That had been six months ago. Erin had gone back to work, more beautiful than before, her unique and stunning eyes touched by a new, haunting enigma. Those eyes of deep, seductive silver seemed on camera to hold all the intoxicating mystique of the ages.
And of course, there were always the gold bracelets. No matter what the product or costume, Erin wore the bracelets that had come from the one person who had come to mean the world to her. But it had been only since the breakup with Marc that she had nervously played with the bracelets. When agitated, she absently slid them in circles around her wrists.
Mary knew why Erin had become so attached to the bracelets in the first place, and she shrewdly assumed she now knew why Erin—unknowingly—used the bracelets like another woman might chew her nails. She wished she could help, but she really couldn’t. Certain things had to take time to work themselves out.
Erin was ready for a vacation: Mary was well aware of that fact, and certainly agreeable. She knew that the glamor of Erin’s work was only the finished product. Erin spent hours and hours doing the same thing over and over to perfection in the photographer’s eye. She silently endured the elements and grueling hours. It had been good for her, it had kept her from thinking.
But the divorce was final now, and Erin had firmly cleared her schedule. A change of scenery was needed.
“Think of it, Mary,” Erin was laughing. “If I ever do get to teach, I’ll actually know what I’m talking about! The history fascinates me—everything about the U.S.S.R. is so relevant and vital to the times we live in! And Mary, you’ve been there! I remember when Ye Journey Shoppe first became a qualified Intourist office. You and Ted went, and you told me what a wonderful time you had.”
“Erin,” Mary protested with a frown, “Ted and I went with a tour. We had a Russian-speaking American guide—as well as the government Intourist guides—with us all the way. You’re going all alone, by train! I’ve warned you that you’re not going to find the majority of the citizens on the streets speaking English like in Oslo or Stockholm.”
“I know, I know,” Erin soothed her friend with patience. “I have the book you gave me, and I’ve been reading up on rules and regulations and language! Trust me, Mary, I’ll be okay. Contrary to popular opinion, I do have a mind, a rather quick one at that. You’re not letting an illiterate waif loose in the big bad streets!” Erin laughed. “I’ve survived New York for twenty-eight years! Surely, I must have acquired a certain amount of survival savvy.”
Mary smiled. “I just worry about you, Erin.”
Erin clutched Mary’s fingers on the snowy white tablecloth. “I know that, Mary, and I appreciate it. But I’ll be fine. I’ll never discuss politics or religion or government. I’ll steer clear of anything that looks remotely military, and I’ll never take a picture without permission. I won’t cross the border with anything that could be called subversive literature. And”—Erin hesitated a moment—“I’ll be so absorbed by the uniqueness of my surroundings that I’ll be able to forget the past. Mary, I need this!”
Mary felt a little clutch in her throat. Ever since that night Erin had called her in tears, asking desperately if she could come over, she had closed herself in. She had needed to talk that night but she hadn’t been completely coherent. Mary understood Erin’s total disillusionment but not exactly what had happened. And after her fit of rambling tears and a night’s sleep, Erin had sweetly thanked Mary and begged that they not discuss her marriage—or the reasons for its dissolution—anymore.
Mary had agreed reluctantly, fearing that the short-lived marriage had done Erin serious damage. In all this time she hadn’t had so much as a lunch date with a man.
But they had been through that round of discussion before. Erin would answer coldly that she simply wasn’t interested in dating, and had no desire ever to marry again. She had her work; she planned to go back to school. That was enough for her.
“Jeans,” Mary said aloud.
Erin smiled with amusement and query. “Pardon?”
“Jeans,” Mary repeated. “Remember, it’s illegal to sell your jeans.”
Erin laughed, and Mary had to admit that the sound was free and real after a long time when she had barely smiled naturally.
“Mary! Of all things. I don’t think I’m going to run around trying to sell my jeans! We’d better order,” she said, picking up her menu and turning her interest to the entrees. “I think I’ll have the beef Wellington. What about you?”
Mary grimaced. “No—I’ll have the spinach salad. Some friend you are,” she moaned. “Models are always supposed to be dieting—and here I am, the green eater. It’s disgusting. I gain weight just by looking at food!”
“Mary,” Erin protested, “your weight is all in the right places! Ted always says he wants a woman he can hold on to!”
Mary grinned slowly. “Oh, what the hell. I’ll have the beef Wellington. For Ted.”
Their waiter came to take their orders. Erin lowered her lashes and smiled as Mary ordered the Beef Wellington, chocolate mousse—and a Diet Pepsi.
Erin entered her small apartment off Central Park that night with a long sigh, slipping off her heels and edging them beneath the antique deacon’s bench in the entryway. The cool tile welcomed her weary nylon-covered feet, as did the soft pile of beige carpeting as she moved into the living room and tossed both shoulder and tote bags on the old sofa she had just had recovered in soft brown corduroy. She hesitated a minute, then decided that if she gave in. to temptation and tossed her body along with the bags on the sofa she would never get up again. And she sorely needed a cup of tea.
Erin walked into the kitchen with its cheerful pale yellow accents—a complement to the earth tones of her apartment—and filled the kettle. While she waited for the water to boil, she glanced idly around. Handsome copperware and plants hung from high decking above the island range; the overpass gave view to the comfortable living room and the plate-glass windows that let out to a small balcony—and a view of the city far below. Her home was coming along, she thought with pleasure. For years she had collected antique furniture, delighting in refinishing it herself. She knew the period of each piece she collected, and loved to envision the lives of the previous owners. It was a hobby, it was a relaxation. It was a way of reminding herself that she had come within a stone’s throw of finishing her studies and that one day she would go back.
The divorce had cost her many of her most prized possessions. She had moved her belongings into Marc’s penthouse before the wedding, and when she had moved out, the last thing on her shattered mind had been material objects. But she had had this place six months now, time enough to fill it with pictures and plants, time enough to make it home.
The kettle whistled. Erin made her cup of tea and took it out to the sofa, where she curled into a corner to sip it while watching the moon through the plate-glass windows. A long sigh escaped her. She had spent the day dancing across Fifth Avenue countless times in fur coats. She shook her head at the incomprehensible genius of the advertising agencies. Did dancing in the street make women crave thick fur coats? Surely, winter was enough in itself to get that point across.
She shook her head again, wondering why she was still modeling. She was always telling herself that she would go back to college and get her degree.
She had always meant to get out of modeling, but somehow the time had just kept passing. She had forgotten about everything else when she had fallen in love with Marc. And, she admitted dryly, the more time passed, the harder it became to leave this life-style behind. She was accustomed to writing checks on a whim, purchasing things when they caught her eye. Her apartment alone was beyond a teacher’s salary—far beyond a student’s income. But since the breakup of her marriage she had begun to take steps in the right direction. More and more of her income was finding its way into a savings account. This trip to Russia was diminishing the savings account, but it was necessary for her sanity, and it was a part of the circuitous road toward her dream.
A soft scratching at the door interrupted Erin’s thoughts, and she uncurled her long legs from the sofa. With a smile on her face she opened her door to the perpetrator of the sound—a sleek gray Persian torn with the unpretentious name of Bill. “What are you up to, huh, Bill? A little scrounging-around-town time?” Erin stooped to collect the highly independent animal into her arms and stroked his silken coat until Bill decided he had had enough of such coddling. His purr became a protesting meow and she set him back down. “You know, Bill, you don’t live here. You have an owner who feeds you and cares for you! But I always was a sucker for a pretty face. I bought you a can of sardines just the other day.”
I sure as hell was a sucker for a pretty face, Erin thought with a stab of chilling pain as she led the cat into the kitchen. A total fool. But I really wasn’t so terribly foolish, she defended herself. Marc wasn’t just pretty, his appeal had been devastating. Tall, suave, and sleek. Omar Sharif eyes. Many women had fallen head over heels in love with him before Erin, and many would do so in the future.
He had always been charming; he was athletic and rugged. For the first time in her life Erin had been enchanted beyond control.
How was I to know? she tormented herself with the same question she had asked a million times. But she should have known. Her job had given her exposure to the sophisticated world of fame and wealth. She had been verbally warned, but she had been sure Marc’s ex-mistress was merely jealous, and she listened with kind patience only to the hints given.
Yes, she should have had a certain sophistication. But she hadn’t. She had lived too long with tragedy not to welcome happiness with open arms. But oh, God, Marc himself had given her warnings. Yet she had never thought anything about his comments regarding other women. Marc was a photographer. She had always assumed he would have a normal, professional interest in other beautiful women.
When she thought of it now, her naiveté seemed mere stupidity. But her parents had been so loving, so traditional … it had simply never occurred to her that marriage could be based on any other values. She hadn’t believed any of the rumors that had begun before their honeymoon ended. Her mind must have truly been in a cloud. Remembering wasn’t good for her. She could feel the blood draining from her face as she thought of the night when she had been so cruelly slapped in the face with the truth. The night when she had walked into her own home to find another man, a friend of Marc’s, an acquaintance of hers … a photographer … waiting for her.
He laughed disbelievingly at her when she asked him to leave.
She was shaking as she tried to lift the lid of the sardines with the key supplied. She froze. She would never, never, forget that night. She had been so shocked, and then so panicked, struggling desperately as he kept chuckling and telling her how much he loved a spirited woman. And she had so stupidly kept calling for Marc, Marc who was with another woman, who thought she knew the score … Marc, who really wouldn’t have cared.
Finally breaking free, she had run from her own home in tears and dishabille, begging for a dime from a man on the street to make that call to Mary, praying that she would be there….
Bill broke through Erin’s remembrances with a yowl. Erin started, then smiled and apologized. “Sorry, Bill. Sardines coming right up.”
Of course, she wasn’t a child. When faced with the facts she had simply accepted them. Marc had never had any intention of changing his life. He might have loved her in his way, but there hadn’t been a single second when he had even considered a conventional marriage.
She had spoken to him only once after that night, and he had been truly mystified. Surely she knew … surely she accepted his life-style … she did, after all, move in the same fast lane. He had been very apologetic about his friend. Marc believed in the old Live and Let Live. He would never have forced Erin into anything.
But the physical force of the situation had been shattering, more shattering than even she had realized at the time. Shock had given way to pain, and she had wondered just what she had been lacking. She was supposed to be one of the most beautiful women in the world, yet she wasn’t woman enough to hold her husband. Yes, her ego had been badly bruised. But she had been able to go beyond that and understand that no one woman would ever be enough for Marc. Yet she hadn’t been able to get past the terror of that night.
Erin shuddered and felt her involuntary movement become a whole race of shivers. I was so pathetically naïve. I can’t make matters worse and start blaming myself. She stretched her fingers and forced them to stop trembling with the sheer strength of willpower.
No, she couldn’t blame herself. Definitely not! But neither could she shake the aftereffects. “Do you know, Bill,” she murmured, her voice growing level and strong as she awarded the feline his long-awaited sardines, “I really am doing well. At first I flinched every time a makeup man or stylist tried to touch me. I’ve gotten over all that. And guess what, Bill? I am going to Russia! I’m going to see the Kremlin and Red Square and the Hermitage and all the palaces and study myself silly. I have a week in Scandinavia, then a full week in Moscow, and a full week in Leningrad. What do you think? No comment, eh? Well, I think it’s going to be just great! But do you know what? Mary keeps warning me about language problems, so I’m going to do a little studying right now.”
Erin absently fingered her bracelets with a little smile. They had been a gift from fiancé Jodie, and since the day she had received them she had never taken them off. Now they had become some kind of special link with a world of normality where there were still people who loved one another, and only one another….
Once more curled on the sofa, with Bill not too independent to enjoy his own comfortable curl at her feet, Erin began a serious study of the language book, frowning as she realized she wouldn’t recognize anything she learned anyway—the alphabet was entirely different. “Oh, well,” she murmured, scratching the cat’s ears, “I managed okay in Arabic when we did that junior wear spread in Morocco. I guess I’ll survive this!”
Cat and woman both fell silent as the moon rose to its peak. Erin found herself yawning, although it was still early. She thought about dinner, but the beef Wellington was still with her and she decided to forgo another meal. She was tired, and she had an early morning call. More dancing in mink coats.
Erin rose and stretched. “Sorry, Bill, but it’s out time. Spakoi nai no chee. That’s Russian for good-night. A bit long, I’ll admit, but I suppose it gets the point across. I don’t want Casey coming home at three to pound down my door and retrieve you and wind up telling me all about her hot date for three hours! And believe me, Bill, Casey might do just that! She has Wednesdays off you know.”
Bill was most put out, but Erin stuck to her guns and closed her door on him. She showered, washing her hair to assure its silkiness and freshness for the morning session, and slid between the cool sheets of her bed.
Half the time she hated trying to sleep. She kept envisioning scenes of her own loss of more than innocence. But tonight she fell immediately into a deep slumber before she even knew it. And if she dreamed at all, it was about colorful domes, gilded skylines, and regal palaces.
The next two weeks sped by for Erin. There was a rush to finish all her commitments, and although she blamed her own anxiousness, every shot seemed to take longer than the one before. She didn’t have a day that ended before seven, and even her Sundays were taken to assure deadlines. Casey cornered her on the Monday two nights before her flight, and feeling guilty that she had avoided her friend for so long, Erin forced herself to sit politely through an hour and a half of conversation about Bob Masters, the newest man in Casey’s life. It was amusing to listen to the petite brunette who didn’t have a qualm in the. world about saying whatever came to mind and was not particularly hampered by morals. Yet Erin still tried to cut her short. In her heart she was more than happy about her friend’s pleasure, but she was also envious in a very painful way. She didn’t think she’d ever dream of an affair or a man ag
ain, unless she dreamed of Marc, and the images would turn into a nightmare. Her problem wasn’t a unique one, she knew, but that knowledge couldn’t change her feelings. That was why she so vehemently disagreed with Mary’s caring suggestions that she seek help from a professional. A counselor couldn’t tell her anything she didn’t already know; time was her only possible cure, and the promise of the time away—spent so very differently!—had already eased her mind considerably.
“Casey,” Erin interrupted, when her friend’s comments became almost embarrassingly graphic, “I leave in two days and I still need a heavy coat. If you’d like, you’re welcome to come shopping with me. We have just enough time to make Bloomingdale’s before closing—if we rush.”
“Imagine!” Casey declared. “You model minks all day and you don’t own one!”
“I don’t care to own a mink,” Erin replied with a wry grimace. “I always think about how tiny and cute they are alive.”
“Wish I had that hangup,” Casey grumbled. “Well, come on, I’ll keep you company.”
Once they got to Bloomingdale’s—fifteen minutes before closing time—it wasn’t difficult to locate a coat; Erin was far more concerned with warmth than style. After Erin had made her purchase of scotchguarded suede, Casey suggested an Irish coffee in a nearby pub and Erin somewhat reluctantly agreed. Casey was going to continue her spiel about Bob, but Erin knew Casey would miss her—and Casey was also going to look after her apartment and her plants. Tonight she owed her a little humoring.
“I have to admit,” Casey mumbled as she licked a swizzle stick clean of whipped cream, “I’m glad you’re taking your vacation now. Bob thinks you’re the next best thing to Venus hitting the earth, so I’m not sure I want him to meet you just yet!”
Erin shrugged. “Don’t be silly, Casey. You don’t have to worry about his meeting me. I’m not in the dating mood at the moment, and I’d surely never date a friend’s man!”
Red Midnight Page 2