip of a finger Zoe traced the fine purple lines. She wondered if William had ever noticed them. She closed her eyes. Damn him, she thought. Damn him for leaving us. Damn him. Damn him. Damn him.

  A moment later she heard someone wail—a low, sobbing, moaning wail. Then Zoe realized the sound had come from herself. From her gut. From her twenty-pounds-too-heavy gut. From her heart.

  She lay back against the armrest and placed her hand below her chest. Around her stomach the skin was stretched too tightly, as though her pain were pressing against it from within, pushing to burst through. Suddenly tears poured from her eyes. She raised a fist and clenched it between her teeth to muffle the noise, to cushion the pain. With all the things that had happened to her over the years, Zoe knew she never would have done what William had done. Even now, to kill herself was not an option. She would never do that to her son. She would never put him through the hurt. William had not thought of that. Maybe he would have if Scott had really been his.

  Her sobbing eased. But Scott had been William’s son, hadn’t he? Not biologically, no. But only Zoe and William and Marisol had known that. At least that’s what Zoe had thought. Now she knew that Tim Danahy had never been convinced.

  But it had been William who had raised Scott. William who had held his hands when Scott took his first wobbly steps, while Zoe was still bedridden, still uncommunicative, still traumatized by the stroke. It had been William who had bought him his first catcher’s mitt, his first bicycle. It had been William who had raised him as though he were his own. Just as it had been William who had taken away Zoe’s pain when she had been left alone, pregnant. William who had adored her. Who had protected her, who had saved her from scandal. And now William had left her, too. Alone.

  He had probably killed himself because of her. He had probably known she’d never really loved him as a woman should love a man; he’d probably kept buying her things, squandering his money, because he’d thought it might make Zoe love him. And when he’d lost everything, he’d probably been afraid he would lose her, too.

  How could I have made him feel that way?

  What could I have done to change things?

  My God, this man never would have hurt me. And now he’s dead. Because of me.

  The ache in her stomach clawed through to her spine. Zoe put her hand to her mouth and bit into it. William was gone. And now she was alone, with no one to blame but herself for the problems that lay ahead. Problems she was neither emotionally nor physically equipped to handle.

  “Don’t give me no shit.” Marisol’s words suddenly sprang to her mind.

  Zoe’s eyes were dry now. She stared at the ceiling and thought about her friend. How loyal Marisol had been all these years. How much gratitude she had apparently felt toward Zoe, when it was Zoe who should have been grateful. First, for Marisol’s friendship. Now, for what she was doing, for giving her the money. But it wasn’t, Zoe knew, the money alone. What Marisol was doing now was believing in her. Maybe, Zoe realized, it was time for her to start believing in herself.

  It was obvious that Marisol didn’t think Zoe was to blame for William’s death, and whether or not she was, Zoe couldn’t let herself get tangled in the guilt. She had appeared in too many films where guilt was a destructive force; she couldn’t let it consume her own life now, for there was nothing to gain by it, and everything to lose—everything, that is, that may not have already been lost.

  She swung her legs off the arm of the sofa and sat up. It was time to face the world. She would shower, then go to the dining room and eat dinner like a normal human being. Afterward she would begin studying the damn script once and for all. It might be her only chance to keep Cedar Bluff, and Zoe knew she had to try. For Scott. For Marisol. For herself—most important, for herself. But first, dinner. She hauled herself up and headed for the bathroom, wondering what the chances were that they’d be serving Twinkies for dessert.

  A lean, fair-haired male with a tanning-booth glow and sinewy buttocks that strained the seams of his sleek pleated pants greeted Meg at the entrance to the dining room.

  “Good evening, Ms. Cooper. Did you have a good day?”

  For all the sex that oozed from his tightly cleansed pores, Meg suspected that the maître d’, like most of the staff, was instructed to look but not touch, flirt with but not fuck, the revered guests. She smiled without answering, embarrassed that even she—upright, sophisticated woman of the world—had a momentary yearning to feel his naked, hard body beside her in bed.

  “I have a nice table for you tonight,” he said as he gestured her to follow him. “By the window.”

  She kept her eyes off his ass and on the ivory carpet as he led her to a table where a plump woman in a soft yellow caftan sat, a matching silk turban around her head, her gaze fixed on the centerpiece of fresh calla lilies.

  The maître d’ pulled out a chair for Meg.

  “Enjoy your dinner,” he said, then left.

  Meg took the linen napkin from her plate and smoothed it self-consciously on her lap.

  “Do you suppose they imported him from California?” the woman in yellow asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  The woman nodded toward the entrance. “Richard. The maître d’. Every woman’s fantasy.”

  “Oh,” Meg answered. “I didn’t notice.”

  The woman looked at her and smiled. “I’m sure the management will be disappointed. I expect Richard is part of the ambience.”

  The woman had the darkest eyes Meg had ever seen. But as dark as they were, they glowed with warmth, a kind of open friendliness. They reminded Meg of something, someone, but Meg wasn’t sure who. Certainly she hadn’t seen her in any of the seminars. She would have remembered those eyes.

  “At least he’s not eighteen,” Meg said.

  “Ah,” the woman responded, and held up a hand, which Meg noticed was devoid of baubles and bangles. “That’s part of it, too. They don’t want the guests to feel they’re fantasizing about a man young enough to be their son. Or grandson.”

  Meg smiled but decided not to respond. For all she knew, this woman could be a journalist who had paid Richard to seat them together. Maybe that was why she looked so familiar.

  “Tonight they’re serving steamed sea bass,” the woman said, then laughed at Meg’s look of horror. “That was my reaction.” She held out her ringless hand. “My name’s Zoe.”

  Meg shook her hand. “Meg,” she said. “Do you come here often?”

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” Zoe said. “I don’t come here for the sea bass.”

  A waiter placed nearly translucent gold rimmed bowls in front of them. The bowls were filled with a pale liquid on which a sprig of basil floated.

  “Eggplant consommé,” Zoe sai
d. “Dig in.”

  Meg picked up her sterling-silver soup spoon and sipped the consommé. Someone, apparently, had forgotten the salt.

  “Actually, it’s my first time here,” Zoe was saying. She leaned across the table and lowered her voice. “Tell me,” she whispered. “Do the women here keep their jewelry on even when they sweat?”

  Meg couldn’t help laughing. “You sound as though you don’t feel you fit in,” she said, and wondered if this woman with the radiant dark eyes had any idea that Meg, too, didn’t belong there.

  Zoe smiled and raised her glass of mineral water. “Believe me,” she said, “I don’t.”

  Just then a small blond woman with a choker of marquis-cut diamonds at her throat appeared beside them. “This is fine, Richard,” she said in a sweet southern drawl, the kind Meg equated with pure insincerity. The woman quickly sat between Zoe and Meg. “Alissa Page,” she said, introducing herself. “From Atlanta.” She draped her napkin in her lap, propped her elbows on the table, and rested her chin on her jewel-covered fingers. “What are ya’ll having for dinner?”

  Meg shot a quick glance at Zoe and noticed the fine lines around Zoe’s eyes tighten, the soft parentheses that framed her mouth grow taut.

  The waiter arrived with Meg and Zoe’s entrées. Meg studied the small portion of colorless fish before her. Next to it lay three stalks of asparagus. A circle of Chinese red cabbage decorated with a thin slice of orange was curled around a rose-carved radish. She’d give anything for a frozen dinner. Lasagna, perhaps. Stouffer’s.

  “Unfortunately, I don’t know anyone here.” Alissa Page flitted a hand around the room, which had begun to fill. “In Beverly Hills I always know just about everyone.”

  Zoe pushed back her chair. “Excuse me, it’s time for me to place a phone call.”

  Alissa reached out and placed a hand on Zoe’s forearm. “Now I know,” she said. “You’re Zoe. The actress.”

  Zoe stood still. Meg’s napkin slid to the floor. She looked up at Zoe. Zoe? Zoe, the actress?