Fire in the Wind

by Alexandra Sellers

  Just that Robert's talents were far above what he was doing for her. But Maria diplomatically didn't say so.

  "Jake's not like that," she said instead. "He never calls a favour like that, Vanessa. But he's calling them now, you better believe it. If Jake's in love with you, honey, you've got it made. If he's not in love with you, why is he doing it?"

  * * *

  Vanessa was at leisure to consider that question on Sunday while she pottered in her apartment alone, straightening, polishing, hanging and rearranging.

  The furniture had arrived Saturday night at eight, and it was midnight before all the unpacking and arranging was finished and she and Maria had made a last cup of coffee.

  "Is it home?" Maria demanded as they sank exhausted into chairs and waited for the water to boil. "Does it feel like home?"

  Of course it did. It had been home right from the beginning. Vanessa nodded. "Home," she said.

  "Good. If that water ever boils, I'm going to drink a cup of coffee and go home to my husband."

  "Maria, thank you so—"

  "You're welcome," Maria had interrupted. "Please don't thank me, you're welcome. I like you, Vanessa. I wanted to see you properly settled in."

  Vanessa smiled now, thinking of it. It had cost her to leave all her friends in New York and come in search of a dream, and perhaps if she'd thought about it longer, she wouldn't have done it. Because friends were worth more than a career any day. But Jake had seen to it that she didn't think about it for longer.

  Vanessa remembered Maria's electrifying conversation with the dispatcher last night and laughed aloud. She would be glad of a friend like Maria.

  "Don't tell Robert what I told you about Jake, and don't think about it too much," had been her last words to Vanessa through the car window as she drove off. But thinking wasn't so easy to command.

  Yes. Of course he loved her. Maybe he didn't know it or couldn't admit it to himself, and maybe he was fighting it because of Jace and Larry and because of the nameless woman she knew was in his past, but Jake Conrad loved her.

  She had to tell him the truth about Larry, help him put some of those ghosts to rest, so that he could stop being afraid of love. She had to help him disentangle his distrust of her because of what she had done to Jace from his distrust of that other woman she knew had hurt him, and then he would recognize that what was between them was safe and sure....

  Everything she placed and polished that day was placed and polished with love. The kind of love that says, I am building a nest for you and me, a place where we can be safe and protected—a home.

  She thought of the impersonal hotel luxury of his penthouse suite and promised herself that this apartment would feel like home to Jake Conrad.

  * * *

  That week Vanessa moved office, too, from the pristine box at Concorp to the large high-ceilinged second floor of what they had begun to call "Number 24"—that being the number of the building's street address.

  Here her office was more like what she had been used to—if much cleaner. All trace of the bankrupt company had been cleared away, the cutters were already at work on the production prototypes of the wool-polyester slacks, and the shipper-receiver was organizing his work space to his liking while the first fabric shipments trickled in.

  Vanessa stood in the centre of the big bright room that with luck would be her working home for years to come and felt the hum of a working enterprise all around her. This was it. She had begun.

  There was a knock on the door, and Robert walked in carrying a bottle of champagne and two glasses. He held them up. "From Maria," he said. "For luck."

  He popped the cork and filled their glasses and they drank to their own success.

  "And to a spring line that'll knock 'em dead," Robert finished, and for the first time Vanessa felt the full strange weight of creative responsibility. There was no more Philistine, no more Tom Marx to pick through her design offerings and modify and cast out. That was her job now. She would be deciding—and very soon—which of the designs in her case would be turned into prototypes and become part of the new spring line and which would not.

  It was at least equal parts frightening and exciting.

  * * *

  Vanessa had not realized what an enormous act of faith the simple placing of an order for fabric was. She had seen Tom dither over his choices time and again, working out mixes and matches in a dozen different ways, trying to find the sure-fire guaranteed seller, and she had watched often with a faint distant contempt. Then she had made her fabric choices unhesitatingly: "This with this for the 458 group, Tom, and that with that for the 417s."

  Now she understood the difference between drawing a salary and staking your heart and your business on the line with every decision. Now it was she who dithered: if this fabric was so popular with manufacturers this season, did that mean there would be a glut on the market come April? If that one was a little less popular, was that because it was higher in price or because Canadian women wouldn't like the hand of the fabric?

  "What's the hand?" asked Robert, who had strong ideas on cost and sat in on most of her meetings with fabric salesmen.

  "It's like saying the touch or the feel," said Vanessa, and watched him make a mental note. She had to hand it to Robert: he might be here because Jake had called in a favour, but he was going to make the best of the experience. He could have stayed strictly on the accounting side and left all this to her. But Robert was learning everything he could about the "rag trade," as he now called it, including the small idiosyncratic vocabulary the industry used.

  Sometimes she placed an order with her heart in her mouth, as though truly her life were on the line. "At this rate I'll have an ulcer by next week," she muttered after a particularly harrowing day, and Robert smiled.

  "You'll feel better once all the decisions are made. Then it's just do or die, and you're good at that."

  "Am I? "she asked.

  "Yup," he said comfortably. "You've got a great capacity for hard work—and for putting the possible consequences out of your mind and just going full stretch."

  She was certainly going full stretch after that, as she and Ilona, her young assistant, set to work making the sample models of the new spring line of "Number 24."

  Vanessa had pondered and dithered over the name of the company and the line for days, until Robert had said, "Choose the name later. I've already incorporated you under 'Vanessa Standish Fashions, Inc.' We can register the 'style' later—if we can ever decide on one." He had laughed when he said it; he knew the name was important.

  It was after they had begun referring to the factory by its street address, "Number 24," that she had been listening to a radio discussion in the design office one day. She was trying to follow the ins and outs of a political controversy that was being explained by a couple of commentators. It was complicated, and her background in Canadian history, she was deciding, was too sketchy to allow her to make sense of the debate that was raging across the nation. And then one of the voices said, "So what's going to happen, Bill, when the P.M. gets back to Number 24?"

  Vanessa, on her knees beside a size-nine dummy, looked up and muttered through the pins in her mouth, "What's the P.M.?"

  "The prime minister," replied Ilona on the other side of the dummy. "I don't think that's hanging right yet. Do we need a larger tuck here, do you think?"

  Vanessa, feeling an interesting prickle in the back of her brain, took the pins out of her mouth. "Then what's Number 24?" she asked slowly.

  Ilona was concentrating on a pucker in the pinned fabric. "It's the prime minister's official residence in Ottawa—Number 24 Sussex Drive," she said.

  "What?" breathed Vanessa.

  "Yeah. That's why this place is such a good joke. You know—'I was over at Number 24 yesterday.'" She flicked her long braid over her shoulder and turned her attention back to the dummy. Ilona Silverleaf was one-quarter native Canadian, her grandfather being of the Tlingit tribe in northern British Columbia. From h
im she had inherited her thick black hair, a fact she underlined by braiding it and wearing a small beaded headband.

  "You're kidding!" said Vanessa, thunderstruck.

  "Nope," said Ilona. "There, that's got it! If we just shave this by an eighth of an inch right along the—"

  "I don't believe it! That's wonderful! That's what we'll call ourselves!"

  At last she had Ilona's full attention. "What's what we'll call ourselves?" she asked, her eyes round with surprise.

  "Number 24," said Vanessa with a smile. "It's different, it's Canadian, it's—why didn't you tell me what it meant before?"

  "Thought you knew," Ilona shrugged.

  So Robert registered the styles "Number 24" and "Number 24 Fashions" and "24, Inc." and Vanessa crossed her fingers and ordered her first supply of stitch-in labels to be made up to her own design.

  After that it all suddenly pulled together. It became real. She was responsible for a business not by a blind stroke of fate but because she was competent to do it. Because with hard work, she had the brains and talent to make it a success.

  Things gained momentum. By the third week in August the factory was working full out on the first of the slacks orders, and production prototypes for the spring line were in the works.

  It seemed to Vanessa that she was busier than ever, though now she worked fewer twelve-hour days, and she was calmer in the midst of all the activity.

  Calmer, and lonelier. She returned to her beautiful apartment earlier these nights, long before the sun went down. So she had time for long walks along the Seawall and through Stanley Park, and time to play tennis with Ilona at the club she had joined there, and time for entertaining Robert, Maria, Ilona and one or two other people she had begun to make friends with.

  But most of all, she had time to notice the gaping hole in her life, the hole that hard work only partially disguised.

  The hole in her life left by Jake Conrad. She wanted him back now with an intensity that was like a fever.

  Chapter 12

  He came home on the nineteenth of August, looking as dark as a sheikh and very fit. Vanessa herself was darker than when she had left New York, but she had certainly not had time to devote herself to the sun, and next to Jake she looked like a moon maiden.

  "Were you working or playing?" she asked him enviously that afternoon after he had arrived unannounced at Number 24 and thrown her into a barely-concealed tizzy of excitement.

  "Doing anything at all in that damned hot desert is work," Jake answered.

  "Was the trip a success?" she asked, trying not to smile too much and too foolishly, trying to hide the sparkle he brought to her eyes.

  "So-so," said Jake. "How about you, or don't I need to ask? This place is a hive of activity."

  "Yes," she agreed. "Things look good."

  Jake moved across her office to the racks by the wall. "What are these?" he asked, lifting a hanger to eye level and examining a soft green pleated skirt with interest.

  "The spring line," she said, pride beating in her throat with an intensity she hadn't felt since she stood first in her class in grade six.

  "Very classical?" he asked with a slow smile over his shoulder that turned her bones to water.

  "Very classical," she agreed, suddenly shy of meeting his eyes.

  "Very conservative?" he pressed.

  "Well—relatively conservative," she said.

  "Oh, ho," he said. "Only relatively?" He replaced the skirt and picked up the delicate feminine matching jacket, which was ruffled prettily around the neck and ruched at the waist. "Pleased with yourself?"

  "More than I would have thought possible," Vanessa replied softly. "Thank you, Jake."

  He laughed. "Don't thank me yet." He hung the jacket back on the rack, thrust his hands in the pockets of his beige pants and turned. "Shall I pick you up for dinner tonight?"

  She felt her heart stop. "Yes, please," she said simply.

  Jake crossed to the door. "Good. Eight o'clock?"

  "Yes," she said again. "I'm not in the hotel any more, I'm—"

  "I know where you are," Jake said, and then with a wave he was gone.

  It was only after the door had closed behind him that Vanessa realized what she had just seen: the sparkle of sunlight she had noticed when Jake waved was the sparkle of six diamonds on the ring he was wearing.

  * * *

  She dressed as carefully as a bride, and she dressed in white. The silk shirt had a high stiff collar cut low to a buttoned front and full sleeves with tiny cuffs; the matching dirndl skirt had pockets in the side seams. Her small delicate shoes had open toes and sling backs, and her evening bag hung over her shoulder on a thin gold chain.

  Her hair curled thick and loose to her shoulders, caught up on one side with a white comb.

  She looked younger than she had looked for years; young, pretty and soft, almost as though the long years of marriage to Larry had never happened. She looked nineteen. Except for the hollows under her cheekbones and the womanly fullness of her wide mouth, she looked like the girl who had fallen in love with Jace. It was because she was in love again, she knew, because love sparkled in her eyes.

  Jake saw it the moment he stepped into the room, and he didn't like it. She knew by the way his lips tightened when he looked at her.

  "It's hard to believe you're still on the market after six weeks," he said softly. "What do you do, beat them off with a broom?"

  "I've been too busy for—" she began, then stopped and said, "Anyway, there was no one to beat off."

  "Good," he said. "Nothing like blind stupidity for keeping the field clear. Shall we go?"

  He took her to Skookum Chuck's, which was only a few minutes away from her apartment, and they walked the distance. The evening was pleasantly cool, with a fat-bellied sun low on the horizon casting a golden glow over the world and sparkling so brilliantly on the water of the bay that it hurt the eyes.

  Jake wore sunglasses, and now, with his skin so darkly tanned, for the first time Vanessa saw the fine white line of a scar on his jaw—the scar that caused that crooked smile of his.

  They sat at a secluded table for two in a nook by the window and ordered salmon again. The meal was delicious, and they talked over it like old friends. Or new lovers, with a depth of communication that she had been waiting for for a long time. When the coffee arrived she turned from the view of the bay and gazed at him. Then, almost involuntarily she reached out to touch a soft finger along the length of the fine white scar she had seen earlier, but which was invisible again in the soft lighting.

  "How did you get that?" she asked quietly.

  Jake jerked his head as if her touch burned him, and his dark eyes caught and held hers.

  "It's a long story," he said.

  "Was it caused by a woman, Jake?" she asked quietly.

  "No," he said.

  "But there was a woman who scarred you, wasn't there? There is a woman you still hate?" Please let me be able to help him, she was praying into the silence, please let him tell me.

  His face looked like brown paper stretched over a skull. She heard the harsh intake of a breath.

  "Is there?" he countered.

  "Please tell me, Jake," she whispered. "What did she do to you?"

  He laughed. "She married another man, what else?" he said harshly.

  There it was. The reason for his anguish, for his hatred of her—what she had done to Jace, his woman had done to him.

  "Jake," she said. "I love you."

  "You do not love me," he replied flatly. She wasn't going to get through to him, she knew it. But she had to keep trying.

  "And you love me," she persisted, her heart suddenly beating as though she were risking her life.

  He began to laugh. Softly, low, but with a quality that made her cheeks burn.

  "I do not love you, Vanessa, my dear," he said. "What is it you want to prove?"

  The smell of coffee wafted under her nose and she jerked into startled awareness. A waiter refil
led their cups, put the empty wine bottle into the ice bucket standing beside the table and pushed it away.

  "Do you recognize the name Gilles Dufour?" Vanessa asked gently.

  His hand gripped his cup so tightly all the tendons of his fingers stood out in relief, and inwardly she smiled.

  "He's a salesman for Designwear." His voice was absolutely calm. "Why?"

  "He was the top salesman for Designwear," Vanessa said. "But he's not any more. He dropped them last month and took on our line."

  Jake nodded to her over the rim of his cup, then took a sip of coffee. "Congratulations," he said.

  "He brought a contract from a chain called Fairway with him," she went on softly, watching him as she spoke. "To supply women's slacks under the store label to the western region. Just the right size contract, too."

  "Things are looking well for you, then." He wasn't moved in the least.

  "Jake," she said in an urgent undertone. "There are a dozen other things—Robert, Number 24—Jake, why are you doing all that?"

  His lean hand was very brown against the white china, but no tension showed in it now. She saw the ring, but now, suddenly, she was afraid to ask him why he wore it.

  "Vanessa," he said, in a voice that made her shrink as though to ward off a blow, "if you find it impossible to have sex with a man without convincing yourself that love is involved, please feel free to imagine anything you like about me. And tell me you love me if you must.

  "But don't expect me to take part in your imaginings. You are a beautiful, desirable woman, and I don't pass many moments in your company without thinking about making love to you. If you aren't adult enough to handle that fact, dress it up any way you like." His voice grew abruptly hoarse in his throat.

  "But come to some kind of terms with it, because I want you, and I intend to make sure that you want me."

  * * *

  They walked back to her home in silence. The ocean beat against the sandy beach in the darkness, its blackness silvered now with the light of stars.

  "Good night, Jake," she said when she had unlocked the front door. For an answer there was only the soft wind in the trees and Jake's strong hand opening the door for her.