Danielle Steel - Changes

CHAPTER 12

The phone rang just as she was leaving the house the following Wednesday morning. She was in a hurry to get to Bloomingdale's. She desperately needed some more bathing suits, for the trip to Bermuda that week. She had looked over the ones from the summer before and they were all badly worn and stretched and faded. She lived in her bathing suits for two months, and every year they took a beating.

“Hello?”

“It's me.” It was Grant.

“What's up? I was just running out to buy some new bathing suits for my trip.” She was finally beginning to look forward to it. And she was leaving in two days. “Do you want me to pick anything up for you? I'm going to Bloomie's.”

“No, thanks. I forgot you were going down there. Need a butler or a male secretary while you're there?”

“No thank you.” She smiled at the phone, and he realized he'd hardly seen her since she got back from L.A.

“I just wanted to ask you a question about Marcia Evans.” She was the grande dame of legitimate theater and Mel had done an intimate interview with her six months before. “I'm having her on the show tonight.”

Mel cringed. “Good luck. She's a dragon.”

“Shit. That's what I thought. And the producer told me I had nothing to worry about. Any tips for my survival?”

“Bring along a snake-bite kit. She's the most venomous woman I've ever met. Just watch out that you don't piss her off. You'll see her coming.”

“That's a big help.” He didn't sound pleased, and he was furious with his producer for setting him up.

“I'll give it some more thought while I'm out shopping, and I'll call you when I get home.”

“Do you want to have dinner tonight, to give me courage?”

“Why don't you drop by to see the girls?”

“I'll try”—he grinned—“if nothing else interferes.”

“You and tits, Grant.” She laughed.

“I can't help it if I'm weak. I'll call you later, kid.”

“Okay.” He hung up, and she looked in the mirror and picked up her handbag. She was wearing a white linen dress with a black silk jacket and black and white patent leather shoes she had bought in Rome the year before. She looked very chic and she felt good. They had worked like demons for a week, editing the film on Peter Hallam and Pattie Lou Jones and she was just loving what they got as they went along. The piece was getting tighter and tighter, and as she reached the front door, the phone rang again, and she was tempted not to answer. It was probably the damn editor, wanting her to come in, and for once she wanted some time to herself to do her shopping. But it rang so persistently that she gave in and walked into the living room and picked up the white phone she had concealed in a nook there.

“Yes?” She waited, afraid she'd hear the editor's voice again. He had already called twice that morning. But it wasn't the editor at all. It was Peter Hallam again. He called her often.

“Hello, Mel.” He sounded hesitant after her gruff response when she picked it up and she was embarrassed.

“Hi, Peter, I'm sorry if I barked. I was just running out, but …” She felt young again, and nervous, just as she had when he'd called before. He had a funny effect on her, which seemed to cancel out her success and her self-confidence. She was just a young girl again when she talked to him … or maybe “just” a woman.” … it's nice to hear from you.” He hadn't called in a few days. “How's Marie?” Suddenly she was afraid that he had called to give her bad news, but he was quick to reassure her.

“Much better. We had a problem last night, and I thought she was going into a major rejection, but everything's under control again. We switched her medication. We think she might even be ready to go home in a few weeks.” It was something Melanie would have liked to see, but it didn't justify a trip West and her producer would never have let her go just for that.

“And the children?”

“They're fine. I just wondered how you were. I called you at the office but they said you weren't there.”

“I'm playing hooky.” She laughed and felt lighthearted and happy. “This is the weekend I'm going to Bermuda, and I needed to shop for a few things.”

“That sounds like fun. We're staying here for the long weekend. Mark is playing in a tennis tournament and Matthew's going to a birthday party.”

“The girls are going to that prom I told you about, and then to Cape Cod with a friend and her parents.” They seemed to hide a lot in talk of their children, and Mel found herself wondering how he was, not Pam and Mark and Matthew. And then she decided to ask him. “Are you all right, Peter? Not working too hard?”

“Of course I am,” he laughed, but he was pleased at the question. “I wouldn't know how to do anything else, and neither would you.”

“That's true. When I get old and wrinkled and have to retire, I won't know what the hell to do with myself every morning.”

“You'll think of something.”

“Yeah, brain surgery maybe.” They both laughed, and she sat down, as Bloomingdale's and the bathing suits slipped her mind completely. “Actually, I'd like to write a book then.”

“What about?”

“My memoirs.” She teased.

“No, really.”

It wasn't often that she confessed her dreams to anyone, but he was easy to talk to. “I don't know, I think I'd like to write a book about being a woman hi journalism. It was tough at first, although it's a lot easier now, but not always. People resent it like hell when you make it. They're half glad, and half pissed. It's been interesting coping with that, and I think it's something a lot of women could relate to. It doesn't matter if you do what I do, or you do something else. The issue is crawling to the top, and I know what that's like, how much work it takes and what happens when you get there.”

“It sounds like an instant best seller.”

“Maybe not, but I'd like to try it.”

“I've always wanted to write a book about heart surgery for the layman, what it's like, what to expect, what to demand of your doctor, what the risks are in specific situations. I don't know if anyone would give a damn, but too many people are unprepared, and get screwed over by their doctors.”

“Now, that sounds like a good one.” She was impressed, there was a need for a book like that and it would be interesting to see what he did with it.

“Maybe we should run away to the South Pacific together, and write our books. When the kids grow up,” he added.

“Why wait?” It was an amusing fantasy, but it suddenly reminded her of the trip to Bermuda. “I've never been to the South Pacific.” And she had been to Bermuda. It was tropical and it was close, but it was definitely not exciting. Or maybe it was that going alone didn't excite her. And Peter did? That question was frightening to answer.

“I've always wanted to go to Bora Bora,” he confessed, “but I can never get away from my patients for long enough to make it worthwhile.”

“Maybe you don't want to.” It was something Anne had accused him of too, and it was probably true.

“You may be right.” Somehow it was so easy to be honest with her. “I'll have to save it till I retire.” There was a lot he had saved like that, and now Anne was gone and it would never be shared after all. He had put so much off for “later” that he regretted now. There was no later. At least not for them. And he wondered at the wisdom of continuing to save things for “later.” What if he had a stroke, if he died, if … “Maybe I'll go sooner than that.”