First Loves: A Loveswept Contemporary Romance

by Stone, Jean

  “My God,” Alissa said quietly, “I thought you were dead.”

  Zoe pulled out the chair and sat back down. “I might as well have been.” She quickly gave Meg a tentative glance.

  Of course, she is Zoe, the actress, Meg thought. That’s where I’ve seen those dark eyes before. Meg wanted to disappear under the table. Zoe, the actress. Not a tabloid reporter on a Meg Cooper hunt. Only Zoe, the actress. One of the most famous women in the world.

  “I never thought I’d meet Zoe in Massachusetts, of all places,” Alissa said.

  “I’m on vacation. And trying, without success, I’m afraid, to remain incognito.”

  Alissa put a hand to her mouth. “That’s right. Your husband just died.”

  Meg was too surprised to speak. She watched the dark eyes coat with tears, the dark eyes of Zoe, once the actress, now, apparently, the widow. She wondered who this Alissa Page woman was, and how she knew so damn much.

  “William died a couple of weeks ago,” Zoe answered.

  “I am so sorry,” Alissa said. Her voice almost sounded sincere. “I saw the obituary on your husband. It mentioned you, of course. But … it’s been so long …”

  “Since my last film,” Zoe said, finishing Alissa’s thought.

  “Yes. Well, yes,” Alissa said, then flashed her diamonds again. “But don’t worry about me. I won’t tell anyone who you are.”

  Meg tried to read Alissa’s eyes as though she were a client, but the woman was inscrutable. She looked back to Zoe. “I’m sorry, too,” Meg murmured, then added, “I didn’t know …” She didn’t know what else to say. She felt, to say the least, ridiculous.

  “I worked with your husband,” Alissa continued.

  Zoe’s eyebrows raised. “You worked with William?”

  “Over the years,” Alissa was saying, “your husband generously arranged for more than one of his clients to be guests at some of the charity events I support.”

  “William was very generous,” Zoe replied. She turned to Meg. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I guess I assumed you knew who I was.”

  Meg picked up her fork and pushed some flakes of fish around her plate. “I should have,” she said. “I’ve seen all your films. I admire your work tremendously.”

  Zoe’s smile returned. She patted Meg’s hand. “You must have a good memory.”

  The waiter appeared with the consommé for Alissa. “I’m not terribly hungry tonight,” the lady from Atlanta protested.

  Zoe leaned toward her. “Please. Take the soup. And the breadsticks. If you don’t eat them,” she said as she pointed to Meg, “My friend here will. I think she’s starving.”

  Alissa turned back to the waiter. “Forget the breadsticks. Bring your famous sourdough dill rolls. Three. With butter.” Meg noticed that the syrup in Alissa’s voice was gone, replaced by a tone of take-charge firmness.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the waiter replied, and walked away.

  Meg laughed. “I didn’t think you could do that here!”

  “I know the ropes at these spas,” Alissa said with a grin. “You’ve been to one, you’ve been to them all.” To Zoe she said, “I’ll never forget the time your husband arranged for Dawn Michaels to sing at our Peachtree Festival. It was the year she’d won three Grammys, and that movie she starred in—what was the name of it? Glory Days? Something trite like that …”

  “Yes. Glory Days.”

  “Well, unbelievably, it was number one at the box office, so the timing was incredible. We had a phenomenal turnout.

  “I’ll bet you’re thinking about making a comeback.”

  Alissa’s abrupt comment seemed to catch Zoe off guard. “Yes I am,” Zoe admitted. “After I’ve taken off a few pounds and got myself back into shape. If I can.”

  Alissa stared at Zoe, her expression again unreadable. “Of course you can. And you will. We’ll make sure that you do.” She turned to Meg. “Won’t we … oh,” she said, a slight scowl on her face. “I didn’t get your name.”

  Meg hesitated. She didn’t want visibility. She didn’t want notoriety. But then again, who would care who she was, with Zoe—God, Zoe—sitting at her table? “I’m Meg,” she answered. “Meg Cooper.”

  “Well, then, Meg Cooper, we have a job to do. We’re going to get the famous Zoe back into shape.” She waved a gold-bangled wrist. “We’ll start with step aerobics. Seven A.M. I’ve been to enough of these places to know what works and what doesn’t.” She scanned her gaze over Meg. “From the looks of things, you have too.”

  Meg laughed again. “Not really, this is my first time.”

  Alissa pressed her fingers to her temples. “Ah,” she moaned. “Amateurs. I’m surrounded by amateurs. Well, we’ll manage.” She pushed the gold bangles up her arm. “If you don’t come to spas, Meg Cooper, what on earth do you do to look so good?”

  “I walk a lot. I live in New York City.”

  “Oh, good heavens,” Alissa said. “Your feet must be flat. No offense, it just makes me feel better to think you have a flaw.”

  Meg smiled and shook her head.

  Zoe laughed. “What do you do in New York, Meg?”

  “I’m an attorney.”

  “A lawyer?” Zoe asked.

  “Corporate lawyer, no doubt,” Alissa said.

  “No,” Meg replied. “I’m afraid I’m the worst kind. I’m a criminal lawyer.”

  “That’s hardly the worst kind,” Alissa said. “I’d say the worst kind is the bunch who push fradulent malpractice … hey. Wait a minute. You’re that lawyer who’s always on the news.”

  Meg stared into the centerpiece.

  “You defended that … that Holly Davidson.”

  Meg swallowed air. “I’m afraid so.”

  “It seems I’m not the only celebrity in the group,” Zoe said as she placed a hand on Meg’s arm. “Good. Believe it or not, I hate being the center of attention.”

  “So,” Meg said quietly, “do I.”

  Alissa couldn’t believe her luck. She let herself into her suite, kicked off her shoes, and lit a cigarette. Then she flopped onto the lounger and started to laugh. She couldn’t believe she’d landed at the table with Zoe, for godsake, and that high-voltage lawyer. Of all the people she could use right now, these two were perfect. And use them she would. For Alissa Page knew how to seize opportunity. She flicked her ashes at the marble candy dish. Starting at seven tomorrow morning, Alissa would take the first step toward creating the gala of the century, after all. And the best part was she wouldn’t have to worry about getting Ted Turner and Jane, for her connections had—amazingly, incredibly—just fallen into her deserving lap.

  5

  She’d been here a week and a half, and for the first time in more years than she could remember, Meg was having fun. She stood in her bra and panties, sifting through the warm-up suits in the closet, humming a long-forgotten Carole King song, her feet tapping to the beat. She found what she was looking for: the pearl-gray silk shirt-dress that she’d worn on the plane. She held it up: it was, like all her clothes, conservative, screaming “Park Avenue attorney” in an understated, exceedingly dull way. But Meg wasn’t going to put on preworkout, or workout, or after-workout attire later that night: a few moments ago at breakfast Alissa had announced it was time for a much-deserved escape. Meg, Zoe, and Alissa would have dinner in town, complete with plenty of calories and a bottle of wine. She hung the dress on the shower rod in hopes that the wrinkles would fall by evening and decided that no matter where they wound up, she’d order a cheeseburger, cole slaw, and a pound of fries. She was starved.

  She pulled the rubber band from her ponytail, sat on the vanity stool, and began brushing her hair. Then her hand stopped, and Meg smiled into the mirror, remembering what Alissa had said the night before. “You need to let your hair down, kid. You’re as tight as a spinster who’s never been laid.”

  And though Meg was far from a virgin, she supposed she was, in reality, a “spinster.” Over thirty—hell, nearly forty—and s
ingle, with no hot, or even lukewarm, prospects. Maybe tonight she’d meet a silver-haired, dashing Prince Charming who would sweep her off her non-flat feet and they would live happily ever after. Maybe not. But she was, at least, letting her hair down now. She resumed brushing the thick coppery mass and wondered why she so readily did everything Alissa suggested.

  Because, she thought, Alissa Page makes me laugh. And for years no one but Danny Gordon has made me laugh.

  Last night before dinner Alissa had found Meg reading Law Practice Management—a publication of the Bar Association. She’d put her hands on her hips and groaned. “You’re hopeless, Meg Cooper. You’re supposed to be on vacation.”

  Meg had quickly closed the magazine, embarrassed that she’d been caught. “I was just reading one article.…”

  “Article, schmarticle,” Alissa had said as she’d grabbed the magazine from Meg’s hand. “There’ll be no more of this. ‘Just one article. I promise I won’t do it again,’ ” she had whined. “You act like you’re in withdrawal.”

  Meg had giggled. “I’m a lawyer, Alissa. Not a junkie.”

  “No difference. Power is power, whether you’re powerful, or powerless. Either way, it sucks.”

  Yes, Meg thought as she braided her hair in a single plait that fell past her shoulders. Alissa Page, with all her bold, caustic honesty, makes me laugh. As for Zoe—well, Zoe was wonderful. Warm, loving, funny. And as determined as Meg and Alissa were to help Zoe reclaim her star’s appearance, Zoe had sided with Alissa to help Meg see there was more to life than the law, courtrooms, and careers.

  “Don’t ever think your career can replace the really important things in life,” Zoe had told her one afternoon by the pool. “Or you’ll wake up one day and find your life isn’t what you meant it to be.”

  Meg didn’t understand how Zoe could know that. Zoe, after all, had relinquished her career years ago, a step that Meg assumed she’d taken to devote herself to her family. Still, Zoe’s words of caution seemed, as Zoe herself, genuine.

  Meg checked her watch. She sighed and went to the closet to get out another pair of sweats. It was time to meet Zoe in the pedicure salon—for yet another appointment that had been “Alissa-arranged.” As she slid the soft pants up to her waist, Meg remembered that she’d soon be returning to the city. She realized she would miss Zoe and Alissa. And she would miss the Golden Key Spa. But no matter if she never saw them again, she’d have to thank Avery for forcing her to come. Then again, if she met Prince Charming later that night, maybe he would thank him for her.

  Zoe lay back on the recliner, letting the soothing, steamy moisture of the herbal wrap soak into her pores. For nine days now she had been oiled and scrubbed and massaged and creamed. Pampered. Even better, she had begun to drop weight. Somehow Alissa had arranged for private aerobics classes for the three of them—Zoe, Alissa, and Meg. “Money, influence, and balls will get you anything,” Alissa had said with a wink. “But, of course, you two already knew that.”

  Zoe did know that. She also knew she no longer had money and, therefore, probably little influence, and she had never been one to have “balls.” And Zoe suspected that Meg, for all Meg’s cool facade of control, was also lacking those qualities contained in that missing link, that symbol of maleness, that gender-driven pair of rocks that did, so often it seemed, get one anything.

  She shifted slightly under the menthol-scented wrap and realized that what was making the Golden Key fun was that Alissa had balls enough for them all.

  The three women had been taking their meals together in Alissa’s suite. In the evenings Alissa made sure that Zoe retreated to her room to study her script. Zoe didn’t question why Alissa was putting herself out for them. She didn’t want to think beyond the present toward screen tests and bankers and balloon payments due. For now Alissa was a godsend—Zoe needed to be bossed around. Perhaps Meg did, too.

  The attendant adjusted another herb-soaked sheet around Zoe’s thighs, which were no longer as puffy as they had been. Between the three quarts of mineral water she was consuming each day, and the grueling workouts, Zoe could feel her body trimming, toning, and tightening. And with every day that passed, she felt her confidence slowly returning.

  “Zoe, are you under there?” It was Meg’s voice.

  “Sort of,” Zoe mumbled.

  “How much longer will you be? Alissa made pedicure appointments for us in ten minutes.”

  Zoe smiled. In Alissa’s frenetic quest to recreate Zoe’s body and soul, she was leaving little time to waste on self-doubt.

  Alissa went into the bathroom of her suite, popped a Fiorinal, rubbed her pounding temples, and wondered why in the hell she felt guilty. It wasn’t as though Zoe or Meg could figure out that the only reason she wanted to get them away from the spa that night was to solidify their friendship, to further her plans for the greatest, grandest gala on the globe. So what if they laughed at her jokes and did positively everything she suggested, without question? So what if they were … nice? So what? It wasn’t as though she owed them shit.

  Still … there was something in that look of thanks in Zoe’s eyes this morning at breakfast that made Alissa want to vomit. It was just so damn … real. Not like the “thank-you-darlings” of the Betty Wentworth and Sue Ellen Jamison types. Not like what Alissa was used to, what Alissa could handle.

  “You’ll never know what you’ve done for me.” It was all Zoe had said. But it was enough. Because those huge, dark cow eyes had filled in the rest.

  She went into the living room and stretched out on the sofa, covering her too-tight forehead, shielding the light from her eyes.

  A flash of Polly and LuAnn sprang to her mind. They had used Alissa, they had used her for Aunt Helma’s clothes. People always used people, didn’t they? Always did, always would.

  Robert had been using her for years. The gracious hostess, the charming wife. The perfect cover.

  Now Alissa was using Zoe and Meg. So what? Didn’t she deserve a little happiness? A little subtle revenge?

  She took a deep breath, sat up, and lit a cigarette. So nothing. She and Zoe and Meg would go out that evening. They would have a few laughs. She would win their trust and their friendship, and, come autumn, her ultimate prize—the gala of the century, an event extraordinaire.

  Alissa took a drag on her cigarette and prayed her headache would subside.

  The European chairs in the pedicure salon were complete with lumbar massage and a tiny, sudsy whirlpool at the base to therapeutically bathe the feet from, in Alissa’s words, “the bottoms of your heels to the tips of your little toes.” But Meg’s toes had barely had a chance to tingle when the girl she recognized from the front desk burst in.

  “Ms. Cooper?” she asked. “There’s a phone call for you. He said it’s urgent.”

  Meg stiffened in the chair. “He.” It must be Avery. “Just checking in,” he’d say. More like checking “up” than “in.”

  “He said to say it’s Danny. From New York.”

  Danny? She stared into the soapy water. Why was Danny calling? A flush of heat crept into her neck. If Danny was calling, he must need her for something. Something important.

  “Would you like a cordless phone?” the girl asked.

  Meg quickly scanned the female-filled room. Too many bodies, too many pairs of ears. “No,” she said as she pulled her feet from the whirlpool. “Transfer it to my suite.”

  “Is everything okay?” Zoe asked from the chair beside her.

  Meg shrugged. “We’ll see,” she answered with a steadiness she did not feel.

  Once outside the salon, Meg raced toward the west wing. If Danny was calling, something was probably wrong. A case must have come in that he thought she should know about. But it must be a big one. And it must be something Avery was dragging his heels on or he would have called her himself. She would, after all, be back in the city in two days.

  She jammed the key card into her door and ran into the room, conscious that her adrenaline was p
umping. No matter how hard Zoe and Alissa tried to convince her otherwise, her career was important. It defined her; it gave her reason to live.

  The phone was ringing. Meg dashed to the table and grabbed the receiver.

  “Danny?”

  “Meg. I’m glad I got you.”

  “What’s up?” She was breathless, panting.

  “Bad news.”

  “What, for godsake?”

  “It’s Avery.”

  “What’s he done?”

  There was a pause. “Take a deep breath, babe.”

  She did. “Okay,” she said, then took another.”What has Avery done?’

  “Avery,” he said, “is dead.”

  She held the phone to her ear. She stared at the floor. She did not move. She must have heard Danny wrong. “What did you say?” she asked.

  Danny cleared his throat. “Avery’s dead. Heart attack. This morning.”

  She slumped onto the sofa. “Shit.”

  There was a silence a moment, then Danny said, “I knew you’d want to know right away.”

  She pictured her boss, senior partner of the firm, peering at her over half glasses, a fatherly look on his face. “Yeah. Yeah, thanks. Where’d it happen?”

  “At home.”

  “Shit.” Avery, like herself, lived alone. His wife had died many years ago; he’d turned all his time and energy into the firm, working by day, socializing with clients by night. Being visible but, still, alone. “Who found him?”

  “The housekeeper.”

  It could have been worse. If he’d dropped dead at a party, a cocktail in one hand, a group of impressionable people surrounding him, Avery would have been humiliated. In the throes of death his mask would have been gone. He would have appeared human.

  “When are you coming back?” Danny was asking.

  “The day after tomorrow.”

  “Make it tomorrow night, okay? The funeral’s set for the next morning. At St. Patrick’s.”

  Meg was silent. It was so hard to believe this was happening. It was so hard to believe he’d never coach her or praise her or scold her again. She would never again hear the wisdom of his experience.