Who Do You Love?

by J. M. Bronston

  By now, they’d both forgotten about flowers and were walking together up Madison Avenue.

  “My immediate problem,” Gena said, “is what to do with him all day. I hadn’t realized, if you have a dog, you can’t just leave him alone all the time. I was out of town for a couple of days this week and my friend took him till I got back last night, but she’s busy, too, and that’s not a permanent solution. He’s a lively little thing, and I can see that he needs to get out more, he needs to run and play.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “That’s why we never had any pets. My dad thought it was wrong to keep a dog cooped up all day in a city apartment. He said dogs should have a chance to run freely, that they need the exercise. So I can bring him out to walk him, but that’s not enough, is it?”

  “No, of course it’s not. It’s always a problem for city people who work all day. You could hire a hire a dog walker. That works well for some people, and the dog gets to be with other dogs, which is good for his social life.”

  “But then the person you hire has to have access to your apartment when you’re not at home. I’d be uncomfortable with that.”

  “You might consider day care. I take Sweetie Pie to East Side Dog Prep and Day Care. It’s nearby, over on Seventy-Ninth Street, near Sutton Place. They have veterinarians on call, and their staff is excellent. They take only small dogs, and you have to provide all the dog’s papers, latest medical records, proof he’s had his shots.”

  “Sounds expensive.”

  “It is. But for emergencies, it may be a good choice. You should also check out the places in the park that are designated dog friendly. The closest one near here is right behind the Met.” He gestured a couple of blocks away, toward the Metropolitan Museum of Art. “Dogs are allowed to be off-leash for three hours in the morning and three hours in the evening. The rest of the day, they’re allowed in the park only on-leash. It’s not enough, of course, but it helps.”

  She’s been only partly listening to him.

  He has such a nice face. Intelligent and engaged. He’s actually paying attention to me. Nice gray eyes. Great haircut, and the barest touch of gray at the temples. Maybe late thirties? Not older, I think.

  “That’s good to know,” she said. “This is a totally new experience for me. And my boyfriend is no help. He hates Wiley, and Wiley barks his head off whenever Warren gets close to me. I don’t know what we’re going to do about him.”

  “Ah.” Paul looked at her thoughtfully. “You have a boyfriend.”

  He said nothing for a long moment. Then he looked at his watch as though he’d just remembered a previous engagement. Or something. “I am sorry, it seems I’m always rushing off somewhere. I have a meeting downtown and I need to get the Pie to her day care. I hope you and Wiley work it out with your boyfriend. Cresteds are great dogs, and I hope you’ll be happy with this one.”

  He turned east toward Park Avenue, said a brief goodbye, and Gena watched him and Sweetie Pie until they disappeared around the corner.

  “That was odd,” she said to Wiley. “Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned Warren.”

  Wiley gave her a look that said, “You think?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  She saw him again, late on Saturday night. She and Warren had been to a movie and they were walking along Broadway opposite Lincoln Center, mingling with the after-theater crowd, when a cab pulled up in front of them and a couple got out. As the couple went into Café Fiorello, Gena recognized Paul. She also recognized the woman he was escorting into the restaurant: Cherie Blitz, gorgeous runway model, latest sensation from Germany. Her silvery hair was elaborately coiffed, her evening frock was a froth of haute couture in pale blue, and her strappy sandals were, at the very least, four inches of spike heel. Gena was accustomed to spectacular beauties—they were commonplace around Lady Fair. But she was surprised by the pang of jealousy that fluttered through her when she recognized Paul Brackman as Cherie’s date. After all, what was Paul Brackman to her? Nothing. Why should she wish, even if only for a fleeting second, that she were in Cherie’s place? She was ashamed of such an unworthy thought. She put her hand through Warren’s arm and turned to look fondly at him—as he, in that same moment said, “Wow, some guys have all the luck!”

  She saw that Warren’s eye had also been caught by the attractive couple, only it wasn’t Paul he was smirking at, of course: his attention was on Cherie Blitz, and his expression was almost predatory.

  Gena took her hand off his arm and said nothing. There was that bad feeling again. She tried hard to ward it off, telling herself Warren’s reaction was perfectly ordinary; any red-blooded grown man would want to be seen with a gorgeous woman like Cherie. Right? And she couldn’t help it that she couldn’t be that gorgeous woman. How many women could be so lucky? Beauty like that is rare, and it was certainly beyond anything she’d ever be able to achieve.

  But later that night, as she took Wiley out for his last walk before bedtime, she confided in him. “Gee, Wiley. I wish men would look at me that way. I wish Warren would look at me that way.”

  Just hearing Warren’s name was enough to get a response from Wiley. He lifted his leg against a hydrant, and Gena took that to be his opinion on the matter.

  “I know, I know, Wiley. I know what you think of my boyfriend. But he has his good points. He works hard and he really wants to make something of himself. He’s just getting more and more tied up in his work, trying to get ahead. The investment banking business is so demanding and there’s so much stress—”

  She knew she was just talking to herself, but it felt good to see how Wiley was attentive to her, as though they were having a real conversation.

  And later, hours later, when she found herself again sitting in the niche by the window, spooning up gobs of ice cream, it was especially good that Wiley came and sat with her.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Not even six o’clock yet, and Warren was still sleeping. Gena slipped quietly out of bed, pulled on a pair of jeans and an old tank top, and stepped into her favorite moccasins. The old shoes were ragged after years of use, but she loved them, and they served her well when she was in a rush and feeling casual. She didn’t stop to wash or brush her teeth, just raked her fingers through her hair to give it a semblance of order. On an early Sunday morning she could probably take advantage of the anonymity New York provided, and she would take the time to tidy herself up when she got back. She grabbed a doughnut out of the bread box, collected Wiley, and headed out for the park. Her destination was the off-leash area Paul had told her about, behind the Met. Wiley would be glad for a free run, and she could sit and gather her wits. It had been a restless night with not enough sleep, and an hour or two in the park would give her a chance to steady her mood before it was time for breakfast with Warren. It used to be that Sundays were lazy days, taking it easy, having the time for waffles or omelets, sharing sections of the Sunday Times, maybe deciding on a movie or getting together with some friends. But lately, Warren had been running off to play golf on Sundays, or he’d needed to be at the office where, it seemed, life ran twenty-four seven and no one ever said “no.” He’d become so in love with his own ambition, and it seemed she wasn’t able to keep up, not able to be what he thought he needed her to be now that he was moving up the corporate ladder.

  But who could feel stressed on a quiet Sunday in the park? The trees seemed to whisper “There, there. Take it easy. Everything is going to be fine.” And indeed, once she’d arrived at the dog-friendly space beyond the museum, she knew this was the perfect place to shed the unease that had been nagging at her. There were only a few dog people there, sitting on the benches, some chatting with each other, most of them reading the morning paper, almost all of them with a Starbucks coffee, either in their hands or set onto the bench next to them. Wiley took one look and knew he was in dog heaven. As soon as the leash was off his collar, he took off like a madman, r
acing at top speed to the far end and circling back again, back and forth, over and over. Those skinny long legs seemed to have been made for high-speed chases, and soon he was joined by a small Schnauzer, a Bichon Frise, and a scraggy-looking fellow of indeterminate parentage. Dogs at play were wonderful to watch, and Gena forgot herself and her frazzled mood as the dogs stopped their frantic running and began to play, climbing on each other, making little growling noises, acting fierce, like little boys being warriors.

  A man’s voice behind her. “They’re fun to watch, aren’t they?”

  She knew the voice immediately. Her hand went to her hair, and she wished she’d taken a couple of minutes to brush it out properly—and dress a little less ragged.

  “I like how easily they make friends,” she said as Paul came around the bench and sat down next to her.

  He had Sweetie Pie with him, and he bent to unleash her. He gave Pie a pat on her back and said, “Go ahead, Sweetie.” And Sweetie Pie went off to explore on her own. “So you found this place. Good.”

  Odd, again. That look. Very subtle—very minimal—just something around the mouth—or was it his eyes?—a fleeting look of satisfaction. They really are nice eyes…couple of crinkles at the edges. Mid-thirties, she decided. An older man. She laughed to herself. And nice.

  “Yes. I’m glad I did. I can’t believe how badly Wiley needed the exercise. Now he’s playing with the other dogs. Making friends, I think. But you should have seen when we first got here this morning. He was racing around like a maniac.”

  “I did see him. I was here earlier and I saw you when you got here. And I saw how he took off the minute he saw green grass and his leash was off.”

  “You were watching us?”

  “For a while. I hope you don’t mind. I wasn’t spying, you know. Just enjoyed watching you and Wiley. You’re nice together.”

  She didn’t know what to make of that. And she didn’t know what to say. So she sat there silently and thoughtfully for a while. And then, impulsively, she said, “I saw you last night.”

  She was instantly embarrassed, and she stumbled over herself trying to make it sound natural. “You were with Cherie Blitz. On Broadway. You were getting out of a cab.”

  “She turns heads everywhere, of course.”

  “She certainly turned my boyfriend’s head. He said he was jealous of you. Being with a beauty like Cherie.”

  “Ah. The boyfriend. He told you he was jealous. Of me?”

  She nodded. “In so many words. What he said was, ‘Some guys have all the luck.’”

  “I’m sorry.” He looked at Gena kindly. He seemed about to say something, but stopped himself. Then, after a pause, he said, “You can tell that boyfriend of yours he shouldn’t be jealous. Maybe I’ll meet him someday, and I’ll tell him myself.”

  Something had gone a little harsh in those gray eyes.

  They both sat silently for a moment or two, watching the dogs. Then Gena spoke.

  “So is Cherie Blitz your girlfriend?”

  He laughed. “Hardly. She’s a client.”

  “Oh?”

  “My firm is representing her. She needed an escort for an event last night. I volunteered.”

  “Not exactly hazardous duty, I think.”

  He laughed. “No, it was fun. Cherie is fun, it was a good evening, and I had a good time.”

  “Maybe my boyfriend is in the wrong business. He doesn’t seem to have much fun in his work.”

  “The boyfriend again.” His eyes got that harsh look again. “What’s this boyfriend’s name?”

  “Warren. Warren Haglund.”

  “And what does he do?”

  “He’s an associate at Blass Investments. Just moved up from analyst.”

  “And ambitious, right?”

  Gena sighed. “That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

  “In a way.”

  “And are you ambitious?”

  “In a way. Not the same way. What about you?”

  His question surprised her. Had she ever been asked before about her ambitions?

  “I want to get really good at what I do,” she said. “I want to make a difference. I’m working for a fashion magazine, and some people think that’s all fluff and nonsense. Insignificant stuff. But first of all, I’m glad I’ve got the job. And second, I get to work with talented people, and Lady Fair has some of the best. And third, maybe most important, I have a chance to interview subjects whose lives have been out of the ordinary, subjects who make their dreams come true, or maybe who were hit with good luck—or even bad luck—and have managed to spin that flax of good or bad luck into the gold of success. I get to dig below the surface, below what the public thinks it knows about them, and maybe get to a deeper level. If I’m lucky. And if I’m skillful enough.”

  She stopped abruptly, realizing she was letting her passion for her work slip out and maybe seeming foolish. But Paul was looking at her with interest.

  “And what are you working on now?”

  She thought of her trip to Tennessee and Sonny Gaile—and then she remembered Warren’s scolding her for her “gushing,” and she put an immediate brake on her enthusiasm.

  “There’s a young country singer people are interested in right now. He’s been kind of a sensation, and I’m doing a piece on him.”

  “Not Sonny Gaile, by any chance?”

  “Actually, yes. I’m surprised you even know his name.”

  “Well, you said ‘kind of a sensation’ and I have been seeing his name around lately. So I’ll ask the usual question: What’s he really like? What did you think of him?”

  Gena spoke with restraint, remembering again not to gush. “He’s really very nice. Sweet. Sincere. Not phony sincere. You’ll have to read the article when it’s published.”

  “I will. I’ll look forward to it.”

  “I’m also working on a piece about Romy deVere.”

  “My God, that’s a name that goes back a long way. She was a big star when my parents were young. No, when my grandparents were young. Wasn’t she considered the most beautiful woman in the world in her time? Married a bunch of times and sort of scandalous. Something of a femme fatale in her day, wasn’t she? I didn’t know she was still alive.”

  “Yes, she’s the one, and yes, very much alive. And with a whole new career. At ninety-seven, that’s pretty remarkable. She’s been making some beautiful artwork, with showings in local galleries up in Connecticut. We think our readers will be interested in a woman who is “old,” and yet “new.” That there is life after white hair and wrinkles. What’s on the outside doesn’t tell you what’s on the inside. And not only because she was famous and beautiful. Not for what she was, but for what she is now.” Gena stopped. Her voice was rising and again her eagerness for her work was making her “gush.” She made herself slow down. “Well, anyway. There’s more to Romy deVere than people realize.” She pursed her lips and, with an effort, stopped talking about her.

  “You say that as though there are secrets there. Do you have privileged information?”

  “I’ve said too much already.”

  “And I should just read the article when it comes out.” He smiled genially.

  “That’s about it. I’m shutting up now.” And she smiled, too.

  Then they were both thoughtful. For a long time. Just watching the dogs. Until Wiley broke away and trotted back to Gena. At the same time, Sweetie Pie ended her explorations and also joined them. The two dogs acknowledged each other with the usual sniffings and tail waggings.

  “I guess I need to be getting back. Almost time for breakfast. And I have work to do.” Gena knelt to put Wiley’s leash on. Paul bent to pick up Sweetie Pie. This brought Gena and Paul close together. She picked Wiley up. Then she and Paul stood up, still close to each other.

  “You said Wiley was protective of you. W
ouldn’t let Warren get close.”

  She nodded.

  He stroked the back of Wiley’s neck, and Wiley lifted his head for more. “You were worried that maybe Wiley has a problem?”

  “I was. I am.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with Wiley. He seems to be okay with me. Maybe Wiley knows something.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not sure. But dogs are smart. I’ve learned to pay attention to their messages. You need to understand what they’re telling you.” He smiled at her. “Good luck with your stories. I’ll look forward to reading them—and I’ll be proud to say I know the woman who wrote them. I know they won’t be ordinary puff pieces.” He nodded, as a man might who was tipping his hat. “Have a nice breakfast. Maybe I’ll see you here again. Our dogs seem to like each other.” And then he turned and left, heading toward the park’s Eighty-Fourth Street exit.

  Gena turned to look into Wiley’s face.

  “You didn’t mind him, did you? You let him pet you. You didn’t bark and you didn’t snap, did you? You sly dog.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “When does Marge get back?” Gena stopped Selma as she passed her coming out of Gena’s office. As usual, Selma-the-intern was moving at top speed.

  “Wednesday. And there’s a message for you,” Selma called back over her shoulder, “from someone named Brittney. I left it on your desk.” And she disappeared around the corner.

  “Thanks,” Gena called after her.

  The message on the desk was brief. “Hi, Gena. Can you keep a secret? Call me. Use your cell, not your office phone. Don’t text.” And there was a phone number—with a Los Angeles area code.

  She put her coffee down, hung up her jacket, and stuck her bag in the bottom drawer of her desk.

  She sat down. She read Brittney’s message one more time. Then she got her cell phone out of her pocket and called Brittney’s number.