Who Do You Love?

by J. M. Bronston

  Gena acknowledged her thanks with a nod, took a sip, and then started.

  “His publicist met me at the airport and drove me to his house. They call it a cabin—I guess because it’s in the woods—but no cabin I’ve ever seen had eighteen rooms, including its own private, fully functioning recording studio. He took me all around the place. Well, not exactly ‘all.’ It’s a hundred and eighty acres. But I did get to see his horses. His property is at the base of the Smoky Mountains, and you know—there’s this sort of blue haze that floats around them, so they really are kind of smoky. A little mysterious, like being in a fairy tale. And very beautiful.”

  It was all still fresh in her mind, and as she described the beauty of the Tennessee hills and the mountains and Sonny’s house and the elegant barn and the beautiful horses, she realized that she was already creating the story she was going to write. Part of her was enthusiastically sharing her adventure, but at the same time, her mind was beginning to shape the completed article on the page. So she talked about the vast fireplace in the living room and the view from Sonny’s upstairs rooms, but she chose to say nothing about his other home, the two-room shack he’d grown up in, the home of his childhood. That, it seemed, should be saved until she could think about it more deeply, and write about it carefully, thoughtfully. But she did tell them about rolling hills that sloped away to an elaborate horse barn that was not like the red barns in her childhood picture books, and deep-green grass and Smoky Mountains that really were smoky, in a bluish haze out of which an artist could spin all sorts of fantasies. And she told them that she found Sonny Gaile to be a young man of talent and grace and decency, who had found in himself a voice that spoke honestly and beautifully, a young man who seemed quite naturally to understand important things, like beauty and responsibility and gratitude. And a young man who was trying to cope with the great fortune that had fallen on him quite unbidden.

  “You really liked him, didn’t you?” Viv said.

  “Oh, yes, I did, Viv. I suspect everyone likes Sonny Gaile. I found him very likeable.” She thought about it for a moment. “You know, Viv, what I think I liked about him was his ability to see beauty, even where it wasn’t obvious.”

  She was thinking of Belinda.

  I have to think about that horse. There’s something special there, something to write about.

  Warren was looking increasingly sour. “I don’t suppose this boy wonder bothered to hit on you, did he? Or do guys like him already have enough gorgeous babes hanging around them?”

  Gena was appalled. “He’s gay, Warren.”

  “Everyone knows Sonny Gaile is gay. Jeez, Warren.” Dan gave him a sharp look, as if to say stop it! And then, deflecting, Dan said, “Hey, Gena, that’s so great. You’re going to make a great story out of this. And it’s exciting, getting to spend time with a famous guy like that. You see his picture everywhere you go, and you get to say, ‘Oh, Sonny Gaile. Yeah. I know him. We’re old friends.’ And by the way, did you get his autograph?”

  “Oh, Dan, don’t be silly. Of course I didn’t get his autograph.”

  “Just kidding. I think it’s just super for you. This kind of thing is going to really build your career.”

  Viv said, “I’m going to be able to tell everyone I had dinner the other night with a friend who knows Sonny Gaile. Has been in his home and everything. Told me all about it.”

  “Yeah,” said Warren. His tone was sharp and sarcastic. “In every exquisite detail.”

  There was a pause. Viv looked at Dan. Dan looked at Warren. Gena looked down into her glass of wine. Deflation wafted through her, and she regretted her bit of hubris, her eagerness to bathe in an unaccustomed place as the center of attention. And Warren had some more wine, like a man who was celebrating a score he’d just made.

  Dan turned to Gena and, as though to wipe out what had just been said, said, “Tell me more about the horses. I’ve heard about Tennessee Walking Horses. They’re show horses, aren’t they? Very beautiful. They have an unusual gait, right?”

  Viv put her hand on his and gave him a look that seemed to say, I remember why I love you. “Yes,” she said. “I once saw a documentary. And they’re associated especially with that part of the country, aren’t they, Gena?”

  “Yes, I guess so.” The exuberance she’d brought to the table was gone. Briefly, she told them about Sonny’s hopes for his horses to win prizes, though she found herself thinking, instead, about Belinda.

  Warren used the change in the momentum to take over the conversation.

  “We were just talking, before you got here, Gena, about this new project I’m heading.” The attention went back to Warren. He leaned back expansively, beaming. He raised his glass. “So let’s all drink a toast to that.” And they each said, “That’s great, Warren,” and, “Here’s to Blass Investments’ wonder boy,” and Gena said, “I’m really proud of you, Warren.” And Warren was happy to have all the energy and attention back on him, and he spent the rest of the evening talking about his big plans for the new project.

  But he was not so expansive as they walked back to their apartment. He walked quickly, as though he wanted to make it hard for Gena to keep up, and he barely responded as she made the usual small talk about their dinner, and about Dan and Viv who, she thought, were getting really serious about each other, and he had only a perfunctory nod for Alfie, who usually got a big “Hi, there,” from Warren. And he was preoccupied all the way up in the elevator.

  In the apartment, he turned on the light and saw Gena’s carry-on standing where she’d left it when she’d come home, next to the coffee table in the living room. She’d taken out her laptop and left her handwritten notes on the sofa, meaning to look at them before she went to bed. He turned to Gena and said, “Honey, I hope you’re not going to go on gushing to everyone about how you went to Tennessee and met this great country singer. You know, it’s not exactly cool to be acting like a teenager, all gaga about some little celebrity.”

  “I didn’t think I was gushing.”

  “Well, you were kind of sucking up all the air. Like, you know, not everyone is interested.” He was taking off his tie, opening his shirt, heading into the bedroom and tossing his clothes onto the bed. He turned around and saw that Gena was still standing in the middle of the living room, just looking at him, and he went back to her and put his arms around her. “After all, honey, if I’m going to be moving up the executive ladder, I’m going to need you to be a little more sophisticated.”

  “I wasn’t gushing.”

  “Okay. Okay. Whatever you say. I just felt a little embarrassed for you, and I have to be able to tell you what I’m thinking, don’t I? We’ve always been open with each other—”

  “It was a big deal for me, Warren. It was fun and it was exciting. And it’s important to my career, just like your project is important to your career. Why should I have to shut up about it?”

  Warren stroked her hair and held her closer.

  “Hey, honey,” he said. ‘Don’t get all upset. I wasn’t saying ‘shut up’ or anything like that. Come on. Don’t be mad. Let’s just forget about it. I’ll pour us a drink, we’ll watch a little TV, get a good night’s sleep.” He gave her a kiss and went over to the bar, picked up a bottle of Scotch, and checked the contents. “We’re practically out of Glenlivet,” he said, holding up the bottle so she could see.

  “It is important to me, you know.”

  “Sure it is,” he said. He put down the bottle and went into the bedroom. “I’m going to go get ready for bed. Why don’t you open up that nice Italian red we picked up last week? Let it breathe a little first. I’ll pick out a movie, if you like. Or we can watch some TV.”

  Later that night, much later, in a darkness lit only by the moonshine through the tall glass windows—and by the light from the fridge—Gena was taking a carton of ice cream out of the freezer.

  Warren had bee
n asleep for a couple of hours, but Gena, who was usually a sound sleeper, had been unable to shake the vaguely uneasy feeling she had—a fleeting feeling that came and then disappeared before she could put her finger on it—an uneasy, negative feeling that made her very uncomfortable. She’d been having this feeling for a while now, maybe for the last six months, maybe even a year—this indistinct sense of uncertainty, as though something wasn’t quite firm beneath her feet. She seemed to be not liking herself. It was an awful feeling, especially because she couldn’t figure out what was causing it. And this was the first time the feeling was strong enough to keep her awake.

  But she’d learned long ago that ice cream would make her feel better.

  Lucky Gena: She had the metabolism of a hummingbird and nothing ever packed fat onto her long, lithe frame. So there she was, at the fridge, taking out a carton of Caramel and Sweet Cream Coconut. She closed the door, got a spoon out of the drawer, and in the dark she crossed the living room and went to the deep ledge at the window that looked out over the nighttime view of the bridges over the East River. The little niche was fitted with cushions, and she settled in with her spoon and her ice cream and her uneasy and fitful insomnia.

  “This can’t be good,” she whispered into the night across the window’s glass. “I had such a good day, and I was feeling so good. And now I feel so down. Like I’m ashamed of myself. I don’t know what I did.” She was slowly spooning the ice cream from around the edges, where it was gradually softening. “On the plane this morning, I felt like I’d had a gold star pasted into my scrapbook. I felt so on top of everything. So pleased with myself. With Sonny’s feeling safe with me, willing to share things he’d kept private. I felt like a good reporter. I’d earned a subject’s trust.”

  She kept spooning ice cream.

  “Maybe that’s the problem. Feeling pleased with myself. Feeling proud. You know what they say about pride, Gena,” she said, scolding herself. “About how pride goes before a fall.”

  She was about halfway down the carton of ice cream.

  And she wasn’t feeling better yet.

  “But still. I know I shouldn’t feel bad. Because I really do my job well.”

  She told herself that was the last word. The bottom line. The final judgment.

  She’d been sitting there for fifteen minutes and the world was still spinning in its orbit, the stars were still shining over Manhattan, even if it was impossible to see them, and the boat passing along the river beneath her was not the least bit interested in Gena Shaw, sitting there high up in her forty-first floor apartment, eating ice cream and feeling foolish.

  She went back to the kitchen, capped the ice cream, and put it back into the freezer. She didn’t feel totally better.

  But ice cream always helps.

  And, still in the dark, she went back into the bedroom, got into bed, and just as she slid off into sleep, she thought:

  Oh, shoot. I’ve been so busy with Sonny, I forgot all about Romy. Have to get back to that story. Be sure to check on photo shoot for all. Talk to Marge about Romy. I wonder what Dinah’s departure is all about. So much to do. Can’t wait to start on the Sonny Gaile story. Can’t wait to get to the office. Can’t wait…

  And she slept soundly till the alarm went off at seven.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Turned out Marge Webster was on her way to a show in Milan and would not be back till early next week, so there’d be no immediate discussions about the amazing Romy deVere. And Dinah was gone, so there really wasn’t anyone for Gena to talk to. Except, of course, Romy herself. And, because the photo shoot was scheduled for the following week, that would be the time to talk, as part of the follow-up interview. In the meantime, she’d have to sit on this potential scoop without breathing a word to anyone. But imagine Lady Fair breaking a bit of news like this! Romy deVere, sultry beauty and much-married star, exposed in a real-life role as dramatic as anything Hollywood might have produced.

  Gena was so eager to get started, it pained her to have to set it aside—and to keep quiet about it, too. Good thing she had plenty more on her plate. Sonny Gaile, to begin with. There were the cell phone pics she’d taken; she sent those over to the photo department with instructions to get that shoot set up. And a note to be sure to include the barn and the horses, with maybe a sidebar about the entry of Sonny’s horses in the show in Shelbyville.

  Then there was the careful review and organizing of her Tennessee notes and thinking through a catchy angle—and then the outlining of the story. No matter what Warren said, Sonny Gaile was a phenomenon and Lady Fair’s readers were going to get an understanding of him that went well beyond the conventional tabloid fantasies and Internet sound bites.

  The next time she looked at her watch, it was just after three o’clock.

  Wiley! Poor Wiley. All those hours alone, poor little guy!

  He hadn’t been walked since early morning, when Viv had brought him home. But Gena had put in a good day’s work and decided she could safely check out for a few hours.

  Hang on Wiley. I’m coming.

  Maybe she could telepathically get a message to him that she was on her way.

  Be there in twenty minutes.

  And she was. In twenty minutes, she was being greeted by a prancing, tail-wagging little bundle of pure excitement. His delight in seeing her made her heart sing, and right then and there she joined a very special society: the very fortunate club of people who know the joy of coming home to unconditional and exuberant love. As she knelt to attach Wiley’s leash to his collar, he seemed to be unable to get close enough to her, licking her face, rubbing his cheek against hers, pawing at her chest. If his long, skinny legs were arms, he would certainly have wrapped them around her.

  “Okay, okay!” She was laughing as she struggled with his wriggling body to get him ready to go out. “We’re going, we’re going. You’d think I’d been away for a month.”

  By the time the elevator carried them down forty-one floors and they’d gone through the lobby and out onto the street, Wiley was pulling hard on his leash with much greater strength than she’d have thought such a small dog could have, desperately eager to get to the nearest tree. Which was, of course, bad city-dog manners but neither Wiley nor Gena had yet been schooled in the ethics of public-toilet protocol for dogs. Wiley had spent his young life in the country and Gena had never paid attention to dog life in the city. They both had much to learn. But the day was lovely and she had put her work behind her, so she could now indulge in a leisurely walk around the neighborhood, enjoy a little window-shopping, pick up a bottle of Glenlivet for Warren, maybe walk over to the park. She might decide to buy an ice cream and sit on a bench, where she and Wiley could do some quiet people-watching. A lovely day in New York.

  Madison Avenue was gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. Everything seemed newly washed and freshened up, as though it was expecting an important visitor. What a pleasure it was to just stroll, to notice other dog owners and their pets, perhaps to nod to them, or even pause for a moment while the dogs explored each other, to take the time to enjoy the clothes in the elegant shops, to examine the restrained displays in the windows of drugstores so upscale they called themselves “apothecaries,” to imagine having the wealth it would take to buy one of the apartments being offered for sale in the windows of the local real estate agent. To consider buying a bunch of flowers for no reason at all.

  Gena had no reason to buy a bunch of flowers. But Wiley had pulled her over to a display banked up against the front of a produce store, and she felt drawn to their fresh, colorful cheeriness. For a while, she contemplated a purchase, trying to think of a reason. It wasn’t a holiday. Neither she nor Warren was having a birthday. She wasn’t sure, even, if between them they owned a vase. If she bought them, what would she put them into?

  While Gena considered all this, Wiley was making friends with a small, silky white dog whose own
er had come up beside her. Gena looked down at the dog and had an instant memory of a scent, the scent of a Cartier perfume. La Panthère. Could this be Sweetie Pie, the Crested owned by Harriet van Siclen? Mrs. van Siclen, who was on her way to Australia? There had been a brother, a brother who was too busy to talk, who dashed past her, barely noting her existence. What was his name? She remembered only a tall man silhouetted against a window, talking on his phone. This man standing next to her was the same man. But now, he was not in a rush. He was now looking at her closely, with his head tilted a bit, as though this were more than a chance encounter.

  “It’s Paul,” he said. “Paul Brackman. You were at Harriet’s place the other day,” he said. “You’re the writer. With the hairless dog. She told me about you.” He looked down at Wiley. “And this must be the dog.”

  “Yes, this is Wiley. I didn’t think you noticed me.”

  “Oh, yes. I noticed you.”

  His expression was—what was it? She couldn’t quite read it…satisfied? Yes, that was it. He looked satisfied. How odd.

  “I remember,” Gena said. “You were on the phone. And you were in a hurry.”

  “I may have been rude. I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s all right. Everyone’s in a hurry these days. We’re all so busy. And things were—well, sort of frantic that day, what with the packing and the rush and everything—”

  Gena was remembering what she’d noticed that day—that he was good looking, in a grown-up, sedate sort of way, and that she’d wished he hadn’t been in such a hurry.

  “Yes, it was pretty frantic. Harriet was so distracted that day, she couldn’t remember your name. Only that you were writing something about dogs. Did you get everything you needed?”

  “For the time being, I think. But there’s so much to learn. I’ve never had a dog before.”

  “Maybe I can help. We’re dog people, and this is a breed our family has had for some years. Three sisters, they all have Cresteds.”