by Stone, Jean
She was still trying to make up her mind as he walked toward her. And then Zoe noticed his limp. And she knew that this man had gone through pain, and that he probably didn’t need Alissa to cause him any more.
There were three courses even before the linguine marinara appeared. Soup. Salad. Antipasto. Zoe was glad she’d worn a long cotton-gauze elastic-waist skirt with matching over-blouse. The gold chain belt was designed to hang loosely from her waist: it was a good thing, or there would have been positively no room for Mama DiNardo’s pasta.
“Tell me about Alissa,” he said as the waiter delivered two heaping platters.
Zoe stared at her plate. “I can tell you Alissa would not be pleased if she could see what I’m about to stuff into myself.”
Jay laughed. “Don’t worry about it. You look terrific.”
Zoe felt a tingle in her heart. “You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen me four months ago.”
Jay picked up his fork and dug in. “I don’t agree.”
Zoe tentatively followed his lead and plunged her fork into the mound of calories. “Actually, I have Alissa to thank for the way I look now. She’s a great makeover artist.”
“Great makeover artist or not, she’s missing out on one terrific meal.”
“I agree,” Zoe said. She smiled as she watched Jay twirl the pasta around his fork. She wondered why he limped; something told her it would make him laugh if he knew that she, too, had limped for years. Too many years.
“So what happened in Atlanta?” Jay asked. “Why is Alissa missing this meal, anyway?
Zoe set down her fork and took a sip of wine. “A family emergency.”
“I hope it’s not serious.” He, too, set down his fork. Then he shook his head. “God,” he said, “I got so wrapped up in talking about the past last night I never even asked what she’s been doing. Is she married? Does she have kids?”
Zoe hesitated. “Yes,” she said finally. “She has a husband. And two daughters.”
Jay nodded. “That’s good. Alissa needed a solid home life. She didn’t need to be wandering all over the globe.” But as he reached for his wineglass, Zoe thought she saw that look of hurt again on his face.
“It’s odd,” Zoe said, “that the person you thought you wanted to spend the rest of your life with, you suddenly realize would have been so wrong for you.” She hadn’t meant to sound so direct; she had only wanted to make Jay feel better. She crossed her ankles under the table and hoped she hadn’t said anything wrong.
“We go back a long way, Alissa and me,” Jay said. “Since we were kids. Our families’ estates were near each other. Not to mention the fact that we were both spoiled, overindulged kids.”
“I can’t relate to that,” Zoe said. “My parents never had enough to overindulge me with.”
“You were better off. Too much money for a kid means too many problems.”
They ate silently for a moment. Zoe wondered if she should tell Jay the details of what had happened with Alissa—of the phone call, of her daughter’s arrest. Surely it would be in all the newspapers. Then Zoe remembered this man was a journalist. If he had been in his office today and not up in San Francisco at that meeting, he might have seen it come over the wire services.
“Alissa has a rather serious problem herself right now.”
Jay set down his fork again. “So. It is serious.”
“Actually, it’s her daughter who has the problem,” she said quickly.
“What happened?”
Zoe dabbed the red-and-white checked napkin to the corners of her mouth. She wondered if the left side was drooping. “There was some sort of accident,” she said.
He leaned forward. “An accident?”
“It’s apparently all a mistake. Her daughter accidently killed a man.”
“Car accident?”
“No. She shot him.”
Jay took off his glasses and set them on the table. Then he rubbed his eyes. “Jesus,” he said, “Alissa must be frantic.”
“Yes. But that’s all I really know.” She didn’t want to tell him the details; she didn’t want to tell him about Robert. “Does this mean you’ll forgive her for not coming tonight?”
Jay smiled that wonderful smile. “I’m sorry for Alissa’s problems. I’m sorry for her. But to be honest with you, I forgave her the moment you agreed to have dinner with me.”
Zoe returned his smile. Their eyes lingered a moment, their voices didn’t speak. Then Zoe remembered the sparkle in Alissa’s eyes when she’d said to Zoe: I feel like finding Jay again is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Zoe quickly flicked her gaze away from Jay. She picked up her fork, then set it down again.
“Are you married, Zoe? Do you have children?”
“I’m recently widowed,” she said. “I have a fourteen-year-old son. What about you?”
Jay laughed. “Not me. After Alissa dumped me, I decided to remain a bachelor for the rest of my life. By the time I realized that was a fairly stupid thing to do, I was too busy globe-trotting to get tied down, or worse, to tie a woman down. Not that I haven’t regretted it …” His sentence ended somewhere in the air.
So Jay had been the one who’d been hurt. As Zoe had been. As Meg. “We all have regrets,” Zoe said. Eric. Damn.
“But let’s talk about you,” Jay said, brightening again. “I feel like I’ve known you for years.”
She stared at the tablecloth, then looked back into his eyes. Is that a compliment?”
He shrugged playfully. “Nope. Just an observation. Probably because I’ve seen every movie you’ve ever made.”
She smiled. “Well, I’ve seen you, too. On the news. So we’re even.”
“No, we’re not. I’ve seen your movies all over the world. You have no idea how intriguing you are with Japanese coming out of your lips.”
She laughed. It was so nice to be with a man she could laugh with. Sit across the dinner table from, and talk, and laugh. “Do people recognize you wherever you go?” she asked.
“No. But I do get recognized a lot.”
“It’s difficult, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. But I don’t let it get to me.” He twirled his pasta again. “But, hey,” he added, “I could be somebody nobody knows tomorrow, and that would be okay, too.”
Zoe took another sip of wine. She liked it that Jay wasn’t impressed with who she was, or who she’d been, or who she might be again. He didn’t seem to be. But, then, Jay had to deal with the perils of celebritydom in his own right. It was wonderful to feel on equal ground with a man.
Alissa. This was Alissa’s man.
She took her napkin from her lap and set it beside her plate. “This has been a wonderful dinner,” she said, “and a nice surprise for an evening. But I should be getting home.”
“Really?”
Before Zoe was sure what had happened, Jay’s hand reached across the table and rested on top of hers. Without much resistance she looked back into his eyes. He was smiling again, not the somber, lovesick smile of Tim Danahy, but the warm, genuine smile of a man who, though very much comfortable as his own person, was clearly enjoying her company.
“You can’t have a proper meal at DiNardo’s without a bit of zabaglione. And a cup of espresso.”
Zoe didn’t speak.
Jay motioned to a waiter. “Peter,” he called, “two espressos and one zabaglione with two spoons.” He looked back at Zoe. “See? Now you can’t leave. Your dessert has already been ordered, and leaving now would be a very un-Italian thing to do.”
Zoe laughed. “I’m not Italian. I’m Jewish.”
“So? I’m not Italian either. I’m English. With garlic in my bones.”
She wished he would take his hand off hers; she hoped he wouldn’t.
When the waiter delivered the tiny espresso cups, Jay removed his hand. Zoe watched as he rubbed the rind of a lemon around the rim of the cup; then she followed suit. She took a sip of the thick, dark liquid and immediately felt the inside of her mo
uth squirm. She quickly set down the cup.
Jay laughed. “You don’t have to drink it if you don’t like it”
Zoe smiled. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had any.”
A dish of desert arrived: the waiter put it in the center of the table.
“You must try this,” Jay said as he handed her a spoon. “It’s not bitter. I promise.”
Zoe raised her spoon and took a small bit from the plate. It was foamy and smooth, and in her mouth it tasted like sweet custard, still warm from the stove.
“Oooh,” she said, “you’re right. This is wonderful.” She returned her spoon to the plate they now shared. Their spoons touched, and Zoe felt a tiny thrill of arousal. They looked at each other again. Jay smiled.
“I’m glad you like it,” he said. “Now tell me what else you like.”
Zoe smiled back and took another spoonful of custard.
“Let me guess,” he said. “How do you feel about driving up the coast?”
The custard melted on her tongue. Driving up the coast. She and Eric had done that when they’d first come to L.A. With his busboy tips they’d put a down payment on an old Volkswagen convertible and explored the breathtaking coastline, their dreams full of hope, their hearts full of innocence. It was, Zoe knew, a wonderful memory. But it was just that: a memory. The past. “It’s been a long time,” she answered Jay now.
“Then how about tomorrow? It’s my day off, and I can’t think of anything I’d rather do.”
She folded her hands in her lap. Things were happening so fast. Too fast. Still …
Alissa, she thought. Scott. Eric. The million-dollar script that sat in her study.
“I’d love that, Jay. But …”
He groaned. “Why did I sense there was going to be a ‘but’?”
Zoe laughed. “But I’ve got an awful lot going on in my life right now.”
“All the more reason for a drive up the coast. Clear the cobwebs, and all that.” He winked at her with confidence, yet not arrogance; friendship, yet not pressure.
Still, he was the man Alissa loved. Had loved. Maybe still did love. And didn’t Alissa have enough problems right now?
“Jay,” she said, wishing that the sounds of other people in the restaurant hadn’t grown so quiet. “I had a lovely time tonight. You’ll never know how nice this has been for me.” She took a sip of her water. “And as much as I’d love to see you again, I just wouldn’t feel right.”
He put his napkin on the table and studied it, as if reading a script. “Because of Alissa?”
Zoe nodded.
He folded the napkin into a triangle, then opened it again. “Look, Zoe, I don’t know how to say this. You know that Alissa and I have a history together. But, honestly, that’s what it is. History. In some strange way I probably still care for her—no, not care for her, care about her. But only as a growing-up memory.”
A growing-up memory. Like Eric. “What if Alissa doesn’t feel that way?”
Jay smiled. “I’m sure she will, if she really thinks about it.” He refolded his napkin into a triangle.
“You know something,” Zoe heard herself say, “I think you might be right. And I think that a drive up the coast tomorrow would be terrific.”
He nodded and smiled. And in that instant Zoe knew that Alissa had been right about one thing: Jay Stockwell wasn’t like Eric Matthews at all.
The next morning Zoe knew what she had to do. Before Jay came to pick her up, before Marisol returned home from Monterey, before anyone could influence her in any way, Zoe had to take control of her life.
She sat on the deck, sipping her morning tea. There was something about Jay that made her feel comfortable within herself. And yet, she reminded herself, there was something about Jay that could be a problem: Alissa. Yet for all the closeness between Alissa and Jay when they were young, Zoe believed Jay had recovered from the relationship long ago. He had been hurt, he had fond memories, that was apparent. But, then, Zoe had fond memories of Eric, too. Fond memories. And not so fond.
But Zoe knew it was now time to take control of her life, to stop blaming others in her heart for what could have or should have or did or did not happen.
Before she could give it another thought, Zoe set down her mug, went inside the house, and picked up the phone.
It rang twice, then Eric answered.
“Let me speak to my son,” Zoe demanded. “Now.”
“He’s outside playing with the kids.”
“Get him.”
There was a pause, then Zoe heard Eric put down the phone. While she waited, Zoe realized her heart wasn’t thudding, her pulse wasn’t racing. I am, she thought, really in control. Finally. I am in control of my own life.
“Mom?”
“Scott,” she said, hearing her voice waver just a little. She quickly cleared her throat. “Scott, enough is enough. I want you home. Today. I’ll reserve you a seat on the six-thirty flight out of Minneapolis. You can pick up your ticket at the airport.”
He didn’t say anything.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes, Mom, I heard.”
She couldn’t tell by his voice if he was about to start crying or screaming at her, or if he was about to slam down the receiver.
“The six-thirty flight, Scott. I’ll make sure Eric gets you to the airport. Now, put him back on the line.”
There was another pause; then Scott said, “Mom?”
“What?” Her heart began to lightly thud.
“Thanks.”
She heard the receiver set down. A lump came into her throat. Tears came to her eyes. Thanks. He’d said thanks.
“What is it Zoe?” It was Eric again. Her heart calmed.
“You’re to get Scott to the airport for the six-thirty flight that will get him back to L.A. Do you understand?”
“I told you before, Zoe. I’m not stupid. But you’re forgetting one thing. Your son told you in his note that if you made him go home, he would notify the media about me. About us.”
“I think if you talk to Scott, you’ll see that he’s changed his mind.” She stared out the glass doors onto the deck. Marisol sat there, her back to the door. But Zoe knew she could hear every word she as saying. And Zoe knew Marisol was proud of her.
“Maybe he changed his mind,” Eric said. “But I haven’t.”
Her jaw tightened. “What are you talking about?”
“Just what I said. Maybe Scott won’t notify the media, but I will. He’s my son as much as he is yours. You seem to keep forgetting that.”
“You bastard,” she said, her voice rising. “Even if you’d known I was pregnant, you probably would have left anyway.”
Eric paused for a moment, then sighed. “I did know you were pregnant, Zoe.”
Somewhere in his words Zoe thought she’d stopped breathing.
“I knew it would ruin your career,” he continued, then stopped, then started again. “I thought if I was out of the picture, you’d get an abortion. I never dreamed you’d marry William. Or anybody. And I sure never dreamed you’d have the baby.”
Zoe sucked in a breath. “You thought I’d get an abortion?” She couldn’t believe what she’d heard. “You thought I’d kill our baby?”
“I knew how much you wanted your career. I knew how good you were. But what was I?” His voice cracked. “I couldn’t have been Mr. Zoe Hartmann. I would have been miserable. And so would you. I did what I thought was best.”
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, a deep, steady breath, a steadying breath. “If you never knew that Scott had been born, why do you want him now?”
Silence hung heavily. “Because he is my son, Zoe. Our son. And because you owe me this.”
She took another breath, then thought about Jay, about his easy, comforting manner. Then she opened her eyes and carefully spoke the words that had been taking shape for years—words that were fraught with retribution, with truth; words that were waiting to be delivered to one person, and o
ne person only. “That’s what this is really about, isn’t it, Eric? It has nothing to do with the baby—with Scott. It has to do with you and me. Because the truth is, you never forgave me for being the one to make it. You never forgave me for being the star.”
Tension hung over the line.
“Zoe, it’s ancient history now. But I swear,” Eric said finally, his voice growing low, almost angry, “if you try to make Scott leave here, I’ll call the press.”
A vision came into her mind of when she sat by the pool, thinking of Alissa, thinking of Scott. Did it really matter what anyone thought anymore? Was Zoe going to go on living her life in fear of what everyone thought? And who the hell was “everyone” anyway? And did they really give a shit about her?
Eric said the past was ancient history. He was right. And she was tired of letting the past rule her life.
“Then call the media, Eric,” she said. “I don’t care what you do. Just get Scott on that plane tonight, or I’ll have the FBI crawling all over your house like ticks on your dog. The last time I heard, kidnapping was a capital offense.”
18
Meg stood in the middle of her huge closet, sorting through clothes. One pile for the Salvation Army; one pile for the trash. She still hadn’t made a decision about how she’d spend the rest of her life. Or, at least, the next stage. In the meantime sorting through old clothes was a way to purge herself of the past, a way to begin what she was afraid would be a long process of detaching herself from her material possessions—possessions she had hoarded in lieu of love. She still had thoughts of Steven—not as often as she’d once had, but, nonetheless, the thoughts were still there. It was different now, though, for when he came into her mind, it was as though he had been only a dream, an apparition of hope, a ghost of love. She did not know if there would be any more Stevens in her life; she only hoped there would be no more Roger Barretts, or any other unfulfilling, empty relationships.
Raggedy Man sauntered into the closet, climbed over one pile onto the other, then stretched out his front paws, arched his hind end, and yawned.
“Do you find this as boring as I do?” Meg asked as she bent to rub his fur. “Does it bother you that I don’t go off to work every day? Have I invaded your space?” She scratched his ears and waited for the purr that she knew wouldn’t come. Raggedy Man was too self-assured, too confident in her love for him to indicate that he needed or wanted any affection. Leave it to me to get a male cat, Meg thought as she heard the ringing of chimes. It took her a moment to realize it was the doorbell, an unfamiliar, infrequent sound here in her private domain.