Gwynne Forster - Last Chance at Love

“I’ve rethought it,” he told Allison when he called her at her office later that morning, “and I’d prefer not to be encumbered on this tour. It’ll be tiring enough without having a reporter around to record every breath I take.”

He’d disappointed her, and he couldn’t help it, but when he’d looked down at the audience and had seen her there with her right hand at her throat and her lips a little apart, he hadn’t known what hit him. In his thirty-five years, he didn’t remember having had such a powerful reaction to a woman. He’d gotten through that lecture, though he didn’t remember how. Then she’d walked up to him and held out her hand, and for a moment he’d thought he’d conjured up a vision.

The extent of her frustration came through when she spoke. “If I can’t tour with you,” she bargained in a voice that lacked her previous toughness, “could you give me a list of people to interview who you’d trust to tell me the truth?”

“Your generosity astonishes me,” he said, clearly baffled. “I don’t get it.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” she replied, her tone more confident. “I won’t have any trouble finding people who’ll do you in. If I put an ad in the paper, they’ll come running.”

“That’s blackmail, woman.”

“Tut-tut. Don’t be so harsh. There’s more than one way to ride a horse; you know that. So what do you say? Do I tour with you, or don’t I?”

She sounded tough, and she might be, but something about her reached him, and he didn’t want to hurt her. She inspired in him exactly the opposite response. But he had to protect himself from damage, too. And he didn’t doubt that, if she dug into his private life, she could twist what she found sufficiently to torpedo his dreams of becoming scholar-in-residence at his alma mater.

“Are you equating me with a horse?” he chided. “Your choice of metaphors intrigues me.”

“I didn’t mean... Well, n-no.”

He couldn’t resist a dig. “Don’t apologize, Allison. When you ride, be considerate enough to make it enjoyable.” Oh, if phone lines had mirrors! From her long silence, he knew she’d gone slightly out of joint. Still, he couldn’t help needling her. “It isn’t always what we hear that causes trouble, but how we interpret it. You get my point, I hope.”

“If you’re trying to convince me that six weeks of your company will be unpleasant, don’t squander your energy,” she replied. “And off-color innuendos are wasted on me.”

“Off-color innuendos? I didn’t insinuate anything; I meant what I said. Plain and simple.”

“Like your wink?”

“Like your handshake, lady. Meaningful.” She could hold her own, he saw, as he waited for her reply.

“When do we leave?”

If he hadn’t spent the last thirty minutes talking with her, his answer probably would have been, “We don’t.” But he suspected she’d be good company. And face it, he told himself, you want to know whether that clap of thunder you heard and the lightning fire that roared through you when you first saw her signaled the real thing.

“All right. I’ll give it a shot,” he told her, “but please do your homework. I don’t mind telling you that I’ve had enough of fledgling reporters and their inept questions.”

“This is your first book, but I’ve worked as a reporter for six years. Which one of us is a fledgling?”

A warm flush spread through him, and he couldn’t help laughing; a woman who could hold her own with him was to be prized. And encouraged. “Touché. My publicist will give you my schedule for the next six weeks.” He hung up, and his smile faded. He’d have to make certain that she didn’t tail him on Friday and Saturday nights.

* * *

Jake couldn’t decide whether to rent a car, drive out to Rock Creek Park and spend a couple of hours horseback riding, or call a buddy for a game of tennis. He hadn’t had any useful exercise in ten days. He needed a good workout. “Dunc was always good for an early morning set or two,” he said to himself and telephoned his friend, a freelance journalist who worked at home.

“Jake here. How’s it going, buddy?” he asked Duncan Banks when his friend answered the phone.

“How am I? Man, I need a vacation. I just finished a piece on undertaker scams, and damned near wound up the victim of one of ’em myself. Don’t tell me you want a game. I just told my wife I needed some exercise.”

“I can be ready for a couple of sets in half an hour. How are Justine and Tonya?”

“Still spicing my life. I’ll pick you up in forty-five minutes.”

* * *

“You look as if you’ve been hanging out on a beach,” Duncan told Jake when he opened the door.

“Hardly,” Jake said. He didn’t discuss his work for the department, and especially not his trips, and Duncan never asked him where he’d been. However, Jake didn’t doubt that a news reporter of Duncan Banks’s stature had done his research, knew the answers, and kept his thoughts to himself.

“I hope you’re paid up with your club dues,” Jake told him, “because I forgot to pay mine.” He didn’t mention that the notice arrived while he was on a department mission.

“I forget sometimes, too,” Duncan said, “but they won’t throw us out.”

They practiced hitting the ball for several minutes, tossed a coin, and Duncan served first.

“Brother, that was one wicked lob you sent over here,” Duncan called to Jake after returning it for a point. After winning a set each during nearly two hours of play, they sat on a bench and helped themselves to the lemonade that Justine had made and sent in a cooler.

“You’ve been married to Justine how long now?”

“Two years. The happiest and the most productive of my life. I hardly remember who I was before I met Justine. Looking back—and I often do—I realize my first marriage was a sham.”

Jake stretched out his legs and leaned back against the bench. “Marriage is a risk any way you slice it.”

A frown slid over Duncan’s face. “Sure. And so is taking a shower. It’s simple, Jake; if you don’t gamble—I mean, take a chance—you can’t win. From the first time I looked at Justine, I was a changed man.”

Jake sat forward, remembering his reaction to Allison Wakefield. “You mean as soon as you laid eyes on her?”

“That’s just what I mean. Man, I did everything, told myself all kind of lies about how she wasn’t for me, even left my own house to stay at the lodge so I wouldn’t see her...trying to avoid the inevitable. I didn’t stand a chance.”

“Damn!” Jake sat back, put his hands in the pockets of his tennis shorts, and shook his head. “Man, I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Whoa! Wait a minute,” Duncan said, coloring his words with barely restrained laughter. “What’s her name?”

Jake shook his head again as if perplexed. “There isn’t any her. I am not even going to repeat her name. It’s too ridiculous. I am definitely not going there!” He spoke forcibly.

“Go ahead and convince yourself.” Jake didn’t like the laughter that spilled out of Duncan like water cascading from a mountaintop. “That’s just what I said,” Duncan told him. “I’d be honored to be your best man.”

With that, Jake stood, ready to leave. “You’re off your rocker.”

Duncan permitted himself a long laugh. “Whatever you say. In the thirteen years we’ve known each other, you’ve intimated a serious interest in one woman. One. And for that particular one, your youth was ample excuse.” He stood and looked Jake in the eye. “Getting a jolt at the age of twenty-two is nothing compared to being poleaxed at this age.”

A look of fond remembrance claimed Duncan’s face. “I’ll never forget the day and the minute I gave in to it; oceans roared.”