First Loves: A Loveswept Contemporary Romance

by Stone, Jean

  She shook her head. “I can’t.” She turned away again.

  He lay back and sighed. “After all this time, I still love you,” he said.

  She blinked back tears.

  “I can’t believe you don’t still love me, too.”

  She turned on her side and faced the wall. She drew up her knees and wrapped her arms around herself.

  “Why did you come back, Meg? If you didn’t still love me, why did you come back into my life?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered, and at that moment she almost believed it. Had the prospect of seeing him again clouded her judgment? Had she actually believed she could pretend the abortion had never happened, that it no longer mattered? She thought about her empty brownstone, her empty years. Steven was offering her the chance to reclaim what she’d once given up. But would he feel the same if he knew what she had done to their unborn child?

  “Will you think about it?” he asked.

  She remained quiet, wishing she had never met Alissa Page, wishing she had never let herself be talked into this charade, wishing she had kept the pain buried deep, where it belonged.

  She sensed him get out of bed. She heard the sounds of clothes rustling, of a zipper being zipped, a buckle being buckled. He walked to her side of the bed, leaned down, and kissed her forehead.

  “I will never stop loving you,” he said.

  She saw his shadow walk toward the door. He turned the handle; the door opened. A catch came into her throat. If he loved her, maybe he could forgive her. Maybe she could find the courage to tell him.

  “Steven?” Meg whispered.

  The shadow stopped.

  “Call me,” she said. “I want to see you again.”

  He paused in the doorway. “I will,” he answered, and then he was gone.

  Meg lay quietly a moment. Then she turned over, reached out, and pulled his pillow against her. It wasn’t long before she was asleep, the scent, the touch, the taste of Steven lingering on her lips.

  10

  Cristal champagne seemed rather absurd at a gala to benefit the homeless. But when Alissa mentioned her misgivings to Betty Wentworth, Betty smiled and said, “What would you prefer, my dear? To serve our guests cheap wine in bottles hidden by brown paper bags?”

  The half-dozen other ladies seated around Sue Ellen Jamison’s formal dining-room table giggled.

  Alissa seethed. “Well, it is completely inappropriate. And if I’m going to continue to chair this gala, I suggest we change it. Now.”

  No one spoke. Finally Betty Wentworth stood up. Her matronly beige twill coatdress was creased across her thick middle. “I don’t think I have to remind you, Alissa, that you put me in charge of the theme for the gala,” she said with decided authority.

  I did it because your son was fucking my daughter, Alissa wanted to say. And, she at last admitted to herself, maybe because I wanted to shake up Grant, your sleazeball husband.

  “The theme I’ve selected,” Betty continued, “is ‘Another Day in Paradise,’ like the song. If we make people realize how lucky they are to be a part of the society that matters, they will dig deeper into their pockets. We will raise more money.”

  “By making them feel uncomfortable?” Alissa asked.

  “They won’t feel uncomfortable, darling,” Betty went on. “They’ll feel at home. Then they’ll know how lucky they are. She walked around the table and stood behind Sue Ellen, posed as the matriarch at the head of the table, beneath one of the three prismed chandeliers that hung above. “We’ve even decided to rent Baccarat flutes.”

  “Baccarat crystal? At an event for twelve hundred?”

  Betty smiled. Sue Ellen smiled. The others around the table smiled. “Danforth properties is underwriting the cost,” Sue Ellen said.

  Alissa boiled. She knew how to plan parties, and she was damn successful at it. And one thing she knew was where to draw the line. It didn’t matter if Betty Wentworth told that asshole husabnd of hers that their company would underwrite every last dime, Cristal champagne out of Baccarat flutes would make a mockery out of the homeless.

  “And since our theme ‘Paradise’ triggers thoughts of the Garden of Eden,” Betty jabbered, “our goody bags will have tiny silver apples, with a bite taken out. Those perfume bottles in drawstring pouches have become so overdone.”

  Alissa said nothing. The goody bags were, of course, one of the highlights of the evening for every female in attendance. But sterling apples? The media would be certain to pick up on the fact that while the homeless soup kitchens had little fresh fruit, the fruits of the rich were handcrafted of silver.

  “Isn’t she brilliant?” Sue Ellen asked.

  Alissa stood. “No,” she said as she gathered the notes and index cards in front of her. “Betty isn’t brilliant at all. She’s a complete idiot. And so are the rest of you if you go along with this.” She tucked her papers into her bag and marched from the room, across the huge marble foyer, and straight out Sue Ellen Jamison’s double teakwood front doors.

  She jumped into her car, gunned the engine, and roared out the circular drive. It wasn’t until she was a mile down the road that Alissa pulled over, stopped the car, and began to shake.

  She knew that ever since she’d come home from the spa, she’d been distracted. Zoe’s phone call hadn’t helped. Seeing Jay—or, rather, a flash of Jay—hearing his voice, had jarred her in a way she hadn’t expected. She’d spent these past days trying to avoid Robert. And making phone calls. She’d started with Global News. It had taken two weeks and about two-dozen calls to uncover that Jay didn’t work for Global, that he was hired as a stringer to cover a specific story. No one seemed to know where he worked. She’d put in calls to Danny Gordon: he was out, he was tied up, he’d get back to her.

  She lit a cigarette and rested her head against the car window. The search to find Jay had become an obsession. Until today she’d skipped the WFFA committee meetings. But when she’d awakened this morning, Alissa knew she was in trouble. She’d dreamed about Jay—a sensual, erotic dream. They were making love on desert sand, somewhere far away. She clung to the buttons on his khaki jacket while he moved above her, the sharp sun burning over his head, the needlelike grains of earth digging into her wet, naked ass. And when she cried out in orgasm, Alissa awoke. She was crying, her arms were outstretched, grasping the air, and her clitoris was thumping from the touch that wasn’t there, hadn’t been there, might never be there again.

  She had to do something to get him out of her mind. The gala was her only escape. She’d showered and dressed in her finest silk ladies’-luncheon attire and put on her hostess-of-Atlanta face. Maybe today she would hint that someone delectably famous would headline the gala; maybe she’d whet their appetites just a little. She knew they’d been making plans in her absence, but she’d had no idea how incredibly bad they were fucking things up. She blew out a stream of smoke and tapped her fingernails on the steering wheel. They were turning the gala into a three-ring circus, one that the media would cover only if they layered it with sarcasm. And Alissa Page—the chairperson—would be the laughingstock of the social pages.

  She rolled down her window and flung her cigarette into the street. Screw them, she thought as she jammed her car into gear and spun back onto the street, tires squealing, gravel spitting behind her wheels.

  Back at her house Alissa went into the library and picked up the phone. She punched in the numbers. The phone rang twice; then a machine clicked on: “Hi, this is Danny Gordon. You know what to do.” The machine beeped. Arrogant bastard, Alissa thought, then said, “Danny, this is Alissa Page. I haven’t heard from you. I assume that means you’re working diligently to resolve my case, so call me, goddamit.” She slammed the receiver back into the cradle.

  She crossed the room and snapped on the television. She sat on the leather sofa and looked at the screen. Several lower-middle-class people were lined up in chairs on a stage, talking about incest. Phil Donahue appeared. Alissa picked up the remot
e and muted the volume. She stared at the mouths, opening and closing, opening and closing. Wasting time, wasting time.

  One of my daughters will be on this show one day, she thought. One of my daughters will be on this show talking about her homosexual father. She wondered what it would be like to be Meg Cooper, completely independent, totally free, unencumbered by daughters or a husband, or the need to be constantly “on.” How glorious it must feel not to have the pressure of having to be places, having to be seen, having always, always, to keep up appearances.

  The words of Aunt Helma, once emblazoned into her little-girl mind, echoed now in her thoughts:

  “That dress is ugly.”

  “Your friend is beneath us.”

  “If you really want us to be proud of you, make something of yourself.”

  Make something of herself? Had Alissa accomplished that by obsessing over her looks, marrying the “right” man, keeping her social calendar filled? And why in hell was she still trying to make her aunt proud of her? She had been dead for nearly a decade. And how proud would Aunt Helma be if she knew what was really going on in her life?

  She clicked off the television and closed her eyes. She was forty-two years old: her choices had been made. Even her fantasy of seeing Jay again was probably only that—a fantasy. For now she would do what she’d been doing: she would go on. And once again she’d have to prove her importance. She would swallow her pride and continue with the gala, try to undo the mess the others had made. She’d call Zoe and convince her to be part of the gala. Then the world would know Alissa Page wasn’t just another peon, another nameless nobody.

  Her gaze caught the copy of Town & Country as it lay in the brass magazine bin—the issue with Michele’s beaming photo. She thought of Betty Wentworth, of Sue Ellen Jamison, of the smirks that would tighten on their wrinkled faces when Alissa Page came crawling back.

  She slapped the sofa with an open palm. She smiled at the sting in her hand. “Not on your life,” she said aloud. “Alissa Page isn’t out of the picture yet.”

  She went to the desk and took out a mahogany box of fine linen paper. The proverbial ball was now in their court. And if they wanted to win, they’d have to play the game. It was a risk, but it would be worth it. Could be worth it. She sat down, picked up her Mont Blanc pen, and wrote her letter of resignation to the WFFA.

  The next morning the phone rang. It was Danny Gordon, making excuses. “I don’t give a shit about your schedule,” Alissa shouted, “I gave you a hefty retainer. I expected results before this.” God, she was sick of being pushed around.

  “I told you,” Danny said, his impatience apparent, “I’ve been checking with my sources.”

  “And I’m telling you, I think if you’re seriously going to do this, you’d better get your butt down to Atlanta and start here. This is where what’s left of his family is. Didn’t you think for one minute they might know where he was?”

  “Frankly, I thought it would be best to track him through the IRS. His W-twos.”

  “I told you. Jay moves around. Global News said he was hired as a stringer. Who the hell cares where he worked last year? It’s today that’s important.” She wondered if Danny had been too busy banging Meg to have even started searching.

  “Now you’re telling me how to do my job?”

  “I’m telling you to get down to Atlanta and get down here fast. At this rate I could have done it myself. I’d have found him by now.”

  “I’m sure you would have, Alissa. But remember, this was your choice. I tried to warn you how busy I am.”

  “Just get your ass down here, Danny. Tomorrow. I want you to find Jay Stockwell once and for all.” She slammed down the receiver before he could answer. She reached in the desk drawer and pulled out a cigarette. Arrogant bastard, she thought as she flicked her lighter with a quivering hand.

  “Problems?” Alissa looked up. Robert stood in the doorway.

  “None that are any of your business. And I don’t appreciate your sneaking up on me.”

  “I was hardly sneaking up on you, Alissa. Though I do admit, hearing the name Jay Stockwell made me stop and listen.”

  She took a drag and exhaled a steady stream of smoke in Robert’s direction. He walked through it and sat on the sofa.

  “Why are you looking for Jay?” Robert asked. “Do you think life would be better with your long-lost lover? Or have you forgotten that he denounced the one thing that holds importance for you in this world—money?”

  “Jay Stockwell has become successful in his own right,” Alissa said. “He didn’t need his daddy’s fortune to make a name for himself.”

  Robert shrugged. “I didn’t realize you thought that was so immoral. Besides,” he went on, “I wouldn’t exactly say that reporting from Baghdad earmarks one as successful.”

  Alissa was stunned. She’d had no idea Robert was still aware of Jay. “I see you’ve been keeping up with world news,” she said. “How impressive.” She took another drag but this time blew the smoke off to the side.

  “What’s your game, Alissa?

  “What makes you think I’m playing a game?”

  “What is it, then? Are you planning to try to revive your relationship with Jay, then give me the old heave-ho?”

  Alissa flinched. The problem with being married to someone for twenty years was that they knew you well. Too well. “I told you I wasn’t interested in a divorce, Robert.”

  He laughed. “Then surely it can’t be that you’re looking for a good lay. You certainly wouldn’t have to track down an old lover for that, now, would you?”

  “Frankly, no. But you already know that.”

  He shifted on the leather sofa. The fabric squeaked beneath him, reminding Alissa of the night she’d caught Natalie with Grant Wentworth’s son. Grant, she thought. Men are such scum. So why was she looking for Jay? Because he hadn’t been. Had he?

  “Surely you don’t think he’s still in love with you?” Robert laughed again. “No, forget I said that. You don’t have that much self-confidence.”

  Alissa felt tears sting her eyes. “Why are you doing this to me?” she asked. “Is it giving you some kind of perverse pleasure?”

  Robert put his elbows on his knees and leaned his face against his hands. “No, Alissa, this isn’t giving me any kind of pleasure at all.” He rubbed his forehead. “I find it all rather sad.”

  Alissa said nothing.

  “It doesn’t please me to know that I’ve let down my family.”

  “Let us down? Is that what you call this? Oh, please, Robert. You make it sound as though you’ve just lost your job and we won’t be able to go to Disney World. I think the situation here is a little more serious.”

  “I wish it could be any other way,” he said. “I wish you’d never found out.”

  Alissa ground out her cigarette. “How long, Robert?”

  “ ‘How long’ what?”

  “How long have you been gay?”

  He looked thoughtful for a moment. He studied the floor. “I thought I was bisexual. I mean, I’m sure our sex life was never very passionate for you, but I enjoyed it enough.”

  Enjoyed it enough? When they were young and supposedly in love, he’d “enjoyed it enough”? What the hell did that mean? She thought back to the silk peignoirs she’d had especially hand-sewn for her trousseau. The ones that hugged her perfect body, the ones guaranteed to produce an erection. The blatant, naive, bridal anticipation of lust bordered on embarrassment now.

  “About ten years ago,” Robert continued, “I realized I really did prefer men. Maybe I’d just been denying that to myself all those years.”

  Or maybe I was just never enough of a turn-on. Enough of a woman. Alissa choked out her next question, wondering why she was going to ask it, wondering what compelled her need to know. “When were you first with a man?”

  Robert shook his head. “It wasn’t a man. It was a boy. So was I. It was at summer camp. I was fourteen.”

  “Oh, God.”r />
  “Yeah. Oh, God.” He cleared his throat, stood up, and walked to the bookcase. He began thumbing over the spines of leather-bound volumes. “I know you feel betrayed, Alissa. But I do need you. I sincerely hope we can work out some kind of solution.”

  “I’m doing the best I can,” she said.

  “By tracking down your long-lost lover?”

  “Don’t grovel, Robert. One might think you’re jealous.”

  “Maybe I am,” he said. “Maybe, in a way, I am.”

  At twelve-fifteen the doorbell rang. Alissa was in bed, reading Robin Leach’s latest volume, digging for ideas that might trigger the most original, most magnificent concept that she could incorporate into the gala once the WFFA came to its senses and realized how much they needed her. But even Robin’s luscious tidbits couldn’t compare with the show-stopping coup of having Zoe attend. Even if Zoe’s comeback fizzled, having her here—in Atlanta, in public—after so many years of self-exile was bound to attract worldwide attention. There was something to be said for the mystique of the recluse. God knew it had worked for Garbo.

  The bell rang again. Alissa waited to hear if Dolores would answer it. But Dolores and Howard were heavy sleepers, and chances were neither of them would awaken. She wondered who it could be at this hour. And why. It was a little late for Betty Wentworth or Sue Ellen Jamison to come begging forgiveness.

  Silence was followed by another sharp chime. One of the girls had probably lost her key. Alissa slapped down the book, pulled herself from bed, and slipped a robe over her lace chemise, the one with the hem that barely skimmed her now vacant, now unappreciated, soft mound. She padded out of her lavish bedroom, thankful that Robert had been the one to move to another room. She really detested disruption.

  Alissa made her way down the stairs as the bell rang again. “Jesus Christ,” she snarled. “I’m coming.”

  “Alissa?” She looked back to the balcony. Robert stood, dressed in those god-awful lavender silk pajamas he special-ordered by the dozen from that dotty little shop in SoHo. Lavender silk. She realized now. It probably should have given her a clue about his sexual orientation. In his hand Robert held his eye mask. “Is everything all right?”