by Nell Brien
“Dan Campbell showed me that site when my safari was over. He had no intention of it being part of the job he undertook to do.”
“So what? It’s a great site. We can make it work. Or at least, we could have done before your little speech.”
“It should be left as it is. Kitum is, I don’t know…a special place.” She shrugged. “Not many like that are left now.”
“And that’s it?”
She slugged down a healthy gulp of whiskey and shuddered.
“That’s it.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that earlier? Before you decided to make a damn fool of me?”
“I don’t know. I thought everything was up for grabs. I just found out that it wasn’t.”
“So what you’re saying is that you fell for Dan Campbell?”
“That’s none of your business. I’m not ruled by personal considerations—heart, hormones, whatever you want to call it—any more than any architect would be, if that’s what you’re implying. Comments like that are out of line. I didn’t want to break a trust. Even you should understand that.”
“Well, you certainly found your moral center at an awkward moment. I hope you can afford it.”
“Your fee will be refunded.”
“Damn right it will.”
“I’ll have Mave cut a check for that part of the work done on Kitum here in Los Angeles.”
John grunted. “You know you blew this job?”
“You know I don’t care? Maasai Springs should be left as it is. If you don’t build this hotel, it’s not likely to get done. The government will find hard currency some other way. You’ve lost nothing. Guitterrez will get the project in Thailand, or somewhere else. You’ll make money.”
“You’re damn right. That’s what I’m in business to do. And so are you.”
“My professor at Harvard used to say architecture was an ego-driven profession. His advice was, if you want to make a fortune, go into another line of work.” She put her glass on the table, prepared to gather her papers together. “But I’m not hurting.”
“So why are you crying?”
She hadn’t realized she was. She ran a hand over her face, smearing tears and mascara. “I mean, I’ve got a lot of work.”
“I know what you mean.”
John walked to where she was perched on the edge of the conference table. He put an arm around her and pulled her toward him. “Come on, kiddo. Come on. What is this?”
She put her head on his shoulder, not easy since he was shorter than she was. “I don’t know, John. I seem to be doing this a lot lately.”
She wondered what he would say if she told him that when she was in Africa doing his work, she’d killed a man. For a moment, she was tempted, but the urge passed. Committing murder was not something easily discussed.
John shook a snowy handkerchief free from its folds, dabbed clumsily at her face. “Good. I never saw you shed a tear for Joel before this. This is good.”
“No, it isn’t.” She couldn’t breathe. Her sinuses were clogged, her throat ached. She took the handkerchief, wiped away streaks of mascara, handed it back to him. “I hate it.”
“Ah, hell. You’ve got to learn to let yourself go more often. It doesn’t do for a woman to get too detached.”
She gave a small half laugh. “That’s a sexist remark, John.”
He continued to pat her back. “Sure is.”
“I’ve got to get back to the office. I’ve got a lot of work to do tonight.” She leaned against him for a moment, pressed her lips to his cheek. “I’m sorry about today. I know how much you wanted to stop Guitterrez.”
“Ah, hell, honey. It ain’t over until the last dog howls. That little bastard has met his match. He just ain’t rolled over yet.”
Cat nodded. He was feeling better. Texas was back in his voice.
The drafting room looked bleak under fluorescent light, the tables empty, the constant blare of the radio silenced. Even Mave Chen had gone home, leaving a note on Cat’s desk: “Call me with the good news.” Cat crumpled it, threw it in the wastepaper basket and dropped into her chair. She wanted to sleep for a week.
Her office was dark, lit only by the light filtering in from the drafting room. Cat stared out at San Vicente Boulevard, teeming with traffic and people walking, everyone in couples it seemed, on their way to dinner.
She turned back into the room. Her phone glowed, inviting. She rested her hand on the receiver, imagining the sound of a telephone pealing through the early-morning quiet of the house in Nairobi. What did she want to say? That in the search for the truth about Joel, she’d discovered some more pieces of her own puzzle? That the only trouble was, she hadn’t been able to fit them all together yet?
That she just wanted to hear his voice?
She removed her hand, turned on the light over her desk and opened a folder containing a pile of bills Mave had left for her to check.
He wouldn’t be there, anyway. He’d be out in the bush, killing or being killed.
A week later, John Rifken called. “You got your wish, honey. The government of Kenya is going to have to do without hard currency from Bluebonnet. We’re scrubbing the Maasai Springs project.”
“Well. Win a few, lose a few. You don’t sound too upset.”
“I got what I want. Guitterrez is out. We’re going with a program of building in Morocco, Tunisia, Algeria. Warm-weather vacation destinations for frozen Europeans. And to start with, we’re looking at a luxury hotel in Nairobi. That job’s yours if you want it.”
“Thanks, John, but I can’t run a job in Kenya from Los Angeles.”
“What? Did I hear right? Joel would have grabbed at this.”
“I’m not Joel.”
“Last call, honey. It’s a plum job.”
“No thanks. But give me a chance at the rest of the work.”
“Yeah, well, there you’ll have to compete. We’re going to be looking at architects from all over the country.”
“I’m not afraid of competition.”
“Maybe you should be.”
She put the phone down without a tinge of regret.
Forty-One
Even without Rifken’s project, the office was busy. Spring Street Plaza had its share of problems and there was a new golf course tract in Palm Springs—just what Palm Springs needed, Cat knew, another golf course to deplete the water table, saturate the desert air with moisture that nature didn’t intend to be there. But it was a job. And an old client, Mike Isenstein down in Del Mar, wanted more work done on his spa and country club near the racetrack.
She was working on Isenstein’s dinner theater when Mave’s voice crackled through the intercom.
“Cat, pick up line two. You’re going to love it.”
They were alone in the office. It was the end of the day, tomorrow was Thanksgiving and most people had already started the long weekend. Eyes locked on the elevation she was working out, Cat leaned back and flipped the switch.
“If it’s Isenstein, tell him I’ve gone for the weekend.”
“No, it’s not Mad Mike. You’ll want to talk to this guy. Believe me. Line two.”
The pit of Cat’s stomach started to quiver. That last night at Erukenya, Campbell had told her that he loved her, never more than at that moment, bloodstained, her sweatshirt and cords splashed with brain tissue. He’d asked her to stay. They had to have time together, he’d said, calm, quiet time to regain what they’d had. He’d held her, told her that he needed her.
She couldn’t listen. All she’d wanted was to run—from the rage that had erupted from deep within her. From him, from Africa, from the violence in his life that was a reminder of what she couldn’t face in herself. That night, she had gone back to Nairobi with Tom.
She had not spoken to Campbell since.
Cat smoothed back her hair as if he could see her, put out a tentative hand, then grasped the receiver firmly. “This is Cat Stanton.”
“You sound like a woman who needs someone
to take her out to boogie the night away. How’re you doing, sweet thing?”
Cat took a breath. Then she laughed shakily, feeling foolish and disappointed. Glad. Thankful she was alone and no one had seen her face. “Paul!”
“Your very own bad penny.”
“When did you get in?”
“An hour ago. I’m on my way to Washington, but made it by way of Los Angeles just to see you.”
“And I suppose you haven’t seen civilization in months and are raring to paint the town.”
“Sure. But I’ll settle for a quiet dinner for two. Can you make it tonight. Better yet, the weekend?”
No. Yes. No. Why not? “Where are you?” She played for time.
“Just checked in at Loews in Santa Monica. Pretty luxurious digs after what I’ve been living in these last few months. What about it?”
“Not the weekend. Why didn’t you let me know you were coming into town, give me a chance to clear my calendar?”
“Last time I called you from Sarajevo, and you went to Africa, anyway. What about tonight, and we’ll negotiate the weekend?”
“Sounds good.”
“I was thinking I’d order a fancy pizza from Spago, a bottle of champagne, and we’ll spend a cozy evening at your place, exchanging news. And whatever else occurs to us. Okay?”
She hesitated. Always, when he came in after a long absence, they made love first. Afterward, they’d potter about her kitchen, or get dressed, go out to eat, make love again before he went back to his hotel. She never let him stay the night.
“Nothing doing. You haven’t seen me in months. The least you can do is feed me a decent meal.”
He laughed. “Okay. Michael’s on Third. Shall I pick you up?”
“I’ll meet you there. Eight. Okay?”
His voice lost its usual bantering note. “I can’t wait to see you, Cat. I’ve missed you.”
It was time to pick up her life. “I’ve missed you, too,” she said.
She left the office just after seven, leaving herself enough time to get home, shower, change into a soft black dress that Paul liked and get to Michael’s by eight. At five minutes past, she drew up outside the restaurant, nodded to the parking valet opening her door. His mouth was moving but she was unable to hear his words over the blast of rap from an open Jeep tearing past. Everywhere trees were strung with lights. The city was deep in its annual holiday mania. Every year it seemed to start earlier, streets festooned with Christmas decorations by Halloween.
Cat thought of weaverbird nests hanging like ornaments from the branches of trees silhouetted against an endless melon sky. The cry of a jackal over a lonely plain.
She walked into the tiny bar and saw Paul unfolding his long, lean body from behind a small table.
“Thought you’d never get here,” he said. “I felt like a kid waiting for his first date.” He took both her hands, standing back to look at her. “You’re wearing my favorite dress. How are you, Cat?”
“Wonderful. What about you? How’s the world of the combat reporter?”
“Well, I’ll never be out of a job.” Paul smiled his charming, diffident smile, brushed back the spill of brown hair from his forehead. “You look fabulous. You always look fabulous.”
He settled her into a chair next to him. He was drinking a gin martini and Cat ordered the same.
“Last I heard from you was a postcard from Jeddah.”
“Yeah, and I got a picture of an ugly little animal from Africa.”
“Only one? I sent you a dozen. Where did you go after Saudi Arabia?”
“Back to Bosnia. Got in this morning.”
She laughed. “By way of Los Angeles?”
“I didn’t want to get bogged down in Washington. It’s been too long since I’ve seen you.”
She smiled, toyed with the olive in her glass. They both looked up at the maître d’ announcing their table was ready. He led them through the restaurant, original art on white walls, light gleaming on crystal and silver. She’d forgotten how romantic it was.
They ordered, sipped wine and chatted casually until smoked salmon and toasted brioche bread had been placed before them and the waiter had retreated to a discreet distance.
Paul reached across the table, laid his hand on hers. “So, did you manage to search out any more about Joel’s death?”
She turned her hand over so that she could respond to the pressure from his.
“What makes you think that’s what I was doing?”
“Give me some credit, Cat. I’ve known you for a while.”
She extricated her hand, forked some smoked salmon into her mouth. “Mmm. Good. Tell me about Bosnia.”
He looked at her, then started to eat. “Nothing you’d want to know. The usual story. Psychopaths with guns given license to kill by psychopaths with political power. Apart from Joel, how was Kenya?”
“Okay. Interesting. A lot of animals. A lot of killing.”
“Well, you didn’t have the usual tourist trip, I take it.”
“Not exactly.”
“You don’t want to talk about Joel?”
Paul was gazing at her with a quizzical look in his eye, and she knew she sounded strained. “No. Later, maybe.”
She looked up gratefully as the waiter chose that moment to remove their plates, then place double lamb chops in front of Paul, and broiled salmon for her, garnished with a few tiny vegetables only just out of the bud stage.
While eating, she told Paul about Thomas and Moses, Olentwalla’s drumming, Sambeke’s quiet presence, trying to keep the wobble of grief out of her voice when she spoke of him. She talked about the beauty of the savannah after rain. No mention of Stephen N’toya or Tom. No Gaston or Erukenya. Nothing about Dan Campbell. But they laughed over Brian Ward, the bumbling colonial.
She didn’t say that on the way back to Nairobi with Tom, she’d told him about Ward’s mysterious appearance in the Indian grocery store. A loose end to be tied up. Tom had laughed. Ward was nothing to worry about. He was exactly what he seemed—a leftover from another era with a network of informers in the villages who sold him bush gossip. Nothing sinister, but sometimes he struck gold. Made people nervous. Ward liked that. Made him feel important.
Paul refilled the glasses. “Did you get a site for your hotel?”
“No. The hotel job’s dead,” Cat said. “Nothing will come of it.”
“Ah, Cat. That’s too bad.”
“No, it’s not. I like to think of the pools at Maasai Springs left as they are.” A place to restore the soul, if you believed it would.
Plates were cleared, and they turned to discussion of dessert, decided on one order of rum-raisin tart and ate from the same plate as they always did, then lingered over espresso and brandy.
It was after eleven when they got home. Cat had kept the drapes open before she left, and from her darkened fourteenth-floor living room, a sparkling Palos Verdes Peninsula wrapped the bay to the south, and out on the black expanse of the Pacific the lights of fishing boats bobbed northward toward Point Dume in Malibu.
Paul put his arm around her, and they walked into the bedroom. He pulled her to him. Cat slipped her arms around him, the feel of his ribs unfamiliar to her, the prominence of his vertebrae alien, as if she had never felt them before. She opened her lips to him, felt the touch of his tongue. Slowly they went through the ritual of undressing each other. He ran his hand over her belly, and she parted her legs, reaching for him.
A little later, Paul rolled over onto his back. “Sweetheart, you’re supposed to be enjoying this. It’s not something you should have to work at.”
“I am enjoying it.”
He propped himself on his elbow, picked up a strand of her hair. “Liar, liar, pants on fire. Or rather, pants very much not on fire.”
“I’m sorry. I guess it’s not my night.”
“It’ll be fine. Let’s give it a minute.”
“No. Maybe you’d better go, Paul. I’m tired. Down to my bones, I’m tired.
”
“You want to tell me about it?”
“What? Being tired?”
“No. The guy you met in Kenya. The guy who means something to you. The guy whose name you didn’t mention.”
She didn’t answer. They’d always had a tacit agreement. No questions, no strings, no commitment. But she couldn’t lie. Paul deserved more than that.
He swung out of bed. He was tall, slim, elegant, without Campbell’s solid musculature. Would she go through life, she wondered, comparing every man to Campbell?
“Okay, sweets. Have it your way.” He dressed, hung his tie around his neck without knotting it and leaned over her. She felt his lips on her hair. “Unless I hear from you, I’ll go back to Washington in the morning. You know where to reach me.”
She heard the front door close behind him, then turned on her side, drew her knees up under her chin.
She wouldn’t call him.
Forty-Two
Dusk was falling, Christmas lights were just beginning to come on in front of some of the houses. Cat drove down Malibu Road, past the old beach house in which she and Joel had been brought up. There were no ghosts there for her anymore.
Cat entered the garage of Jess’s house, let herself in, fending off the little gray terrier Jess had found three years ago, starving and cowering in her garage. When she and Mike were away, Jess bribed friends to stay with him, refusing to put him in a kennel. This year, for their annual visit to show Rosie off to grandparents, she’d zeroed in on Cat. He’d be company, she’d said. Christmas was going to be hard this year, the first without Joel. She’d put her arms around Cat. They’d clung together, both knowing she spoke for herself, as well as for Cat.
Cat rubbed the terrier’s ears, submitted to his sloppy affection. “Scroungy, you’ve got it made, buddy.”
The Christmas Eve staff lunch had been longer than usual, and bittersweet. After a lot of thought, she’d offered Doug the partnership he wanted—sixty-five thirty-five. They’d settled at sixty forty. This morning the contract had been signed, and at lunch she’d announced the new name of the firm. Stanton and Jones. A break with the past.