Danielle Steel: Passion's Promise

“How in God’s name can you call me ‘dashing,’ Kezia? I’m over sixty years old.”

“You’re a mere sixty-one. And you are dashing, Edward. Look at you.”

“I try very hard not to.”

“Silly man.” They had moved on to other topics, both of them careful not to mention what she had done the night before….

“More champagne, Kezia?”

“Mm?” She had drifted through the first glass without even noticing it. She had been thinking of other things: Edward; the new article she’d just been commissioned to write, a piece on the outstanding women candidates in the upcoming national elections. She had forgotten all about Whit, and the Marshes’ party. “Good Heavens, did I finish that already?” She smiled at Whit again, and he looked at her quizzically.

“Still tired from the trip?”

“No, just a little dreamy. Drifting, I suppose.”

“That’s quite a knack in a furor like this.” She exchanged her empty glass for a full one, and they found a secluded corner where they could watch the dance floor. Her eyes took in all the couples and she made rapid mental notes as to who was with whom, and who was wearing what. Opera divas, bankers, famous beauties, celebrated playboys, and an extravagance of rubies and sapphires and diamonds and emeralds.

“You look more beautiful than ever, Kezia.”

“You flatter me, Whit.”

“No. I love you.”

It was foolish of him to say it. They both knew otherwise. But she inclined her head demurely with a slender smile. Perhaps he did love her, after a fashion. Perhaps she even loved him, like a favorite brother or a childhood friend. He was a sweet man; it wasn’t really difficult to like him. But love him? That was different.

“It looks as though the summer did you good.”

“Europe always does. Oh, no!”

“What?” He turned in the direction that had brought a look of dismay to her face, but it was too late. The Baron von Schnellingen was bearing down on them, with perspiration pouring from his temples, and a look of ecstasy at having spotted the pair.

“Oh Christ tell him you’ve got the curse, and you can’t dance,” Whit whispered.

Kezia burst into laughter, which the chubby little German Baron misinterpreted as delight.

“I am zo happy to zee you too, my dear. Good evening, Vitney. Kee-zee-ah, you are exquisite tonight.”

“Thank you, Manfred. You’re looking well.” And hot and sweaty. And obese, and disgusting. And lecherous, as usual.

“It is a valtz. Chust for us. Ja? Nein , but why the hell not? She couldn’t say no. He was always sure to remind her of how much he had loved her dear departed father. It was simpler to concede one waltz with him, for her “father’s sake.” At least he was a proficient dancer. At the waltz in any case. She bowed her head gently and extended a hand to be led to the floor. The Baron patted her hand ecstatically and led her away, just as Whit whispered in her ear, “I’ll rescue you right after the waltz.”

“You’d better, darling.” She said it through clenched teeth and a well-practiced smile.

How could she ever explain something like this to Mark? She began to laugh to herself at the thought of explaining Mark and her anonymous forays into SoHo to anyone at the Maisonette that night. Surely the Baron would understand. He probably crept off to far more unusual places than SoHo, but he didn’t expect Kezia to. No one did. Not Kezia, a woman, the Kezia Saint Martin … and that was different anyway. Like the other men she knew, the Baron conducted his adventures differently, and for different reasons … or was it different? Was she simply being a poor little rich girl running away to get laid and play with her Bohemian friends? Were any of them real to her? Sometimes she wondered. The Maisonette was real. Whit was real. The Baron was real. So real it made her feel hopeless at times. A gilded cage from which one never escapes. One never escapes one’s name and one’s face and one’s ancestors and one’s father or one’s mother, no matter how many years they’ve been dead. One never escapes all the bullshit about Noblesse oblige. Or does one? Does one simply get on the subway with a token and a smile, never to return? The mysterious disappearance of the Honorable Kezia Saint Martin. No, if one leaves, one leaves elegantly and openly. With style. Not fleeing on a subway in total silence. If she really wanted SoHo, she had to say so, if only for her own sake. She knew that much. But was that what she wanted? How much better was SoHo than this? It was zabaglione instead of souffié Grand Marnier. But neither was very nourishing. What she needed was good, wholesome steak. Counting on Mark’s world for sustenance was like hiding with a six-month supply of Oreo cookies and nothing else. She simply had one world to offset the other, one man to complement another, and the worst of it was that she knew it. Nothing was whole…. “Am I?” She didn’t realize that she had said it aloud.

“Are you vat?” the Baron cooed in her ear.

“Oh. Sorry. Am I stepping on your foot?”

“No, my beauty. Only my heart. And you dance like an angel.”

Nauseating. She smiled pleasantly and swirled in his arms. “Thank you, Manfred.”

They swept gracefully about once more, and at last her eye met Whit’s, as the waltz drew to a merciful close. She stood slightly apart from the Baron and thanked him again.

“But perhaps they play another?” His disappointment was almost childlike.

“You dance a very handsome waltz, sir.” Whitney was at their side, bowing slightly to the perspiring German.

“And you are a very lucky man, Vitney.” Kezia and Whit exchanged a beatific glance and Kezia bestowed a last smile on the Baron as they glided away.

“Still alive?”

“Very much so. And I’ve really been hopelessly lazy. I haven’t talked to a soul tonight.” She had work to do and the evening was young.

“Want to stop and talk to some of your cronies now?”

“Why not? I haven’t seen any of them since I got back.”

“Then onwards, milady. Let us throw ourselves to the lions, and see who’s here.”

Everyone was, as Kezia had observed upon entering. And after a round of a dozen tables, and six or seven small groups standing near the dance floor, she was grateful to spot two of her friends. Whitnev left her to them, and went to share a cigar with his senior partner. A little congenial talk over a good Monte Cristo never hurt. He waved her on her way, and vanished in a cluster of black and white emitting the pungent fumes of Havana’s finest.

“Hi, you two.” Kezia joined two tall thin young women who seemed surprised to see her arrive.

“I didn’t know you were back!” Cheeks almost met as kisses flew into midair, and the three looked at each other with pleasure. Tiffany Benjamin was more than a little drunk, but Marina Walters looked bright and alive. Tiffany was married to William Patterson Benjamin IV, the number two man in the biggest brokerage house on Wall Street. And Marina was divorced. And loved it that way, or so she said. Kezia knew otherwise.

“When did you get back from Europe?” Marina smiled at her, and appraised the dress. “Hell of a neat dress, by the way. Saint Laurent?”

Kezia nodded.

“I thought so.”

“And so’s yours, Madame Hawkeye.” Marina nodded pleased assent, but Kezia knew it for a copy. “Christ, I got back two days ago, and I’m beginning to wonder if I was ever away.” Kezia spoke while keeping a casual eye on the room.

“I know the feeling. I got back last week, in time to get the kids back to school. By the time we’d done orthodontists, shoes, school uniforms, and three birthday parties, I forgot I’d ever been away. I’m ready for another summer. Where’d you go this year, Kezia?”