Robert Leavitt phoned her office to say that Andrews had called in from over the Atlantic. He was touching down at three and hoped to see her at seven-thirty. If there was any problem, would she please call his office. There was no problem. Seven-thirty was fine. All she had to work out was how she was going to handle a marriage proposal.
“Bill, you’re in another world. You’re important, financial, and global. I’m nine-to-five. You’re a public figure. I cherish my privacy. Basically, I like my life the way it is. Let me stay where I’m comfortable. I’ll always enjoy seeing you and spending time with you. But I’m not sure I’d ever be happy living your life.” That was one possible answer. Honest, flattering, definite. Surely he would see how un-suited they were for each other.
Or “Bill, I’m not the person you need. You should have someone like Kay, competent at managing your affairs, comfortable among world leaders and business tycoons, at home in high society. I’m a reporter for a suburban paper. I’m comfortable with the local Rotarians, and I’m at home eating pizza in my pajamas.” All true, even if it did downplay her abilities and ambition. Jane could learn to handle Kay’s multiple roles, and with the right patron she could certainly move up to a major-city daily. But it was a considerate refusal in that it placed the blame on her inadequacies.
Or “As you know, I’ve just come out of a relationship where neither of us met the other’s needs. What you can’t know is just how shattering the divorce was to my confidence. I’m not ready to try again. Couldn’t we just be friends for a while?” She didn’t like this line, because she thought she had met every one of Art’s needs, from praising his plays to picking up his socks. But it was easy on Andrews because it put all the blame on her and yet left open the possibility of her future rehabilitation.
Jane wore the basic black she had picked up in Paris but dressed it up with different jewelry. She spent most of her time on her makeup and hairdo, and then began wondering why she was so concerned about her appearance if she intended to say no. Better she should costume herself as an old hag. That way, he might not even ask the question.
Her buzzer sounded at exactly seven-thirty, and she lifted the intercom expecting to talk with the driver. She was stunned when she heard William’s voice. “Hi! I had to drive like a maniac, but I’m here. Can you spare a drink for a weary traveler before we head out to dinner?”
“Sure!” She pushed the button, then looked around at an apartment that wasn’t ready for company. She ran to close her bedroom door, pausing at the bathroom for the few seconds it took to put her toothpaste into the medicine cabinet and hang a fresh towel on the towel bar. She went back through the kitchen and fired her breakfast dishes into the dishwasher. Then into the living room, where she reassembled the morning paper and straightened the sofa cushions. She was about to clean up the mess around the computer when the doorbell rang. “Time’s up!” she said to herself. She stood to her full height, straightened her dress, and made for the door. She opened it onto a large bouquet of roses with William Andrews peering through the petals.
“I already threw away my cell phone,” he announced. “I thought these might be a better way to present myself.” He handed her the flowers and followed her into the kitchen, where she found a tall vase.
“They’re beautiful,” she said over and over again. While arranging them, she asked how he had found time to buy flowers. William reddened a bit and explained that his firm had an account with a chain of florists. He hadn’t actually picked them out himself.
They went to the living room, and she placed the vase on her coffee table. Then she remembered he had asked about a drink. “I don’t think I have your favorite,” Jane apologized, thinking of his fondness for single malts. She remembered the jug she had shared with Art and added, “I’m sure I don’t have a wine that you would like.”
“Any kind of scotch,” he said, and she went scurrying off to her liquor cabinet to see what “any kind” would be. She filled two glasses with ice and poured in the bargain blend, just a touch for herself and a double for him. She set the glasses on a tray, added cocktail napkins, and carried the drinks back to the living room. William was standing over her computer, studying the screen.
“You’re not using my browser,” he said in mock horror, pointing to the icon of a competing service.
“I’ll have to change right away,” she began. Jane started to laugh, but her voice caught in her throat. Right beside the computer, in full view, was the printout from her research into the murder of Kay Parker.
She pushed the tray under his nose and led him away to the sofa. He sat next to her, toasted “To us!” and took a healthy swallow. “Not bad,” he decided. “What kind is it?”
“It’s well aged,” she answered. “I think I’ve had that bottle for over a year.”
Andrews smiled, tasted again, and then gave her the rundown on his trip. He’d signed on another buyer for one of his services and found a new source for Eastern European programming. A brief stop at his Paris office …
She listened, nodded, and even managed a few smiles. But her mind was on the papers lying next to her screen. What was showing? A headline blaring his wife’s name? How could he miss it? Or worse, one of Kay’s society photographs that had run with a story?
His attitude hadn’t changed. He was still pleasant, casual, and chatty. If he had seen Kay’s picture, wouldn’t he have been stunned? Or if he had seen one of the old headlines, wouldn’t he at least be curious? So maybe he hadn’t noticed the printout from her research. Maybe the top page was just the second or third column of a story, with no subheads or photos to attract his interest.
“… as soon as we were out of Paris, I had them take me up to Amsterdam,” he was saying. “That was the important part of my trip.”
If he knew, how could he keep rambling on about his business trip? It would be entirely fair of him to ask why she was digging into his first wife’s murder. Or he could have taken a page with him to the sofa to continue reading the piece. He must not have noticed what was there. Thank God it was the offensive icon that had caught his attention. Unless he was as good at pretending to talk as she was at pretending to listen. Maybe he was babbling details of his trip while his mind was wondering what she was up to. It could be that he was trying to decide whether he should confront her or let the issue pass. If he did confront her, what would she say?
“… traffic in Amsterdam is a mess. Cars, buses, and bicycles all fighting for space. And pedestrians stepping off the curb, hoping that the next car will screech to a stop.” He shook his head in dismay and took another sip.
She would have to tell him the truth. Maybe she could say, “It’s so important to understanding you, a defining moment in your life. I had to know about it.” Or was it better to lie? “Just things that came up while I was researching your story. Of course, I left them out.”
“The Diamond District is just a few blocks, but you have to park outside and walk in because the diamond merchants do all their bargaining out in the street. But for what I wanted, that’s where I had to go. And this wasn’t something that anyone could do for me.”
He took a small box of polished leather out of his jacket pocket. “This was something that I had to pick out myself.” He opened the box and held it out to her. It was the biggest diamond she had ever seen.
“I know you’re going to say that we hardly know each other. And my answer is that I already know enough to want to know more. Much more.”
Jane was speechless. Her hand was shaking as she reached out for the box, but he took her hand, set the box down, and then removed the ring. “I’m fatally stricken by you, J. J. Warren, and I’m begging you to marry me.” He slipped the ring onto her finger. The fit was perfect. The stone blazed an icy white even in the poor light of her apartment. Her mind raced through all the answers she had considered, and her lips began to move with well-rehearsed words.
“Yes” was all that she could get out.
“Yes, meaning that you’ll marry me?”
Her mind was beginning to recover. “Yes, if you’re very sure that this is right for you. If you’ve thought of all the … consequences….”
“You never know all the consequences,” he said. “The people who try to think through everything miss all the important deals. I think I just know when something is right, and I know this will be right for both of us. Assuming you’re not planning any more articles about my shady business practices.”
Jane laughed out loud and leaned into his arms. They melted into a long kiss. When they parted, she teased, “Is that your real motive? Are you marrying me just to quiet the voice of a free press?”
“It was that, or hire a hit man,” he said. “I couldn’t put up with the criticism.” He pulled her in for another embrace.
“Let’s eat,” he said just as she was beginning to think that they were never going to leave the apartment. “What this moment needs is a good French champagne.” He stacked their glasses on the tray. “And maybe a long romantic night. How long would it take you to throw together an overnight bag?”
He was looking directly at her. It wasn’t a gag line. He was asking her to spend the night with him.
“I’m already packed,” Jane lied.
He seemed to relax with her answer. “God, you’re wonderful.”
“Give me a minute,” she said, and went off into her bedroom.
She found her overnight bag in the back of the closet and coughed at the dust she stirred when she dragged it out. Has it been that long? she thought. It had been. Her last romantic rendezvous had been with Art, before they were married. She tossed in her toiletries, her mascara, and her lipstick. She found her diaphragm but put it back under the sink. She was still faithful to the Pill, which she had started taking when she met Art.
My God, did she still own a nightgown? It had been pajamas during the last two years of her marriage, and a T-shirt ever since. Did she own anything that would provoke a middle-aged man? Jane went through her dresser drawers and found a nearly invisible set of black briefs and a thigh-length dressing gown that had patch pockets to provide a hint of modesty for her breasts. She remembered that she had bought it when Art had complained that she was no longer sensual. He had fallen asleep while she was cutting the price tags off her backside.
A change of clothes for tomorrow? Jane started back to the closet but pulled up abruptly. She wasn’t packing a steamer trunk. This was a romantic escapade. She was supposed to be naked, not packed for four seasons. She zipped up the overnight bag, checked her lipstick in the bathroom mirror, and stepped out into the living room.
Andrews appeared from the kitchen. “Glasses are done and everything is in the dishwasher,” he announced. “Unfortunately, I don’t know how to turn the damn thing on.”
He turned his back and stepped toward the door. Jane used the moment to steal a glance at her desk. The article on top of the pile next to her computer carried the headline STATE POLICE UNCERTAIN ABOUT PARKER INTRUDER. He had to have seen it!