The Edge of Forever

by Bretton, Barbara

  “No Benedictine but how about some of that Old Grand-Dad you keep stashed in the credenza.”

  McCallum’s face, ruddy from brandy and two glasses of port, registered his surprise. “That’s my secret hiding place. My last secretary had a penchant for liquid lunches. How would you be knowing about it?”

  Joe, who was feeling no pain, leaned back in his chair. “You took it out three times when you were looking for the address book with Meg’s New York number in it.” He grinned as Patrick took the bottle from its hiding place.”I also saw the schnapps behind it.”

  “A sad lapse in judgment, that.” Patrick poured them each two fingers of the Old Grand-Dad. “When Pegeen and I were courting, I remember many a night when I’d be pouring out my heart to the local innkeeper, wondering what the Almighty had in mind when he created women.”

  “Does it ever get any easier?” Joe asked, accepting the refilled glass.

  “We were married thirty years before she passed—God rest her soul. It was wonderful and exciting and loving but easy? That, my boy, it never got.” Patrick quickly drained his glass and poured himself another. “If man and woman were meant to get along, God would have made them both the same sex.”

  Joe laughed into his drink. “What?”

  Patrick, however, was nonplussed. “That didn’t come out right, but you know what I mean.”

  It was probably a testament to how much alcohol he’d consumed, but Joe did know exactly what Patrick meant, and that fact gave him little comfort. He took a sip of Old Grand-Dad and let the liquor warm its way down his throat. He and Patrick had spent the last three hours discussing women in general and Margarita Lindstrom in particular, trying to figure out exactly what Joe’s next move should be. The five days since Meg left Lakeland House so abruptly seemed like forever to Joe.

  On the first day, he had tried to drink his sway through Anna’s legendary bar. On the second day, he’d nursed a monster hangover. On the third day, he’d cursed and bitched about her pigheaded refusal to understand his take on things. On the fourth, he finished his work on the Kennedy Colony history and finally admitted that magical Lakeland House wasn’t magical without Margarita near.

  Now, on the fifth day, he and Patrick McCallum, who took Meg’s departure almost as hard as Joe, were sharing a boozy farewell lunch before Joe left for New Jersey and Patrick headed south to visit at his daughter’s home.

  “I think I should call her,” Joe said, looking over at Patrick.

  “The telephone’s not a good idea, Joseph. Too easy to be misunderstood. Besides, I saw her before she left. Five days aren’t enough for her to cool down.”

  “How do I know if seven days are enough?” Joe asked. “Maybe it should be eight or ten or maybe I blew it when we moved past three.” He shook his head. “She’s going to slip away from me, slip right back behind that shield of armor of hers. I can’t let that happen.”

  Patrick remained unconvinced. “You’ve pushed her about as far as she can be pushed. Maybe this time you should acquiesce to her wishes. Be a little more judicious in your actions.”

  “If I knew how to be more judicious, I wouldn’t be sitting here drinking with you, Patrick. I’d be back at Lakeland with Meg.”

  “You have quite a problem there, Joseph, my boy.” Patrick polished off his glass of bourbon. “There doesn’t seem to be any easy solution, does there? I wish Herself were here to help us out.”

  Joe nodded. “I wish Anna were here to explain Meg to me. I’ve never met anyone quite like her, not even on paper.”

  Patrick leaned way back in his leather swivel chair and put his feet on the desktop. “I had a friend once who was in a similar situation. He had a sweetheart who refused to listen to his explanation about why he was seen at the country club with a pretty little redhead. Betsy wouldn’t even take his phone calls.”

  “And how did your friend handle it?” Joe asked. “Did he send her flowers or write her a love letter?”

  “Anthony Dowling do something that predictable?” Patrick laughed and crossed his arms behind his head. “Oh, no. Anthony was a writer just like you, Joseph, except he wrote children’s books. I remember this particular one he wrote that—“ Joe coughed politely, and Patrick stopped short. “Well, I was getting a bit off track. Anyway, what Anthony did was—“

  Joe listened carefully to the story of Anthony Dowling and Betsy Ryan. By the time he landed at Newark Airport ten hours later, he knew exactly what he had to do to win Meg’s heart once again.

  #

  “Are you busy?”

  Back on Long Island, Meg looked up from the final index she was working on. Elysse stood in the kitchen doorway, looking very professional in her dove-grey suit.

  “I thought you had office hours,” Meg said, motioning her friend inside.

  Elysse stepped over the pile of papers scattered on the floor and sat down opposite Meg at the small kitchen table. “Lunch hour,” she said. “Or have you been working so hard you didn’t notice?”

  Meg gestured toward the stack of photos, bios, and essays piled high. “There’s a ham and swiss on rye somewhere under there. I’m working my way down to it.”

  “So how’s it going?”

  “Slowly. It’s only taken four times longer than I figured it would.” Her concentration was totally shot. In the eight days since Meg had left Lakeland and Joe, she’d found it difficult, if not impossible, to think about anything but the fact that she missed him more than she ever could have imagined missing another human being. Every time she forced her attention back to the index, her ridiculous heart skittered back to thoughts of Joe, what they’d shared, all that they could share in some nebulous future if she could just see her way clear.

  Each morning she slogged her way through another mound of papers. Each afternoon she drove out to Sunken Meadow State Park, searching out the swans she’d photographed before she left, but they, like her peace of mind, were elusive. What did it matter if she never saw the swans again, never took another photo? She had enough photographs stuffed in suitcases and crammed in file cabinets to last the rest of her life. The sheer pleasure in the simple act of taking and developing the shots was no longer enough. Maybe it had never been enough.

  “Has he called?” Elysse asked.

  “I didn’t expect him to, Elly,” Meg said.

  “Thought about calling him?”

  “Not really,” she lied. She’d only thought about calling him every hour on the hour. “We never got around to exchanging phone numbers.”

  “So call Patrick. He’d have Joe’s number.”

  “I did. Patrick’s in Virginia.”

  “You could call Lakeland House. If Joe answers, you can always hang up.”

  “I did that too." So much for lying. "The machine was hooked up. The announcement said the Kennedy Colony was closed for the winter.”

  Elysse thought for a second. “Call Joe’s agent. I’m sure she’d help you.”

  “And have to come up with a decision on that People magazine deal?”

  “What’s the problem? I thought you didn’t want any part of it.”

  “I don’t.” Meg put down her coffee cup. “At least, not this way. But every time I think of what it would mean to Hunt, I start wondering if I’m being selfish.” She put her head down on her arms and sighed. “What in hell am I going to do with my life, Elly?”

  “I can’t help you with the rest of your life, but I might be able to do something about the next seven days.”

  Meg looked up at her friend, who seemed uncharacteristically uncomfortable.

  “God knows this is probably the worst of times to ask this. I mean, I know you haven’t decided if you want to drive again, but Al got sick and Marty still isn’t back from heart surgery and—“

  “You need a driver.”

  Elysse nodded. “Starting Saturday. A one-week special job. You know we wouldn’t ask you if things weren’t so difficult.”

  “After you’ve opened up your home to me, do
you really think I’d say no?” Meg smiled. “Of course I’ll do it.”

  “Maybe you should hear the rest of it before you agree.”

  “Not another Arab sheikh. The last one wanted me to cut my hair so he could have a wig made for his favorite wife.”

  Elysse shifted around in her chair.

  “Elly?” Now Meg was getting nervous. “Tell me it’s not another sheikh.”

  Elysse seemed to be finding it hard to meet Meg’s eyes. “I can promise it’s not.”

  “I don’t like the way you’re not looking at me,” Meg said. “What is he? A sword swallower? A deposed potentate? An ax murderer?”

  Elysse took a deep breath. “He’s a writer.”

  Meg groaned and closed her eyes. “I'd rather an ax murderer.”

  “Jack was afraid you’d feel that way. That’s why he asked me to ask you.”

  “Did he figure you’d use some of your therapist’s skills on me?”

  Elysse laughed. “No, but he did figure I could call on eight years of friendship.”

  “Coercion.”

  “Can’t you find a better word for it, Meg?”

  “I’m not the writer,” she said dryly. “I’m just the driver.” She got up and poured herself more coffee. “You realize I’d be a lot happier with the Arab sheikh, don’t you?”

  “I’m so sorry, Meg, but you’re the only one available. It won’t be so awful.”

  One of Meg’s pale brows arched. “How can you be so sure?”

  “He writes children’s books. Bunnies and butterflies. How dangerous can he be?”

  #

  Dressed in her sober black uniform and heels, Meg was standing in the terminal at LaGuardia Airport two mornings later, waiting for Flight 401 from Orlando to arrive. Usually there were a number of drivers gathered at the gate, but the Orlando flight was short on business types and long on families who’d spent a week with Mickey and Donald at Disney World.

  Two other drivers, older men who looked as if they’d seen more than a few decades from behind the wheel of a stretch Lincoln, were leaning against the railing opposite Meg, sipping coffee and idly ogling her legs. She’d had her orange juice at the cafeteria, had her oaktag sign made up, but that once-familiar routine now seemed alien to her. In the fifteen short minutes she’d been there, Meg had come to realize once and for all that she couldn’t go back to driving a limo any more than she could go back to her old, insulated life before Joe. This would be her farewell appearance with A Touch of Class Limousine Service.

  The PA system overheard crackled, sputtered, then blasted to life. “Flight 401, Eastern Airlines nonstop Orlando to LaGuardia, no arriving at Gate 19.”

  The other drivers ditched their coffee cups in the trash, pulled at the tails of their suit coats, then pushed ahead of the milling crowd of family and friends near the gate. Meg ran a quick hand over her sleek French braid and smoothed the lapels on her jacket. Holding up the sign “Anthony Dowling,” she fastened a bright, businesslike smile on her face and waited for him to deplane.

  Ten minutes later, she was still waiting.

  “Excuse me.” Meg stopped a flight attendant who was pushing her luggage ahead of her. “Is that everyone?”

  “Afraid so,” the woman said sympathetically. “Sorry.”

  There was no way Dowling could have missed her, not with that big sign with his name in bright red letters, unless he hadn’t been on the plane at all. Maybe Dowling called Jack and canceled, Jack called the airlines, and they had forgotten to page her. Or maybe they’d paged her and she didn’t hear the announcement. There had to be a logical reason she was standing at a deserted gate. She turned to race to the ticket counter when someone tapped her on the shoulder.

  “Touch of Class Limos?”

  She spun around. “Mr. Dowling! I’m so glad to—“ Her words died in her throat as she looked into the beautiful green eyes of Joe Alessio.

  #

  Somewhere between the hello and the fade-out, the hero and heroine were supposed to fall into a big screen clinch and vow their undying love for one another. Ingrid Bergman wouldn’t have done this to Humphrey Bogart.

  But Meg took one look at him and sprinted off like a track star. Just a month ago she’d had trouble walking fast in heels. Now it seemed she could run the 400 without breathing hard. He broke into a run, elbowing past an elderly couple in matching tweed coats and a towheaded little girl sporting Mickey Mouse ears. Meg was just turning the corner near the flight-insurance kiosk when Joe caught up with her and blocked her path.

  “We have to talk,” he said, finally understanding the value of clichés. “I’m not going to let you walk away from me a second time.”

  She kicked him in the ankle and took off again.

  What the hell was going on? She should have been in his arms, weeping with joy at seeing him again. Instead she acted like Captain Kirk in a fight to the death with the Klingons.

  He took off after her and threw himself into her path.

  “”I’m not giving up, Meg. I wanted to see you. I didn’t have a car with me. What’s so terrible about renting a limo?”

  She pushed past him and exited to the sidewalk. “Nice tan you don’t have, Alessio,” she said over her shoulder. “You weren’t even in Orlando, were you?” She waited for a break in traffic and darted across the street to the parking area.

  “Guilty,” he said, darting around a curbside taxi.

  “What did you do? Fly over from Newark?”

  This wasn’t going well. “I took another limo,” he admitted, deciding the truth was so absurd there was no need for fiction.

  “You took a limo to LaGuardia so you could rent a limo?” She stopped in front of her sleek, freshly-waxed Lincoln. “That’s ridiculous even for you, Joe.”

  “What can I tell you? When Patrick and I came up with the idea, it seemed brilliant.”

  “Funny what seems brilliant when you’re drunk.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “We were drunk, courtesy of Cointreau and Old Grand-Dad.”

  She inserted a key in the door lock. “It’s been an interesting morning, Joe. We’ll bill you for the time.”

  "I hired a car from A Touch of Class. Bought and paid for, Meg."

  “You’re not really going to go through with this charade, are you?”

  “It’s not a charade. The Franklin dynasty in America is based on the eastern end of Long Island.” He rummaged in his coat pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper. “In Orient Point, to be exact.” He offered her his best smile. “I need to do on-site research.”

  “I can give you the name of a wonderful limo service. I’m sure you’ll be very satisfied with them.”

  “I already have a wonderful limo service booked.”

  “A Touch of Class is overrated. You can do better.”

  “I don’t think I can, Margarita.”

  Her civilized, cool composure incinerated once again.”Damn it, Joe! You just couldn’t let things work themselves out, could you?”

  “No,” he said. “Life is too short and what we’ve found is too important to take chances.” No subterfuge. No bullshit. He would tell her what was in his heart.

  A slight flush stained her throat and cheeks. “There are other drivers, Joe.”

  “Maybe, but there’s only one you.”

  “I should drive off and leave you here.”

  “You wouldn’t do that.”

  “It’s what you deserve.”

  “Just take me to Orient Point,” he said. “That’s all I’m asking of you, Meg.” All I’m asking right now.

  She took her sweet time answering, and he was reminded of high school dances and the stinging humiliation of teenage rejection.

  Finally she straightened her shoulders and met his eyes. “Yes, sir, Mr. Dowling.” With one smooth, practiced motion, she opened the door to the passenger section of the beautifully appointed limo. “If you will, sir.”

  He frowned at her. “I can sit up front.”

>   She gave him a plastic, professional smile. “Paying customers never sit up front, sir. You’d miss out on all the amenities.”

  “To hell with the amenities. The front seat’s good enough for me.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Dowling. The back seat. Only the best for you, sir.”

  Muttering under his breath, he climbed into the backseat.

  “If you have any questions, just push the intercom on your right. The bar is fully stocked for your enjoyment.” She leaned inside the compartment and flicked on the small television. “We get all the metropolitan-area channels. We even have a VCR for your viewing pleasure. A selection of tapes is in the drawer beneath the bar. I’ll let you know when we reach Orient Point.”

  “Mind if I smoke?”

  She stayed blandly professional. “Of course not. You’re a paying customer, sir.”

  “Meg, I—“

  She closed the door with a deep, resounding thud, then got into the front and slid behind the wheel. They were separated by a clear Plexiglas shield that might as well have been the Berlin Wall. She reached up to adjust the rearview mirror, and their eyes met in the reflection.

  She looked away first.

  He flipped on the TV and channel-surfed until he stumbled onto an old Doris Day-Rock Hudson movie dedicated to the premise that true love always triumphed, no matter how silly, or serious, the obstacles.

  A few hours ago he’d believed that. But then hadn’t he always confused fact with fiction?

  #

  You’re a fool, Meg thought as she kept pace with traffic on the Northern State.

  The man she loved had come to her, willing to lay his heart at her feet, and she had taken one of her high-heeled shoes and stomped on it. When she first saw him standing there in the airport, his face naked with love and apology, she had wanted to fly into his arms. But years of guarding her heart had set up a pattern that was hard to break.

  All her life she’d longed for that kind of all-encompassing love, and here, when it was handed to her in the person of Joe Alessio, she turned and ran like a scared kid.