Mary Clark - Loves Music, Loves To Dance

Eventually, Darcy fell into an uneasy sleep.

When she awakened at 6 a.m., her immediate thought was that Erin had not called.

Jay Stratton stared out the corner window of his thirtieth-floor apartment in Waterside Plaza on Twenty-fifth Street and the East River Drive. The view was spectacular: the East River arced by the Brooklyn and Williamsburg Bridges, the twin towers to the right, the Hudson behind them, the streams of traffic, agonizingly slow in the evening rush hour, flowing well enough now. It was seven-thirty.

Jay frowned, a gesture that caused his narrow eyes to become almost invisible. A head of dark brown hair, expensively cut and attractively threaded with gray, helped to foster his cultivated look of casual elegance. He was aware of the tendency of his waistline to thicken, and exercised vigorously. He knew he looked a bit older than his age, which was thirty-seven, but that had proved to be an advantage. He’d always been considered unusually handsome by most people. Certainly the newspaper magnate’s widow whom he’d escorted to the Taj Mahal casino in Atlantic City last week had found him attractive, though when he had mentioned that he’d like to have some jewelry created for her, her face turned to stone. “No sales pitch, please,” she snapped. “Let’s understand that.” He hadn’t bothered with her again. Jay did not believe in wasting time. Today he’d lunched at the Jockey Club and while he waited for a table he’d started chatting with an older couple. The Ashtons were in New York on holiday celebrating their fortieth anniversary. Obviously well-heeled, they were somewhat at loose ends outside their familiar North Carolina surroundings and responded eagerly to his conversational overtures.

The husband had looked pleased at Jay’s query as to whether he’d chosen a suitable piece of jewelry for his wife to commemorate their forty years together. “I keep telling Frances that she ought to let me buy her some real nice jewelry but she says to save the money for Frances Junior.” Jay had suggested that at some time in the distant future, Frances Junior might enjoy wearing a lovely necklace or bracelet and telling her own daughter or granddaughter that this was a very special gift from Grampa to Nana. “It’s what royal families have been doing for centuries,” he explained as he handed them his card.

The phone rang. Jay hurried to answer it. Maybe it was the Ashtons, he thought. It was Aldo Marco, the manager at Bertolini’s. “Aldo,” Jay said heartily. “I was planning to call you. All’s well, I trust?”

“All is certainly not well.” Marco’s tone was icy. “When you introduced me to Erin Kelley I was most impressed with her and her portfolio. The design she submitted was superb and as you know, we gave her our client’s family gems to reset. The necklace was supposed to have been delivered this morning. Miss Kelley failed to keep the appointment and has not answered our repeated messages. Mr. Stratton, I want either that necklace or my client’s gems back immediately.”

Jay ran his tongue over his lips. He realized the hand holding the phone was damp. He had forgotten about the necklace. He chose his answer carefully. “I saw Miss Kelly a week ago. She showed me the necklace. It was exquisite. There must be some misunderstanding.”

“The misunderstanding is that she has failed to deliver the necklace, which is needed for an engagement party Friday night. I repeat, I want it or my client’s gems back tomorrow. I hold you responsible to execute one or the other alternative. Is that clear?”

The sharp click of the phone sounded in Stratton’s ears.

Michael Nash saw his last patient, Gerald Renquist, at five o’clock on Wednesday afternoon. Renquist was the retired CEO of an international pharmaceutical company. Retirement had thrown a man whose personal identity was linked to the intrigue and politics of the boardroom to the status of unwilling sideliner. “I know I should consider myself lucky,” Renquist was saying, “but I feel so damn useless. Even my wife pulled that old saw on me-‘I married you for better or worse, but not for lunch.’”

“You must have had a game plan for retirement,” Nash suggested mildly.

Renquist laughed. “I did. Avoid it at all cost.”

Depression, Nash thought. The common cold of mental illness. He realized he was tired and not giving Renquist his full attention. Not fair, he told himself. He’s paying for me to listen. Still, it was a distinct relief when at ten of six he was able to wrap up the session.

After Renquist left, Nash began to lock up. His office was on Seventy-first and Park, his apartment on the twentieth floor of the same building. He went out through the door that led to the lobby.

The new tenant in 20B, a blonde in her early thirties, was waiting for the elevator. He fought down irritation at the prospect of riding up with her. The undisguised interest in her eyes was a nuisance, as were her almost inevitable invitations to drop in for a drink.

Michael Nash had the same problem with a number of his women patients. He could read their minds. Nice-looking guy, divorced, no children, mid-to-late thirties, available. A diffident reserve had become second nature to him. At least tonight the new neighbor did not repeat the invitation. Maybe she was learning. When they stepped from the elevator, he murmured, “Good night.” His apartment reflected the precise care he took with everything in his life. Ivory flax upholstery on the twin sofas in the living room was repeated on the dining room chairs surrounding the round oak table. That table had been a find at an antique auction in Bucks County. The area carpets had muted geometric patterns on an ivory background. A wall of bookcases, plants on the windowsills, a Colonial dry sink which served as a bar, bric-a-brac he’d gathered on trips abroad, good paintings. A comfortable, handsome room. The kitchen and study were to the left of the living room, the bedroom suite and bath to the right. A pleasant apartment and an attractive complement to the big place in Bridgewater that had been his parents’ pride and joy. Nash was often tempted to sell it, but knew he’d miss riding on weekends. He took off his jacket and debated between watching the tail end of the six o’clock news or listening to his new compact disc, a Mozart symphony. Mozart won. As the familiar opening bars softly filled the room, the doorbell rang. Nash knew exactly who it would be. Resigned, he answered it. The new neighbor stood holding an ice bucket-the oldest trick in the book. Thank God he hadn’t started to mix his drink. He gave her the ice, explained that no, he couldn’t join her, he was on his way out, and steered her to the door. When she was gone, still twittering about “Maybe next time,” he made straight for the bar, mixed a dry martini, and ruefully shook his head.

Settling on the sofa near the window, he sipped the cocktail, appreciating its smooth, soothing taste, and wondered about the young woman he was meeting for dinner at eight o’clock. Her response to his ad had been downright amusing. His publisher was ecstatic about the first half of the book he was writing, the book analyzing the people who placed or answered personal ads, their psychological needs, their flights into fantasy in the way they described themselves.

His working title was The Personal Ads: Quest for Companionship or Departure from Reality?

Darcy sat at the dinette table, sipping coffee and staring unseeingly out the window at the gardens below. Barren now, scattered with unmelted snow, in the summer they were exquisitely planted and manicured to perfection. The prestigious owners of the private brownstones they backed included the Aga Khan and Katharine Hepburn.