Danielle Steel - Passion's Promise

“Is he a homosexual?”

“Possibly, I don’t know. I don’t know what a man does during six years in prison. Nor does it matter. The point is what he stands for, and how he stands for it. That’s the crux here. And if I thought, even for a moment, that writing this piece would cause you embarrassment, I wouldn’t suggest it. You should know that by now. All I can tell you is that I am emphatically sure that he won’t have the faintest idea about, or interest in, your private life.”

“But there’s no way you can be sure of that. What if he’s an adventurer, a sharp con man, who picks up on who I am, and figures out some angle where that could be useful to him? He could turn right around and have me all over the papers just for interviewing him.”

Simpson began to look impatient. He stubbed out the cigar.

“Look, you’ve written about events, places, political happenings, psychological profiles. You’ve done some excellent work, but you’ve never done a piece like this. I think you could do it. And do it well. And I think you should. It’s a major opportunity for you, Kezia. And the point is: are you a writer or not?”

“Obviously. But it just seems terribly unwise to me. Like a breach of my personal rules. I’ve had peace for seven years because I’ve been totally, utterly, and thoroughly careful. If I start doing interviews now, and if I do this one … there will be others, and … no. I just can’t.”

“Why not at least give it some thought? I have his last book, if you want to read it. I really think you should at least do that much before you make up your mind.”

She hesitated for a long moment and then nodded carefully. It was the only concession she would make; she was still sure she wouldn’t do the piece. She couldn’t afford to. Maybe Lucas Johns had nothing left to lose, but she did; she had everything to lose. Her peace of mind, and the carefully guarded secret life she had taken so long to build. That life was what kept her going. She wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize it, not for anyone. Not for Mark Wooly, not for Jack Simpson, and not for some unknown ex-con with a hot “cause.” To hell with him. No one was worth it.

“All right, I’ll read the book.” She smiled for the first time in half an hour, then shook her head ruefully. “You certainly know how to sell your arguments. Wretch!”

But Simpson knew he had not yet convinced her. All he could hope was that her own curiosity and Lucas Johns’ written words would do the job. He felt in his bones that she had to do this one, and he was seldom wrong.

“Simpson, you really are a first-water wretch! You make it sound like my whole career depends on this … or my life even.”

“Perhaps it does. And you, my dear, are a first-water writer. But I think you’re getting to a point when you have to make some choices. And the fact is that they’re not going to be easy whether you make them now, over this particular article, or later, over something else. My main concern is that you make those choices, and don’t just let life, and your career, pass you by.”

“I didn’t think that ‘life’ or my career was passing me by.” She raised an eyebrow cynically, amused. It was unlike him to be so concerned, or so outspoken.

“No, you’ve done well until now. There has been a healthy progression, a good evolution, but only to a point. The crunch is bound to come sometime though. That moment when you can’t ‘get by’ anymore, when you can’t just ‘organize’ everything to suit all your needs. You’ll have to decide what you really want, and act on it.”

“And you don’t think I’ve been doing that?” She was surprised when he shook his head.

“You haven’t had to. But I think it’s time you did.”

“Such as?”

“Such as who do you want to be? K. S. Miller, writing serious pieces that could really further your career, or Martin Hallam tattling on your friends under a pseudonym, or the Honorable Kezia Saint Martin sweeping in and out of debutante balls and the Tour d’Argent in Paris? You can’t have it all, Kezia. Not even you.”

“Don’t be absurd, Simpson.” He was making her distinctly uncomfortable, and all over this article about an ex-convict labor agitator. Nonsense. “You know perfectly well that the Hallam column is a joke to me,” she said, annoyed. “I never really took it seriously, and certainly not in the last five years. And you also know that my career as K. S. Miller is what really matters to me. The deb parties and dinners at the Tour d’Argent, as you put it,” she glowered at him pointedly, “are something I do to pass time, out of habit, and to keep the Hallam column lively. I don’t sell my soul for that way of life.” But she knew too well that that was a lie.

“I’m not sure that’s true, and if it is you might well find that sooner or later the price you will have to pay is your soul, or your career.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.”

“Not dramatic. Honest. And concerned.”

“Well, don’t be ‘concerned,’ not in that area. You know what I have to do, what’s expected of me. You don’t change hundreds of years of tradition in a few short years at a typewriter. Besides, lots of writers work under pseudonyms.”

“Yes, but they don’t live under pseudonyms. And I disagree with you about changing traditions. You’re right on one score, you don’t change traditions in a few years. You change them suddenly, brutally, with a bloody revolution.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“Or ‘civilized,’ is that it? No, you’re right, it’s not civilized. Revolution never is, and change is never comfortable. I’m beginning to think you ought to read Johns’ book for your own sake. In your own way, you’ve been in prison for almost thirty years.” His voice softened as he looked into her eyes. “Kezia, is that how you want to live? At the expense of your happiness?”

“It isn’t a question of that. And sometimes there’s no choice.” She looked away from him, partly annoyed, partly hurt.

“But that’s precisely what we’re discussing. And there is always a choice.” Or didn’t she see that? “Are you going to live your life for an absurd ‘duty,’ to please your trustee ten years after you come of age? Are you going to cater to parents who have been dead for twenty years? How can you possibly expect that of yourself? Why? Because they died? That’s not your fault for God’s sake, and times have changed; you’ve changed. Or is this what that young man you’re engaged to expects of you? If that’s the case, perhaps the time will come when you’ll have to choose between him and your work, and maybe you’d best face that now.”

What man? Whit? How ridiculous. And why was Simpson bringing all of this up now? He had never mentioned any of this before. Why now? “If you mean Whitney Hay-worth, I’m not engaged to him, and never will be. He could never cost me anything except a very dull evening. So you’re worrying for naught on that score.”

“I’m glad to hear it. But then what is it, Kezia? Why the double life?” She sighed deeply and looked down at her hands folded in her lap.

“Because somewhere along the way they convince you that if you drop the Holy Grail for even one instant, or put it aside for a day, the entire world will collapse, and it will all be your fault.”

“Well, I’ll tell you a well-hidden secret, it won’t. The world will not end. Your parents will not haunt you; your trustee won’t even commit suicide. Live for yourself, Kezia. You really have to. How long can you live a lie?”

“Is a pseudonym a lie?” It was a weak defense, and she knew it.

“No, but the way you handle it is. You use your pseudonyms to keep two lives totally estranged from each other. Two sides of you. One is duty and the other is love. You’re like a married woman with a lover, prepared to give up neither. I think that’s an awesome burden to carry. And an unnecessary one.” He looked at his watch and shook his head with a small smile. “And now, I apologize. I’ve railed at you for almost an hour. But these are things I’ve wanted to discuss with you for a very long time. Do what you want on the Johns article, but give a little thought to what we’ve said. I think it’s important.”