She put Sir Winston in the garden for a few minutes, took a shower, read the paper, had coffee, dressed, and left for work. And it was another endless day at Chic. She spent most of the day with Adrian, solving problems and going through photographs of several shoots they'd done the previous week. She couldn't wait to see the ones taken by Henryk Zeff. She already knew that they'd be great. Adrian was coming to dinner that night, and she didn't tell him John Anderson would be there. She knew that if she did, he'd make a comment, and wonder why she had invited him. She wasn't sure why herself. She still needed time to figure it out. And she didn't want to make a big deal of it. It might turn out to be one of those mild mutual attractions that went nowhere. Or more than likely, they'd just be friends, if that. They were so immensely different, the likelihood of anything coming of it seemed slim to none to her. They'd probably drive each other insane. They were better off as friends. She was still telling herself that when she went home that night, and found Jamal tossing a huge salad in the kitchen and making garlic bread. He had also made canapés. She tasted one of them when she came in. He was wearing hot pink capri pants, gold Indian sandals, and was bare-chested. Most of her friends were used to Jamal's exotic getups, and she thought they lent her evenings a festive air, although she wondered about his not wearing a shirt, and she mentioned it to him.
“Do you think it's a little too casual?” she asked, as she tried another of the hors d'oeuvres. They were great.
“It's too hot to wear anything,” he said, sticking the bread in the oven. She noticed on the kitchen clock that she had forty minutes to get dressed.
“Well, stick with the pants, Jamal. It's a good look.” He had worn a gold jewel-encrusted loincloth once, which even she had admitted was a bit much, or actually not quite enough in that case. “I love the sandals, by the way. Where'd you get them?” She had seen a pair like that once, but couldn't remember where.
“They're yours. I found them in the back of the closet. You never wear them. I thought I'd borrow them for tonight. Do you mind?” He looked artless and innocent as he asked, and she stared at them and laughed.
“I thought they looked familiar. Now that I think about it, I think they hurt. Keep them if you like them. They look better on you.” They had been Blahnik samples specially made for a shoot several years ago.
“Thank you,” he said sweetly, as he tested the salad dressing on a lettuce leaf, and she hurried upstairs.
Half an hour later, she was back downstairs wearing white silk pants and a gossamer-thin gold shirt, with huge hoop diamond earrings, high-heeled gold sandals, and her hair hanging down her back in a thick braid. She and Jamal looked almost like a matched set. He had put plates, napkins, and cutlery on the table in the garden, and there were candles and flowers everywhere. She tossed some big cozy cushions around in case people wanted to sit on the floor, and put some music on, just as the first guests came through the door. She had almost forgotten who she'd asked, and had glanced at a list upstairs. It was the usual unusual assortment, artists, writers, photographers, models, lawyers, doctors, the musicians who had come from Prague. There were a couple of Brazilians she'd met recently, two Italians, and a woman one of them brought who spoke French, and by sheer coincidence one of the musicians discovered that the woman also spoke Czech. She said her father had been French and her mother Czech. It was the perfect blend, and as Fiona looked around at the nearly two dozen people in her garden, she suddenly saw John wander through her living room in immaculate pressed jeans and a starched white shirt. He was wearing Hermès loafers without socks. He looked every bit as impeccable as he did in a suit, and he didn't have a hair out of place. And despite the lack of imagination he showed in his wardrobe, she liked his look. He looked manly and elegant, immaculate, and perfectly put together, and she found all of it remarkably attractive. And when he kissed her cheek, she liked the cologne he wore as well. And he commented on hers. It was the same scent she had worn for twenty years. She had it made for her in Paris, and it was a signature for her. Everyone who knew her recognized it, and people always commented on it. It was just warm enough and cool enough, with a slightly spicy scent. And she loved the fact that it was hers alone, and had no name. Adrian called it Fiona One, and she'd had cologne made for him as well. He was there that night too, and he was watching her when John walked in. She introduced them to each other, as Jamal offered John champagne. Fiona told him that Adrian was the most important editor at Chic.
“She flatters me instead of giving me a raise,” Adrian teased, taking John in. And like Fiona, he liked what he saw, he liked his style and self-confidence and quiet grace, and he could see that she liked it, too. She was standing close to John as the others milled around, and she introduced him to everyone in the group.
“This is quite a collection of people,” he said quietly in a moment's lull, after Adrian moved away to talk to one of the Czechs.
“It's a little weirder than usual, but it seemed like fun. I do more serious dinners in winter. In summer, it's fun to be a little crazier.” He nodded and seemed to agree, although he had never been to a dinner quite like this. Her house looked beautiful, and warm and welcoming, and there seemed to be a million tiny treasures everywhere, mostly things she had found on trips and brought home with her. He seemed to be looking for something, and then turned to her.
“Where's the power saw?”
“What power saw?”
“The guy snoring in your bed last night.”
“Sir Winston? He's upstairs. He hates guests. He thinks this is his house. Would you like to meet him?” She was pleased that he'd asked. It was a definite point for him.
“Will he object?” He looked mildly concerned.
“He'll be honored.” It was a good excuse to show John the rest of the house. The living room, dining room, and kitchen were on the main floor, and there was a cozy library on the second floor, and a guest room next to it. The colors she had chosen were all warm caramel and chocolate, with accents of white and a little red to spice it up. She seemed to favor suedes, silks, and fur. She had exquisite beige silk drapes trimmed in red. Her bedroom and dressing room were on the top floor, with a tiny office she used when she worked at home, which was rare. It was the perfect house for her. There had been a second bedroom on the top floor, which she had turned into a closet when she moved in.
When John was halfway up the stairs, he heard the loud snoring. And as they walked into her bedroom, which was all done in beige silk, even the walls, John saw him on the bed. Sir Winston was sleeping and never stirred. Fiona gently patted him, and he finally picked up his head with considerable effort and a groan and stared at them, and a moment later, he dropped his head back on the bed again with a sigh, and closed his eyes. He made no attempt to introduce himself to John. He seemed entirely indifferent to him, as John grinned.
“He looks like a very proper old gentleman. He doesn't seem to be worried about a strange man in your room,” John commented with amusement. He really was a funny old dog, and he started snoring loudly again as they stood there. He had his head on her pillow, and a favorite toy next to him.
“He knows he's the master of the house. He has nothing to worry about, and he knows it. This is his kingdom, and I'm his slave.”
“Lucky guy.” John smiled at her and glanced around the room. There were a few silver-framed photographs of Fiona with assorted celebrities and political figures, a few famous actors, two presidents, and one she pointed out to John as a particular favorite, of herself and Jackie Kennedy when she first started at Chic. And in spite of the simple decor, there was something elegant and feminine about her room. There was a subtle but unmistakable style to it, and it was instantly obvious that no man lived there. She had never shared the house with anyone except Sir Winston. “I like your house, Fiona. It's cozy and comfortable and elegant, informal and yet stylish, just like you. I can see you everywhere.”
“I love it,” she said as they left her bedroom, and went back downstairs
to the guests. Her tiny office had red lacquer walls and Louis XV chairs upholstered in real zebra skins. And there was a handsome zebra rug on the floor. And a small portrait of her by a famous artist on the wall. There was nothing male about a single corner of the house. As they got back downstairs, Adrian stood watching them, and smiled. He was wearing a white T-shirt and white jeans, and red alligator sandals Manolo Blahnik had made for him in a size fourteen.
“Did she give you a tour?” Adrian asked with interest.
“I introduced him to Sir Winston,” Fiona explained, as Jamal announced dinner with a little Tibetan gong that had a pretty sound and reminded everyone to eat. Everything about Fiona and her surroundings was exotic, from her half-naked Pakistani house man to her friends, and in some ways even her house and dog, although they were slightly more traditional, but not much. There was very little traditional about her, or predictable, and she liked it that way. But so did John. He had come to realize in a matter of days that she was the most exciting woman he had ever met in his life. He thought she had more style than he had ever seen wrapped up in one human being. And Adrian would have agreed with him, most people did.
“What did he think?” Adrian asked seriously, as John listened to their exchange with amusement. He liked her editor friend as well. He looked a little eccentric and creative, but he could tell from speaking to him that Adrian was an exceptionally intelligent and interesting man, despite his slightly flamboyant taste in shoes.
“He thought he was adorable, of course,” Fiona filled in for him, with a smile at John.
“Not John. Of course he thought Sir Winston was adorable. He's not going to tell you he thinks he's a spoiled, smelly old dog, no matter what he really thinks. I meant, what did Sir Winston think? Did he approve?”
“I don't think he was impressed,” John chimed in with a grin. “He slept through the entire interview. Very loudly!”
“That's a good sign,” Adrian said with a smile at both of them, and then moved away toward the food. There were four different kinds of pasta in gigantic terra-cotta bowls, three kinds of salad, and the garlic bread smelled fabulous. There was hardly any of the pungent bread left by the time Fiona and John got to the table Jamal had set up in the garden, and the gardenias Jamal had decorated the table with sent off a heady romantic scent, as John picked up one of them and tucked it into her braid.
“Thank you for inviting me. I love being here.” He felt as though he had entered a magic world that night, and he had. Fiona's world. He saw her as the magic princess at the center of it, weaving her spell on them all. He could feel the essence of her seeping into his pores, at the same time weakening him and giving him strength. His head was nearly spinning at the excitement of her, and in spite of herself, she was beginning to feel the same way about him. She didn't really want to, but she was beginning to feel an irresistible pull toward him. They shared a small iron bench as they ate dinner, and chatted quietly, as Adrian watched with interest from the living room. He knew her well, and could see that Fiona was definitely smitten, but so was John. He looked totally bowled over by her, but who wouldn't be, Adrian commented to a photographer who had noticed it too, and said they made a handsome though unlikely pair. They both knew that Fiona hadn't been involved with anyone in nearly two years, and if this was what she wanted, they were glad for her. She hadn't said anything to Adrian yet, but he knew she would before long, if there was anything to it. He had a feeling they were going to be seeing a lot of John Anderson, and he hoped so for Fiona's sake, if that was what and whom she wanted, for however long. They both knew that forever after wasn't in her plans. But a year or two would suit her fine.
Adrian always thought it was unfortunate that she was alone, although she claimed that she preferred it that way. He never quite believed her, and suspected she was lonely at times, which explained her excessive attachment to her ridiculous old dog. In truth, when she came home at night, Fiona had no one else. Except Jamal. She gave great parties and had interesting friends, some of whom were devoted to her. But she had no one to share her life with, and Adrian always thought it was a waste of a great woman that she had never found a man who was right for her. He found himself hoping, in a melancholy sentimental way, that John would turn out to be the one for her.
John was one of the last guests to leave, but he didn't think it appropriate to be the very last one. It was nearly one in the morning when he thanked her for the evening, and kissed her cheek.
“I had a wonderful time, Fiona. Thank you for inviting me. Please pay my respects to Sir Winston. I'd go upstairs, but I don't want to disturb him. Tell him I send my best and thank him for his hospitality,” he said, as he held her hand lightly on the way out, and she smiled at him. She had a tender spot for him because he understood how important the dog was to her. Most people thought he was a silly old beast, as Adrian did, but he meant the world to her. Sir Winston was all she had in a sentimental sense, and because of that he was even more precious to her.
“I'll be sure to tell him,” Fiona said solemnly, and John kissed her lightly on the cheek again as he left.
He could smell the gardenia that he had put in her hair this time. It had a breathtaking effect mixed with her perfume, but everything about Fiona seemed breathtaking to him, and he hated to leave. It was like leaving Brigadoon, and he wondered if he'd ever see her again once he crossed the bridge back to the real world. The only world that seemed real to him now was hers, and it was the only one he wanted.
“I'll call you tomorrow,” he whispered, so no one else would hear. She nodded and smiled and went back to her other guests, still smiling at the thought of him. But she was still of two minds about him, both attracted to him and afraid at the same time. And in the end, as always, Adrian was the last to leave, and he couldn't resist teasing her about John.
“You're falling hard, Miss Monaghan. Like a ton of bricks, I'd say. But for once, I approve. He's respectable, intelligent, responsible, employed, nice, good-looking, and head over heels in love with you, or he will be soon. He's well on his way.” But Adrian was pleased for her, and he approved wholeheartedly.
“No, he's not. We don't even know each other. We just met last week.” She tried to sound more sensible than she was feeling. But she didn't want Adrian to know how much she liked John. Who knew where it would go? Probably nowhere, she told herself, trying to remain cool about it.
“Since when do those things take a long time to happen? The right ones never do. The right man walks into your life, and you know it instantly, Fiona. It's the wrong ones that take a long time to figure out. The good guys knock you right off your feet and on your ass. Or is it the other way around? Anyway, I have a good feeling about this man, Fiona. Now don't go running scared and tell him you want to be alone. At least give the guy a chance.”
“We'll see,” Fiona said mysteriously, as Jamal snuffed all the candles out, and picked up plates and glasses from the tables in the garden. The evening had been a big success, as usual. But more so than ever for her. It had been surprisingly nice, and even comfortable, to have John with her. And he had seemed unexpectedly expansive with her wide variety of guests. He was friendly and at ease with everyone.
“You can't live in this house with a man, you know,” Adrian volunteered sensibly. “It's too you. He'll never feel comfortable here, if he moves in.”
“I didn't invite him to. And I'm never going to live anywhere else. This is my home. Besides, isn't that a little premature?” She pretended to scowl at Adrian, and then laughed at him. “Sir Winston and I are perfectly happy here on our own.”
“Bullshit. You get as lonely as everyone else. We all do. You may be perfect, Fiona Monaghan, but you're human too. It would do you good to live with a man. I vote for John. He looks like a keeper to me.” It frightened her, and she didn't admit it to Adrian, but she thought so too.
“Sir Winston would never tolerate it. He would consider it an infidelity to him. Besides, I couldn't give up the closet space. I've
never met a man who was worth giving up a closet for,” she said stubbornly, but they both knew that wasn't true. She had been very much in love with the conductor who had finally left her for someone else because she refused to marry him. And with the architect who wanted to leave his wife for her. The trouble with Fiona was that she was terrified of marriage and in some ways of getting too attached to men. She didn't want them to abandon her, and she knew that eventually they all would. Or at least that was her worst fear. Just knowing her father had abandoned her, and after the evil stepfathers she'd seen come and go, Fiona had made a decision years ago never to fully trust any man. And Adrian knew that if she didn't break down her walls one day, she would in fact wind up alone. It seemed a reasonable fate to her, but not to him. She accepted it as her destiny, embraced it in fact, and insisted that she was happiest alone.
“Don't be foolish,” Adrian warned her as he left. Jamal was gone by then. “Compromise a little this time, Fiona. Give this guy a chance.”
“I'm too old to compromise,” she said, perhaps honestly, but in any case, it was what she believed.
“Then sell this house and move in with him, or buy a house together. But don't give up a good man for a brownstone, a career, and a dog.”
“People have given men up for worse things, Adrian,” she said solemnly. “Besides, I haven't even had a date with him. And maybe I never will.”
“You will,” Adrian said quietly, concerned about her. “I promise you that. You will. And this one is a good man.” He hoped she wouldn't miss the boat this time. She always did. Always saw to it that she did. And all Adrian could hope, as he got into a cab and sped uptown, was that this time the dog would lose, and the man would win. And for what it was worth, he was putting his money on John.
Second Chance Page 4