Janice Carter - Summer Of Joanna

PARTWAY THROUGH LUNCH, Kate felt herself begin to unwind. She sipped her white wine, chosen after much deliberation by Lance. The ritual had amused Kate. She knew little about wine and was certain her own choice would have been based strictly on cost. The meal was impeccable, too. Another score for Lance, who was obviously a regular at the upscale restaurant, one Kate had read about in the papers, never imagining she might be eating in it some day.

In fact, there’d been so much deference shown to Lance as soon as they’d stepped inside that Kate began to wonder if he was a celebrity in his own right, regardless of his connection to Joanna Barnes. She pondered this throughout the salad course, racking her brain to determine where and when she’d seen or heard his name. She also scolded herself sharply for not reading the papers more carefully. Headlines were her specialty, along with a skim through the fashion and entertainment pages.

She began to think that maybe Lance Marchant was okay, after all, in spite of his smooth manner. Before ordering, they’d made small talk, discreetly skirting around the morning’s events as if none of the business of death had taken place.

As the salad plates were removed, Lance referred to Camp Limberlost and Kate thought, here we go again. But rather than renew his pitch for selling it, he’d asked what she recalled of the camp.

“I didn’t like it at the time—not until I met Joanna.”

“She was there? When was this, exactly?”

“Nineteen years ago this month. What year would that be?” She screwed up her face, mentally counting backward.

“It would have been 1982.”

Kate laughed. “That was fast. You should be teaching my grade eight math class.”

He gave a dismissive shrug. “I use numbers all the time in my job. Were you there with your family?”

“No. I was with a bunch of kids from here in the city. Courtesy of a joint social-service program and the generosity of Joanna’s parents.”

Marchant frowned. “Oh. You mean like…”

“Kids with problems. Not delinquents,” she added quickly, noting the expression in his face. “But, you know, kids at risk.”

He nodded. “I don’t mean to be nosy. Just didn’t realize Joanna’s parents were into that sort of thing.”

Kate was tempted to ask, “Like charity?” but sensed he really wasn’t being insensitive. Besides, she wanted to think she’d grown out of all that stuff—the feelings of defensiveness, of apologizing for being an orphan on the social welfare register.

“Did you know Joanna then?” she asked.

He nodded. “Joanna and I go—went—a long way back. But we weren’t dating or anything. Just friends.”

“Have you ever been to Limberlost?”

“I’m a city man. My idea of a holiday is a resort on some Caribbean island, five-star and all-inclusive.”

She joined in his laughter. “You and Joanna both, I’m sure.”

His face sobered. “Yes, for sure. That’s why I can’t figure out her being there. She always talked about how she’d made the Great Escape.”

“I remember her mentioning that she was between husbands then. I thought that was such a daring thing to say—to a kid, I mean.”

Lance opened his mouth as if to add something, but the waiter arrived with their main courses and the next few moments were devoted to murmurings about the food. Kate had almost forgotten what they’d been discussing when he asked, toward the end of the meal, “Do you remember much about that summer? How old would you have been? Don’t answer if you consider that a rude question,” he said, grinning.

The way he put it, refusing to answer would seem childish. “I was turning twelve in August. That’s why we decided to meet this year.” Kate angled her fork across her plate and leaned forward. “I was on the verge of adolescence and Joanna had just turned thirty. We’d been moaning about our problems and getting older et cetera and she said, wouldn’t it be great to meet when we were both at another milestone? To compare notes on how things had turned out.”

“I guess your memory of the place wouldn’t be very vivid.”

Kate laughed. “Oh, it’s pretty vivid even now, trust me.”

“How do you mean?”

She shrugged, unsure whether she really wanted to trip down memory lane with someone she scarcely knew. “I wasn’t really having a good time there until I met Joanna. I was a typical city kid, afraid of everything with more than two legs. Plus the other kids had been there before and knew one another,” she said.

“Aah,” he murmured sympathetically.

The waiter appeared to gather the rest of the plates and asked if they’d like dessert or coffee. Lance looked questioningly at Kate.

“No thanks, Mr. Marchant. I should be going.” Kate looked at her watch, realizing she hadn’t called Carla yet. So much for setting an example.

He asked for the bill and, turning back to Kate, said, “Please call me Lance. And I insist on driving you home. My car is being brought up to the front door by the valet right now.”

Knowing she’d get home much faster than by subway, Kate agreed. She’d hoped to glean more information about Joanna over lunch, but as they left, she realized Lance Marchant had been doing most of the asking. Perhaps the ride back home would elicit something about Joanna she hadn’t yet read in a newspaper.

A blast of heat greeted their exit from the restaurant. Lance tipped the valet, who’d driven up with his red convertible sports car.

“Where are we going?” Lance’s face was smilingly inquisitive.

“I live in SoHo. On a dead-end street off Bleecker, near Sullivan.”

His tanned forehead crinkled in thought. “Near the university?”

“Past.”

“Fine. The drive’ll be longer than to the restaurant, but you don’t seem to be the type to worry about a hairdo,” Lance said. He ushered her into her seat, got behind the wheel and shifted into Drive. The car jerked forward and squealed out of the parking circle. He was laughing when he braked at the first stoplight. “Sorry again. I’ve just had it tuned prior to selling it. Joanna doesn’t—didn’t—like it, and my campaign manager advised that I drive something a little more sedate.”

“Your campaign manager?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I’m running for Congress in the fall election. Lance Marchant? Republican ticket?” he added, obviously trying to jolt her memory.

Kate was embarrassed at her ignorance. “Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t keep up much with politics.”

He stared at her thoughtfully until the light changed, then shifted gears again. The breeze and traffic noise made conversation impossible, eliminating Kate’s hope of talking more about Joanna.

But when the car slowed for a traffic halt, she managed to say, “The reason I find it hard to believe Joanna would…would commit suicide is not just because of our meeting, but I read in a gossip column that she was expected to be made editor of Vogue. That would’ve been the pinnacle of her career. I just can’t believe that…”

Lance took his hand off the gear knob and patted her arm. “I’ve tortured myself with these same doubts, Kate, believe me. Perhaps she learned that she didn’t get the job, after all. Certainly no one there has called to express sympathy. That must mean something.” He paused then, having to move with traffic. Other than shouted directions about getting to Kate’s neighborhood, all talk ceased until Lance pulled up in front of the row house where her flat was.

“Wait!” Lance said after Kate thanked him for the lunch and ride.

She turned, halfway through the opened door. His wind-tousled hair and trendy sunglasses made him seem dashing and much younger than his years, she thought. He had the kind of classic good looks that appealed to women of all ages, and Kate suddenly realized she herself wasn’t immune to his charms herself. Well-established, well-dressed, trim and self-assured. But there was more. The gallant and attentive manner, the way he’d seemed to hang on to every word she’d uttered over lunch. He certainly fit the image of a winning politician.