by Rozsa Gaston
People were different here. She straightened her back, stuck out her nose, and directed her chin to make like an ice cutter. Was this the world Jack's former girlfriend inhabited? If so, what was his background?
Her jasmine tea arrived, accompanied by a doll-sized china plate of three miniature tea biscuits.
"Compliments of the house, madame," the waiter murmured, perhaps in response to her puzzled look.
She glanced at her watch. It was now twenty-five after the hour. A couple entered, the woman exuding waves of floral scent as she glided to the outdoor terrace. The man wore cufflinks and loafers that looked as supple as ballet slippers. Her eyes followed them, drinking in their details.
"The terrace, please," a female voice commanded from the direction of the entryway.
Hint's blood froze. Adrenaline surged through her veins. Slowly turning her head, she pretended to study the clock on the wall over the bar.
The tall blonde from the day before was moving in her direction. She sailed rather than walked. Head held high, with shoulders erect, she took no notice of anyone in the room. Hint was reminded of fashion models whose eyes perpetually gaze elsewhere when photographed, as if a better party was going on somewhere else.
The red dress was spectacular. Hint wished desperately that it was a tad too flashy or trashy, but it wasn't. It was well constructed, revealing a modest expanse of throat. The halter design artfully showed off well-toned, sun-kissed shoulders and arms. The skirt was flared; the length perfect, ending just below the knees. Annabel looked like a tawny tigress, loping its way through the jungle, lazily thinking about her next meal.
Moving only her eyes to the extreme right, under her sunglasses, she observed the woman sit down, give her order to the waiter, then slowly and elegantly cross her legs. Hint crossed her own legs. She would not be out-crossed.
The next ten minutes went by in a zen-like state of total focus, while Hint pretended she was concentrating on nothing at all. It was harder than it looked. She remembered yoga classes she'd taken, where the instructor would tell everyone to empty their heads of all thoughts. As soon as she'd hear such a command, her head would fill up with to-do lists, analyses of recent dates, plans for that weekend, etc., while she pretended her mind was a perfect blank.
Annabel studied her cell phone out on the patio. Meanwhile, a man at the bar appeared to be studying Annabel. Her foot, attached to one long sleek, perfectly tanned leg, swung lightly up and down as if waiting to be asked to dance by someone else's foot.
The blonde woman's drink arrived. It was a white wine, served in a glass with a stem so impossibly slender, Hint could only guess it was a metaphor for the general size of the society women who frequented the place.
Blonde-with-Legs took a sip, her little finger extended. Hint picked up her teacup and extended her own pinkie. She would not be outclassed by Annabel nor anyone else in the room. Instead of leaning over to sip, she kept her back perfectly straight, making it one long journey to bring the teacup from the table up to her mouth. With her other hand, she held the saucer underneath. There was much detail involved in showing the world how well-bred one was.
It was now a quarter to six. The foot had ceased swinging. Legs had picked up her cell phone and was calling someone.
Hint leaned down, pretending to fish for something in her handbag. She cocked her ear and smiled when Legs made a sound like "Hmph" then hung up. In another minute, the woman tried again, her free hand tapping against her thigh.
Who else would she be calling, other than the person she was waiting for?
In her handbag, Hint's hand alighted on her own cell phone. She quickly hit the name of the last person who'd called. It had been Jack, at lunchtime, who'd phoned to say he'd heard from someone who'd read their flyer and had found a black-and-gray dog with a bushy tail. She had reminded him that Percy's tail had been clipped shortly after birth.
"Busy" came up on her cell phone screen. Someone else was calling Jack at that moment. Surreptitiously, she glanced at Legs. She was leaving a message, her hand covering the phone and hiding her mouth as she spoke. Whatever the woman was saying, Hint couldn't hear a thing. It had to be a message, because Legs didn't pause for a response at the other end. She clicked off and returned to her drink, her forefinger drumming up and down on the skirt of her red dress, in a sort of overwrought military march.
Over the next five minutes, Hint watched with wicked enjoyment as Legs's composure slowly melted in the warm June late afternoon sun, drop by drop. It was now just before six. Suddenly Hint had an inspiration. There was one way to find out if Jack was intending to show up and was just late.
Quickly, she got up, accidentally upsetting the teacup and spilling liquid on her white linen pants. Idiot. She rushed to the ladies' room, head down, her sunglasses still on. She needed to call Jack, as well as recover her cool. Legs wasn't the only one losing it at the moment. Hint would die if he showed up and recognized her under her disguise. What would she say when he asked what she was doing there?
In the powder room, she rubbed desperately at the tea-colored stain on her trousers. Was the universe telling her she didn't belong here? Maybe Jack Whitby didn't, either. Something about the way he wore his polo shirts half tucked into his pants didn't jibe with cufflinks and Italian leather loafers. Trying to imagine Jack in either, she choked back laughter as she dialed his number.
"Hint? Is that you?" he answered almost immediately.
"It's me." Relief flooded through every vein in her body. "Just wanted to know when I should expect you." She glanced in the mirror, patting her eyebrows into place. Why did the other women here look as if they'd had their eyebrows perfectly shaped then glued in place? Probably because they had.
"I'm on the train now. Should be home in twenty minutes. It'll take me another half hour to get to you. Would around seven be okay?" He sounded relaxed, not at all as if he were hiding anything. She reminded herself the proposed assignation had been Legs's idea, not his own.
"Take your time," she told him. "I'm tied up with some errands in the city, and I don't think I'll be home before seven fifteen. Why don't you plan on coming by around half past?" She checked her lipstick. It needed refreshing. How did the other women here manage to keep their lipstick on while drinking and eating? There were so many secrets of the rich and privileged she wasn't yet in on. Would she ever be?
"Oh. Sure. Gives me more time to do a few things around the house. I'll drag my patio furniture out of the garage, in case you want to come up and sit on it," he said.
An electric bolt shot through her stomach. Was he planning to invite her to his place sometime soon? She'd be curious to see it. "Good idea. You haven't done that already?"
The weather had been warm for at least a month.
"I didn't have any reason to. See you later." He clicked off.
She was elated. Apparently, he hadn't entertained Legs or anyone else at his home in the weeks before they'd met. And he clearly hadn't responded to the woman's invitation to meet at the Stanhope. He'd passed Hint's secret test.
She hurried back to her table to pay the bill. If she was going to make the 6:45 p.m. train, she needed to leave for Grand Central now.
On the terrace, Legs was draining her wineglass. She looked considerably less fresh than she had when she'd sat down. The man at the bar was once again gazing in her direction.
"Waiter?" Hint overheard her say.
"Yes, madame."
"Do you have any ice cream?" Annabel asked.
"Of course, madame."
"You wouldn't have any, uh… a hot fudge sundae, would you?" It was the first time she had heard the woman stammer.
"Yes, certainly, madame."
"Fine. I'll have one."
"Would madame care for another glass of wine?"
"No. Oh, sure. Why not?"
"Very good, madame." The waiter walked away.
It was time to take action. Hint stood, wallet in hand and walked over to the bar. Stopping directly next to the man
sitting there, she turned and smiled into his eyes, surprising herself.
He smiled back. Handsome, fortyish, well-dressed, with a receding hairline of light brown hair, she took him in as he did the same with her.
"I hope you don't mind my mentioning something," she said.
"Not at all," he replied with a slight European accent. His eyebrows rose.
"If I tell you, you mustn't divulge its source," she murmured. The inspired surroundings had raised her vocabulary a notch.
"Very well. But when a woman as beautiful as yourself tells me something, I listen." The man was well-bred, someone who could catch and hold the attention of a woman like Annabel.
"Good." She lowered her voice. "Directly behind me, out on the terrace, a woman much more beautiful than I has just been stood up for a date. She would most likely be pleased to be distracted by someone such as you at this moment."
"You're mistaken on one point, but I'll follow up on it. May I ask why I mustn't reveal my source?"
"You'll be much more appreciated if she thinks you took it upon yourself to speak to her."
"Understood. How do you know her?" His eyes were lively.
She thought for a moment while the bartender handed her the change. Someone had once said that the aristocracy never complain, never explain. What could be a more perfect ethos for the present moment? She lifted her chin, her eyes veiled, in her best Mata Hari imitation.
"I'd rather not say." Languidly, she reached out and took a long swig of the untouched drink the bartender had just placed in front of the man. Then she turned and exited in her best Audrey Hepburn imitation.
As she walked past the hotel on the sidewalk, she saw the man glide out onto the terrace then stop in front of the woman in the red dress.
Hint giggled. Annabel Sanford had not been the only femme fatale at the Stanhope café bar that afternoon.
Chapter Eight
Jack took the stairs to Hint's apartment two at a time. He'd finally gotten a full night's sleep and had put in a productive day at the office. He had been eager to hop on the 5:20 train to Pleasantville and speed home to projects and people who occupied his heart, rather than succumb to Annabel's invitation to meet her at the Stanhope Hotel. He hadn't even been tempted. No longer was he a pathetic toy for some preppie princess to play with until she got bored. He smiled to himself, remembering how good it felt not to respond to Annabel's call to his cell phone on the train ride home.
Then Hint had phoned. Little did she know he was speeding away from his past as they confirmed their plan to meet later.
The only thing not going his way was finding the dog. He had no idea what to do next. But if anyone could make it happen, it would be the person whose door was now opening onto the hallway.
"Hi, Jack."
"Hey. How was your day?" he asked.
She seemed lit from within, her auburn hair flowing in waves over her shoulders.
"Great." A slow smile played across Hint's face. It was almost catlike.
Just the day before he had thought she looked different — as if she had a secret. Now, once again, her face wore a new expression. Her mystery intrigued him, something that had never happened with Annabel, the ever-obvious drama queen. Was it possible that all-out, drop-dead beauty on display for everyone to see was not the way to melt a man's heart? At least not his. He was more interested to explore the subtler shadings of the auburn-haired woman before him.
"How was yours?" she asked, her hand flipping a thick mass of hair off her shoulder.
"I got some work done. Poked around some more lost-dog sites, but didn't come up with anything." And thought of you all day, he didn't add.
"Come in," she welcomed him. "Let's figure out what we're doing this weekend. Maybe we should think about out how we're going to break the news to Nicole and Tom if we haven't found him by Sunday."
Silently, he reached for her hand.
She let him take it.
His fingers encircled hers. He hoped she couldn't hear his heart, thumping like a fish at the bottom of a boat.
"I… I don't know what else to do," she continued.
"So we'll keep doing what we have been doing," he replied.
"But what's the point?" she asked.
"The point is, it's working," he said, his voice dropping. He shifted closer to her, his other hand moving around to the small of her back.
"Who says it's working?" she whispered.
"I do. I'm saying it, and your job is to have the faith to believe it. Got that?" He tucked her slim torso into the curve of his own.
She didn't resist.
"Got what?" she asked, looking as if she was trapped in her own fairy tale illustration.
"Got this?" His hand moved up to the back of her neck, sliding under her hair. He gathered it into a thick, silken pony tail, giving it a slow, deliberate tug, until her head fell back, her face just inches away.
Her eyes locked onto his. They smoldered, waiting.
For the first time in forever, it was the right moment. He leaned down, his lips meeting hers.
Warm and pliant, she allowed him to envelop her. His hands moved over her back, pressing her shoulder blades, down to the inward curve of her waist, then out again to her hips.
If he'd been driving a racecar over her terrain, he would have crashed. But he wanted to proceed slowly on her roads. As slowly as possible, hugging every wondrous inch of her. He was on the road between Nice and Monaco. It was the most spectacular drive he had ever taken. After a long moment, she stepped back. Her face was flushed, a confluence of conflicting emotions.
"Are you okay?" he asked, gently.
"Yes. Fine," she said, reaching up to push strands of hair out of her face.
"Very fine," he echoed. Pushing her hand away, he pulled his fingers up through her hair on both sides of her head. He let go, watching it cascade gloriously all over her shoulders, a dark red sheath of tumbling waves.
"You're not helping," she protested, a low laugh escaping her.
"Neither are you." Gathering her hair in his right hand, he couldn't resist one more tug. "Do you like that?" he asked in a low voice.
"I haven't decided," she whispered back, her eyes and mouth belying her words.
He tugged harder.
"How about that?" he asked, even lower.
She said nothing, her eyes speaking volumes. They glistened in the dim light of her apartment.
His lips locked onto hers.
Her arms came up around his neck. They melted into each other, tasting and nipping, drinking each other in. Finally, he released her, taking a deep breath.
When he reached to embrace her again, she stepped back. He continued, inexorably. She wanted him, he was sure.
Then her hand groped for something on the desk behind her. Was she searching for a heavy object to knock him out with? If so, he would take the blow willingly. Whatever she did to him next, he would take it like a man.
She brought the object around in front of her, brandishing it like a weapon. It was light, thin as paper. Was she waving the white flag of surrender?
Jack grabbed for whatever it was in her hand. Finally, he caught it. To his surprise, he looked down at a huge color headshot of Percy.
He threw his head back and laughed. Hint Daniels knew how to stay focused.
****
Why had she enjoyed him pulling her hair so much? Wasn't that some sort of violent act? Schoolgirls scolded boys who did that sort of thing in class. Yet unexpected chills of pleasure and desire had run up and down her spine each time he'd tugged. What was she, a masochist?
She waved Percy's photo in front of him, like a crucifix or a bouquet of garlic. As Jack's laughter increased, she couldn't help but join in.
"Okay, I get your point," he choked out, his eyes twinkling. "Find the dog."
She slowly backed away then sat behind her desk. At least two feet of mahogany was now between them.
"Did anyone ever tell you, you would have made a great spy?
" he continued.
"Intelligence or counterintelligence?" She didn't know where that question had come from.
"You could have been a double agent, for sure."
"Isn't that a bad thing?" she asked.
"In your case, no. Both sides would have forgiven you for anything you did. Probably thanked you."
"But wasn't Mata Hari hanged?"
"She was shot, but not until she'd lived a life others only dream of."
"Well, I like the life I'm living now, and I'm not a spy, so I'll just stay on the amateur side of the fence."
"You're no amateur, Beautiful. You're the most naturally sophisticated woman I've ever met." He meant it. Every word. After Annabel Sanford's brand of artful sophistication, he recognized Hint's at the other end of the spectrum where beauty complemented nature, instead of trying to improve upon it.
"More so than what's-her-name?" The words escaped her before she could catch herself.
"Who's what's-her-name?"
"You know exactly who. The one we bumped into last night."
"Oh. Her." His voice hardened. "I'll try to explain it simply." He paused for a moment, looking away. Then his eyes swung back to hers, clear and focused. "Which stone do you think is more valuable — a perfect diamond or a perfect emerald? Same size, same cut."
"Umm… diamond?"
"No. Everyone thinks diamonds are, because everyone knows about them. But an emerald stone of the same size and cut as a diamond is always considered more valuable by a discerning gems buyer."
"Are you one?"
"I might be."
Hint paused, surprised at his analogy. When a guy brought up diamonds, it was time to listen. Up until three days earlier, she hadn't particularly liked surprises, but she liked the ones Jack continued to offer. Everything was changing around her.
Everything, except that Percy was still lost.
"Let's find our boy, Jack." She quickly walked to the door, picking up a flashlight on her front hall table along the way. Meanwhile, she really wanted to fast rewind to ten minutes earlier. Jack had kissed her for the very first time. Her heart fluttered like the wings on one of her fairy characters, just thinking about it.