Danielle Steel - Passion's Promise

“Welcome home, Kezia.” He smiled at the newspaper photograph still lying on his desk.

“Edward!” He felt warm at the delight in her voice. “How I’ve missed you!”

“But not enough to send me so much as a postcard, you little minx! I had lunch with Totie last Saturday, and she at least gets an occasional letter from you.”

“That’s different. She’d go into a decline if I didn’t let her know I’m alive.” She laughed, and he heard the clink of a cup against the phone. Tea. No sugar. A dash of cream.

“And you don’t think I’d go into a decline?”

“Of course not. You’re far too stoic. It would be bad form. Noblesse oblige , et cetera, et cetera.”

“All right, all right.” Her directness often embarrassed him. She was right, too. He had a distinct sense of “form.” It was why he had never told her that he loved her. Why he had never told her mother that he had loved her.

“And how was Marbella?”

“Dreadful. I must be getting old. Aunt Hil’s house was absolutely crawling with all sorts of eighteen-year-old children. Good God, Edward, they were born eleven years after I was! Why aren’t they at home with their nannies?” He laughed at the sound of her voice. She still looked twenty. But a very sophisticated twenty. “Thank God I was only there for the weekend.”

“And before that?”

“Didn’t you read the column this morning? It said I was in seclusion in the South of France for most of the summer.” She laughed again, and he smiled. It was so good to hear her voice.

“Actually, I was there for a while. On a boat I rented, and it was very pleasant. And peaceful. I got a lot of writing done.”

“I saw the article you did on the three Americans imprisoned in Turkey. Depressing, but excellent. Were you there?”

“Of course I was. And yes, it was depressing as hell.”

“Where else did you go?” He wanted to get her off the subject. Disagreeable issues were unnecessary.

“Oh, I went to a party in Rome, to the collections in Paris, to London to see the Queen…. Pussycat, pussycat, where have you been? I’ve been to London to see the …”

“Kezia, you’re impossible.” But delightfully so.

“Yeah.” She took a long swallow of tea and hiccuped in his ear. “But I missed you. It’s a pain in the ass not being able to tell anyone what I’m really doing.”

“Well, come and tell me what you really did. Lunch at La Grenouille today?”

“Perfect. I have to see Simpson, but I can meet you after that. Is one all right with you?”

“Fine. And Kezia …”

“Yes?” Her voice was low and gentle, suddenly not quite so brisk. In her own way, she loved him too. For almost twenty years now, he had softened the blow of the absence of her father.

“It really is good to know you’re back.”

“And it really is good to know that someone gives a damn.”

“Silly child, you make it sound as though no one else cares.”

“It’s called the Poor Little Rich Girl Syndrome, Edward. Occupational hazard for an heiress.” She laughed, but there was an edge to her voice that troubled him. “See you at one.”

She hung up, and Edward stared out at the view.

Twenty-two blocks from where he sat, Kezia was lying in bed, finishing her tea. There was a stack of newspapers on her bed, a pile of mail on the table next to her. The curtains were drawn back, and she had a peaceful view of the garden behind the townhouse next door. A bird was cooing on the air conditioner. And the doorbell was ringing.

“Damn.” She pulled a white satin robe off the foot of the bed, wondering who it might be, then suspecting quickly. She was right. When she opened the door, a slim, nervous Puerto Rican boy held out a long white box.

She knew what was in the box even before she traded the boy a dollar for his burden. She knew who the box was from. She even knew the florist. And knew also that she would recognize his secretary’s writing on the card. After four years, you let your secretary write the cards: “Oh, you know, Effy, something like ‘You can’t imagine how I’ve missed you,’ et cetera.” Effy did a fine job of it. She said just what any romantic fifty-four-year-old virgin would say on a card to accompany a dozen red roses. And Kezia didn’t really care if the card was from Effy or Whit. It didn’t make much difference anymore. None at all, in fact.

This time Effy had added “Dinner tonight?” to the usual flowery message, and Kezia paused with the card in her hand. She sat down in a prim blue velvet chair that had been her mother’s, and played with the card. She hadn’t seen Whit in a month. Not since he had flown to London on business, and they had partied at Annabelle’s before he left again the next day. Of course he had met her at the airport the night before, but they hadn’t really talked. They never really did.

She leaned pensively toward the phone on the small fruitwood desk, the card still in her hand. She glanced across the neat stacks of invitations her twice-weekly secretary had arranged for her-those she had missed, and those that were for the near and reasonably near future. Dinners, cocktails, gallery openings, fashion shows, benefits. Two wedding announcements, and a birth announcement.

She dialed Whit’s office and waited.

“Up already, Kezia darling? You must be exhausted.”

“A bit, but I’ll live. And the roses are splendid.” She allowed a small smile to escape her and hoped that it wouldn’t show in her voice.

“Are they nice? I’m glad. Kezia, you looked marvelous last night.” She laughed at him and looked at the tree growing in the neighboring garden. The tree had grown more in four years than Whit had.

“You were sweet to pick me up at the airport. And the roses started my day off just right. I was beginning to gloom over unpacking my bags.”

She had had the bad judgment to arrive on one of the cleaning woman’s days off. But the bags could wait.

“And what about my dinner invitation? The Orniers are having a dinner, and if you’re not too tired, Xavier suggested we all go to Raffles afterwards.” The Orniers had an endless suite in the tower at the Hotel Pierre, which they kept for their annual trips to New York. Even for a few weeks it was “worth it”: “You know how ghastly it is to be in a different room each time, a strange place.” They paid a high price for familiarity, but that was not new to Kezia. And their dinner party was just the sort of thing she ought to cover for the column. She had to get back into the swing of things, and lunch at La Grenouille with Edward would be a good start, but … damn. She wanted to go downtown instead. There were delights downtown that Whit would never dream she knew. She smiled to herself and suddenly remembered Whit in the silence.

“Sorry, darling. I’d love to, but I’m so awfully tired. Jet lag, and probably all that wild life at Hilary’s this weekend. Can you possibly tell the Orniers I died, and I’ll try to catch a glimpse of them before they leave. For you, I will resurrect tomorrow. But today, I’m simply gone.” She yawned slightly, and then giggled. “Good Lord, I didn’t mean to yawn in your ear. Sorry.”

“Quite all right. And I think you’re right about tonight. They probably won’t serve dinner till nine. You know how they are, and it’ll be two before you get home after Raffles. …” Dancing in that over-decorated basement, Kezia thought, just what I don’t need. …

“I’m glad you understand, love. Actually, I think I’ll put my phone on the service, and just trot off to bed at seven or eight. And tomorrow I’ll be blazing.”

“Good. Dinner tomorrow then?” Obviously, darling. Obviously.

“Yes. I have a thing on my desk for some sort of gala at the St. Regis. Want to try that? I think the Marshes are taking over the Maisonette for their ninety-eighth wedding anniversary or something.”