First Loves: A Loveswept Contemporary Romance

by Stone, Jean

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Business?”

  She folded her hands. “Yes.”

  Danny checked his watch, drained his mug, crumpled the empty waxed paper, and stood up. “Gotta run. But thanks for the company.”

  Meg nodded. “Thanks for the lunch.”

  He pitched the paper into her basket and, with a flourish and a wave, left her office.

  Meg smiled. Maybe after tomorrow she’d be able to tell Danny about Steven, something positive. Maybe she’d be able to share some good news about the man she’d once loved. Maybe after tomorrow. When she returned from Washington.

  Meg had seen his name on the directory: Senator Steven K. Riley’s office was on the third floor of the Russell Building. She knew she was taking a chance by going directly there without calling first: he could be in a meeting or he could be out of the country, for all she knew. But she’d been afraid that if she didn’t come spontaneously, she wouldn’t come at all.

  The glass door panel was stenciled Please Enter. In her hand Meg clutched her business card. It was poised, ready to show whomever she’d need to get past to see Steven. She stared at the card and thought of a torn corner of lined paper he’d once handed her after class. “Meet me at the coffee shop? Four-thirty?” it had read. There were other small notes secretly slipped between them over their thirteen weeks of bliss. She had saved them for years, love tucked away, sealed in a shoe box, safely hidden where it could not hurt. But when she’d moved to her brownstone, she’d trashed the shoe box without cutting the tape that held it fast, without reopening the wounds. The wounds that, Meg realized now, had never really healed at all.

  She looked back to the sign, drew in a deep breath, turned the brass handle, and opened the door.

  It was a surprisingly small office. A gray-haired woman sat at one desk, a dark-haired college-age boy at another. They both glanced up at Meg.

  “Good morning,” Meg said nervously. She passed her card to the woman, who seemed to be the one in charge. “I am Attorney Cooper. I’m wondering if the senator is available.”

  The woman studied the card. The young man returned to his work.

  “Do you have an appointment?” the woman asked.

  “No. I’m in Washington on business, and I have some free time. There are some matters I’d like to discuss with Senator Riley.”

  The woman looked at the card again, then up at the large round clock on the wall over a filing cabinet. “He’s due on the floor for a vote in twenty minutes. But I’ll give him your card. Have a seat.”

  Meg was too nervous to move. She tried to smile, but the muscles in her face were glued together with fear. He was there. Steven was actually there.

  The woman took Meg’s card, got up, and walked to another door. She knocked twice, opened it, then disappeared inside. Steven was actually there. Behind that door.

  Her hands grew cold. She wrung them together. She wanted to run, but her feet seemed bolted to the floor. Her thoughts raced so fast she couldn’t focus on them.

  She scanned the room. The young man quietly worked. He looked up at her, she caught his eye. She tried to smile again. This time it seemed to work. Sort of. Suddenly a thought gelled in her mind. One thought, and only one:

  Am I nuts?

  She snapped her gaze back to the woman’s desk. Meg stared at a stack of papers and wished she’d learned how to find her damned center at the spa, wished she’d never gone there, wished she’d never come here, and wondered what the hell she was supposed to do now.

  This had been too easy. Steven was a United States senator, for godsake. He traveled all over the world. He had meetings, luncheons, responsibilities, commitments. It was unbelievable that he was here, in his office, at the very moment she had come to him after fifteen years. Unbelievable. Or destiny.

  She flicked her gaze around the neat, well-organized room, at the rows of wooden filing cabinets, at the portrait of the President on the wall. She wondered if it was mandatory for every senator to display a photo of the President, even if they weren’t in the same political party. She was glad she wasn’t required to have a portrait of her boss in her office. Looking at an image of George Bascomb every day would be nauseating.

  God, she thought, what am I thinking? This man was the President. This was a United States Senate office building. This is Steven Riley’s office.

  The door to the inner office opened again. The woman stepped out and closed it behind her. She no longer had Meg’s card in her hand.

  “Have a seat,” she repeated, and motioned to a wooden chair against the wall. “He’ll be a few minutes.”

  The gods intervened, unbolted her legs, and made it possible for Meg to walk to the chair. She sat. He’s holding my card right now, she thought. He’s holding my card and he knows I’m out here. It was too late to run. Or was it?

  She crossed her legs and tried to act professionally. What was he thinking right this minute? Was he in shock? Was he angry? Was he pleased? Or was he merely amused? Once he’d told her she should be more spontaneous. Would he consider this spontaneity? Even though it had taken her fifteen years? Or worse, would he even remember he’d told her that?

  She looked at the clock. Only fourteen minutes until he was due on the Senate floor.

  She should have called first. But that would have been too risky. If she was going to talk to Steven Riley at all, Meg had known it had to be somewhere public where she could see him face-to-face. Where she could feel her reaction, where she could sense his. Then she would know if this was the right thing to do. Then she would know if she still loved him.

  She also knew she had to see him in public. If she was alone when she talked to him for the first time in all those years, she knew her emotions wouldn’t stand a chance. There would be no need to put on her courtroom demeanor, her career-carved aloofness, her mask. No, it was better to see him in public, where others might overhear, where she’d have to keep her words, and her feelings, under control.

  The woman glanced over at Meg. Meg realized she must have been staring at her. God, who must this woman think I am? Does my nervousness show? Would I act this way if this truly were a professional visit?

  She studied her feet. She wished she’d taken the time to polish her taupe-colored shoes. She closed her eyes, and without expecting to, without wanting to, she felt the lightness of his touch on her breasts. Softly, gently, as though his fingers were still there, had still been there, even after all this time. She wondered if he touched his wife’s breasts. She wondered if he made them ache with longing the way he’d always done with hers.

  She opened her eyes. Candace. That was her name. As if Meg would ever, could ever, forget. And his sons. Michael. Kevin. Sean. She’d known their names as if they’d been her own.

  The kids were grown now. Probably all out of college. They’d been spared the scars of being raised in a broken home. At least she’d done one thing right.

  She looked back at the clock. Nine minutes until he had to leave. Was there another door in his office? Hadn’t she seen a movie once in which the senator dodged reporters by sneaking out a back door? And isn’t that what she had wanted to do in her own office so many times?

  “The senator is a very busy man.”

  The woman’s voice startled Meg. She tried to smile again. “Perhaps I should come back another time.”

  “It’s best to make an appointment.”

  “Oh. Of course.” The woman’s tone was pleasant, but her intent was clear. Meg was being dismissed.

  She stood and went to the woman’s desk.

  “You must understand that even with an appointment,” the woman said, “he’s often called away at the last minute.”

  The brush-off, Meg thought. I’m getting the brush-off. Steven had probably told her to have me wait a few minutes, then get rid of me. Steven probably had sneaked through the back door to get to the Senate. Or maybe there never was a vote at all. Maybe that was a standard excuse used for all unexpected visitors. For all unwa
nted ones.

  An odd numbness swept through her, as though she had lost someone, as though someone had died. There was no pain, no hurt, no ache. Only numbness. She mechanically reached into her purse and took out another card. “I’m leaving to return to New York now,” she said. “If you’ll just give him my card …”

  “I already gave him one.”

  Meg hesitated, then put her card back in her purse. “That’s right,” she said. “You did.”

  She snapped her purse closed. Fifteen years was such a long time. Alissa had suggested that maybe Steven wasn’t happy. Alissa suggested it, and Meg foolishly wanted to believe it. But there were so many things she didn’t know about Steven’s life now, she tried to reason. There were so many things she didn’t know about him.

  And there were so many things that Steven didn’t know about her. He didn’t know how much she’d loved him, that she’d never loved him more than on that day she told him to leave. He didn’t know that she had never loved another. Not in all these years.

  He didn’t know about the abortion.

  As she started to leave, the door to the inner office opened.

  “Meg?”

  Though nearly fifty, Steven Riley was handsomer now than when she’d been in law school. Not that she needed to see him face-to-face to know that. She knew from the frequent photos in the Times, Newsweek, and other reputable journals—never the tabloids, for he apparently now led a model life above reproach. They had never connected him to the scandalous photo at Harvard.

  “Hello, Steven,” she said. The sound of her voice surprised her. She hadn’t been sure she’d be able to speak. She studied him slowly. His dark hair was graying at the temples. His beautiful smile was perfect and white. He’s had his teeth capped, she thought. Just like in my dream.

  She realized he was holding out his hand. She hesitated, then reached out to shake it. Their palms touched. The heat of his flesh on hers sent a wave of contentment through Meg. This is the man I still love, she thought. This man is my center.

  Their eyes locked. His were still so blue. A deep ink-blue, the color of cobalt, of the sea at dusk in winter. They looked happy, and yet they looked sad.

  “Senator, you don’t want to be late.” It was the woman’s voice.

  Steven released his grasp and straightened his tie. “On my way, Edith,” he said, without taking his eyes from Meg. “I’m afraid I’m pressed for time, but would you like to walk over to the Capitol? We could talk on the way.”

  Meg nodded. Steven started toward the door.

  “Senator? Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  Steven turned. The woman held out a file folder.

  “Right,” he said, and took the folder. “I’ll be back who knows when.” He turned back to Meg and placed his hand on her elbow. “Let’s go.”

  They took many steps down the long, hollow hall before either of them spoke. Finally, it was Steven.

  “I saw you at Avery’s funeral.”

  Meg felt a lump in her throat. “We got your card.”

  “It’s a shame about him.”

  “Yes.”

  “He would have made a great politician.”

  “Yes.”

  They walked quickly, Meg’s heels echoing in the corridor. She grasped her purse tightly, afraid it would slip from her hand. She clutched it—her anchor—as though it were keeping her upright, the only tangible thing preventing her from sliding to the floor. She couldn’t believe she was there. She couldn’t believe Steven was beside her.

  “You look wonderful, Meg.”

  “So do you.” She stared straight ahead, afraid to look at him again, afraid to look into his eyes. But his eyes were on her, steady, staring, transfixed.

  He coughed a little. Meg was jolted by the sound. Steven had always coughed that little cough just before he started class, just before he gave a speech, whenever he was nervous. He had coughed it just before he’d told her he wanted to divorce his wife and marry her.

  “Should I ask why you’ve come?” he asked now.

  She gripped her purse more tightly. “No special reason. To see you, I guess.”

  “It’s been a long time.”

  “Yes.”

  She felt as though she were in a trance. Her body was weightless, her senses dulled. She couldn’t think of anything to say. And yet how many times throughout the years had she played this scene over and over in her thoughts? How many times had she written clever dialogue in her mind, as if it were an opening argument at the most important trial of her life? If I ever see Steven again, I’m going to say … what? But Meg didn’t know the words now. She only knew she felt so right, so comfortable, walking next to him.

  “You’ve made quite a name for yourself,” he said.

  “You, too.”

  “I was surprised you went into criminal law. I thought your passion was with family law. Women’s rights.”

  Meg swallowed. He was right. Back when she was young and idealistic, she had wanted to help people. She had wanted to do something meaningful. After they had broken up, that had changed. There was no money in being anyone’s savior. “I changed my mind,” she said.

  “That’s too bad. You really cared. You would have been great. Still, you’ve made quite a career for yourself.”

  Meg walked silently, wondering if Steven was disappointed in her. She had never intended to serve only those whose checkbooks were fat with retainers. Had she screwed things up? Instead of dealing with people and problems and feelings, she had turned to the rich, the famous, the ones it was easy to walk away from at the end of the trial, and then not to look back. She felt her chest tighten. She had sold out for the money. And he had noticed. Because it was something Steven never would have done.

  “I also noticed you still go by the name Cooper.”

  Meg pushed a strand of hair from her face and risked a glance at Steven. His eyes told her this wasn’t small talk or mere curiosity. She looked straight ahead again. “I never married,” she said.

  People filtered into the corridor, talking, laughing, walking quickly. They approached the elevator, then stepped inside. Others joined them. On the slow descent Meg kept her eyes focused on the elevator doors. Steven was beside her, yet they did not look at one another, they did not speak. They did not touch.

  The doors opened. She followed Steven’s lead past a sign that directed them to a tunnel. Steven slowed his pace to let the others pass. Then he took a deep breath.

  “I never thought I’d see you again,” he said in a low voice.

  Meg nodded. “It’s a surprise to me, too.”

  They walked a few more steps.

  “You hurt me, you know,” he said.

  “I know.” She didn’t add that she’d been hurting, too. More than he’d ever know.

  “I never got over you,” he said.

  She didn’t reply.

  The tunnel was crowded. Several motorized carts transported gray-suited men and navy-suited women, while, along with other walkers, Meg and Steven moved through the tunnel with the rapid pace of brokers moving down Wall Street at nine-fifteen. Meg’s calves were beginning to ache.

  They reached the other side and the crowd spread out. At the doors of another elevator Steven took Meg aside.

  “I have to go now,” he said as he looked deeply into her eyes once again. “Will you be in town long?”

  Meg wanted to throw her arms around him. She wanted to feel him hold her, hug her, never let go. “That depends,” she said.

  “On what?”

  “On if we can get together, I guess.”

  Those cobalt eyes scanned her face, her eyes, her nose, her lips. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a business card. “This is the name of a small inn just outside the city. It’s discreet.” He smiled, as if to take the edge off the word, as if to soften the reason he needed to use it. “We can talk there. In the lounge. Would that be okay?”

  M
eg took the card. She glanced at the address. She looked back at him with a warmer heart, a quicker pulse, and a more hopeful, joyous feeling about life than she’d known in a long, long time.

  “Seven o’clock?” Steven asked.

  A bell sounded. Meg instinctively knew Steven had to leave.

  “Seven it is,” she said.

  Their eyes held a moment longer. “Steven?” she asked. “Your middle initial. K. What does it stand for?”

  He smiled. “Kenefick. My mother’s maiden name.” Of course, Meg thought. That was something that rich people did. Not people from Bridgeport. He reached up and brushed his fingers over her cheek, then turned and disappeared. She leaned against the wall, clasping the card in her hand, nearly oblivious to the people who rushed past her.

  When she stood alone at the mouth of the tunnel, Meg looked at the card again. “The Bridge of Flowers Inn,” he had written. What a lovely name, Meg thought. What a lovely name for a place to fall in love again.

  She turned the card over. Her name and address were printed on the other side. She stared at it. Steven had given her back her card. Nausea washed over her. Of course he’d had to return it. He wouldn’t have wanted his wife to find it tucked in the pocket of his suit.

  It was only three o’clock. Meg sat on the concrete bench in front of the Lincoln Memorial. She had walked around Washington, been to the Smithsonian, visited the Vietnam Memorial. Nothing could take her mind off meeting Steven that night; nothing could make the hands of her watch move any more slowly.

  She wished she had a hotel room. She wished she could shower, change her clothes. A beige linen suit was hardly what she wanted to wear for what could become a romantic evening with the man she’d once loved. Still loved.

  Fool, she thought. For once in your life, go with your emotions.

  She picked up her purse. There were plenty of credit cards inside. She’d get a hotel room, buy a new dress, fix herself up. She winced at the reminder that she couldn’t have afforded this if she’d become the lawyer of the needy, as she’d once intended. She forced the thought away and tried to focus on Steven. She’d go back to New York tomorrow. Then the evening with Steven could last as long as he wanted. Maybe it could last until breakfast. A shiver rushed up her spine. A tingle of adrenaline kicked in.