Danielle Steel: Passion's Promise

“Where’s Whit?”

Probably at Sutton Place, darling. “Working like mad, presumably. Will we see you at the Marsh party tomorrow night?” The question was rhetorical, and he nodded absently in answer. “I’m meeting Edward just now.”

“Lucky bastard.” She gave him a last smile and edged through the crowd to the front, where the headwaiter would be waiting to shepherd her to Edward. As it happened, she found Edward without assistance; he was at his favorite table, a bottle of champagne chilling nearby. Louis Roederer 1959, as always.

He saw her too and stood up to meet her as she walked easily past the other tables and across the room. She felt eyes on her, acknowledged discreet greetings as she passed tables of people she knew, and the waiters smiled. She had grown into it all years ago. Recognition. At sixteen it had agonized her, at eighteen it was a custom, at twenty-two she had fought against it, and now at twenty-nine she enjoyed it. It amused her. It was her private joke. The women would say “marvelous dress,” the men would muse about Whit; the women would decide that with the same fortune they could get away with the same sort of hat, and the waiters would nudge each other and murmur in French, “Saint Martin.” By the time she left, there might, or there might not, be a photographer from Women’s Wear waiting to snap her photograph paparazzi-style as she came through the door. It amused her. She played the game well.

“Edward, you look wonderful!” She gave him a searching look, an enormous squeeze, and sank onto the banquette at his side.

“Lord, child, you look well.” She kissed his cheek gently, and then smoothed her hand over it tenderly with a smile.

“So do you.”

“And how was this morning with Simpson?”

“Pleasant and productive. We’ve been discussing some ideas I have for a book. He gives me good advice, but let’s not … here. …” They both knew that there was too much noise to allow anyone to piece much together. But they rarely spoke of her career in public. “Discretion is the better part of valor,” as Edward often said.

“Right. Champagne?”

“Have I ever said no?” He signaled the waiter, and the ritual of the Louis Roederer was begun. “God, I love that stuff.” She smiled at him again and gazed slowly around the room as he began to laugh.

“I know what you’re doing, Kezia, and you’re impossible.” She was checking out the scene for her column. He raised his glass to her, and smiled. “To you, mademoiselle, welcome home.” They clinked glasses and sipped slowly at the champagne. It was precisely the way they liked it, a good year and icy cold.

“How’s Whit, by the way? Seeing him for dinner tonight?”

“Fine. And no, I’m going to bed to recover from the trip.”

“I don’t think I believe that, but I’ll accept it if you say so.”

“What a wise man you are, Edward. That’s probably why I love you.”

He looked at her for a moment then, and took her hand. “Kezia, be careful. Please.”

“Yes, Edward. I know. I am.”

The lunch was pleasant, as all their lunches were. She inquired about all his most important clients, remembered all their names, and wanted to know what he had done about the couch in his apartment that so desperately needed re-upholstering. They said hello to everyone they knew, and were joined for brief moments by two of his partners in the firm. She told him a little about her trip, and she kept an eye on the comings and goings and pairings of the natives.

She left him outside at three. The “surprise” photographer from Women’s Wear dutifully took their photograph, and Edward hailed her a cab before he walked back to his office. He always felt better when he knew she was back in town. He could be there if she needed him, and he felt closer to her life. He never really knew, but he had an idea that there was more to her life than Raffles and parties given by the Marshes. And much more to her life than Whit. But she didn’t tell Edward, and he didn’t ask. He didn’t really want to know as long as she was all right-“careful,” as he put it. But there was too much of her father in her to be satisfied with a man like Whit. Edward knew that only too well. It had taken more than two years to settle her father’s will discreetly, and execute the arrangements for the two women no one had known about.

The cab took Kezia home and deposited her at her door with a flourish of brakes and scattered curbside litter, and Kezia went upstairs and hung the white Dior dress neatly in the closet. Half an hour later she was in jeans, her hair hanging free, the answering service instructed to pick up her calls. She was “resting” and didn’t want to be disturbed until the following noon. A few moments later, she was gone.

She walked away from her house and slipped quietly into the subway at Seventy-seventh Street and Lexington Avenue. No makeup, no handbag, just a coin purse in her pocket and a smile in her eyes.

The subway was like a concentrated potion of New York, each sound and smell magnified, each character more extreme. Funny old ladies with faces made up like masks, gay boys in pants so tight one could almost see the hair on their legs, magnificent girls carrying portfolios on their way to modeling engagements, and men who smelled of sweat and cigars, whom one wanted not to be near, and the occasional passenger for Wall Street in striped suit, short hair, and hornrims. It was a symphony of sights and odors and sounds conducted to the shrieking background beat of the trains, brakes screaming, wheels rattling. Kezia stood holding her breath and closing her eyes against the hot breeze and flying litter swept up by the oncoming train, then moved inside quickly, sidestepping the doors as they closed.

She found a seat next to an old woman carrying a shopping bag. A young couple sat down next to her at the next stop, and furtively shared a joint, unobserved by the transit patrolman who moved through the car, eyes fixed ahead of him. Kezia found herself smiling, wondering if the old woman on her other side would get high from the smell. Then the train screeched to a halt at Canal Street and it was time to get off. Kezia danced quickly up the steps and looked around.

She was home again. Another home. Warehouses and tired tenements, fire escapes and delicatessens, and a few blocks away the art galleries and coffee houses and lofts crowded with artists and writers, sculptors and poets, beards and bandannas. A place where Camus and Sartre were still revered, and de Kooning and Pollock were gods. She walked along with a quick step and a little throb in her heart. It shouldn’t matter so much … not at her age … not the way things were between them … it shouldn’t feel so good to be back … it might all be different now…. But it did feel good to be back, and she wanted everything to be the same.

“Hey girl. Where’ve you been?” A tall, lithe black man wallpapered into white jeans greeted her with surprise delight.

“George!” He swept her off her feet in a vast embrace and whirled her around. He was in the ballet corps of the Metropolitan Opera. “Oh, it’s good to see you!” He deposited her, breathless and smiling, on the pavement beside him, and put an arm around her shoulders.

“You’ve been gone for a mighty long time, lady.” His eyes danced and his grin was a long row of ivory in the bearded midnight face.

“It feels like it. I almost wondered if the neighborhood would be gone.”

“Never! SoHo is sacred.” They laughed and fell into step beside her. “Where’re you going?”

“How about The Partridge for coffee?” She was suddenly afraid to see Mark. Afraid that everything was different. George would know, but she didn’t want to ask him.