Jack walked past an open-air, stainless-steel kitchen where chefs in white hats were working their magic. The tables were empty now; waiters in tuxedos stood around, waiting for the party to start.
He walked up to the bar, ordered a Dewar’s on the rocks.
Someone came up beside him. “Hey, Jack. I see you got my invitation.”
He turned, and there was Thea, smiling at him. “You put me on the guest list?”
“I needed something to look forward to at this grinfest. So, where’s your handler?”
“Sally?” He laughed. “She’s running down facts for an upcoming show. She wanted to see your movie, too. It was … good, by the way.”
She smiled, a little too brightly to be real. “I hope so. My last one bombed so fast I saw it on the airplane on the way to the premiere. I need a hit.” As if she realized what she’d just revealed, she laughed easily and took a sip of her cosmopolitan.
In the other room, a band started to play. Soft, romantic mood music that no one would be able to hear when the crowd hit.
“Dance with me,” she said, putting her glass down on the bar.
“Thea …” His mouth was so dry he couldn’t manage more. He understood suddenly why a man lost at sea would finally drink the ocean water.
She snuggled closer, slipped her arms around his neck.
They stood eye to eye. She moved slowly, seductively. He couldn’t help himself; his arms curled around her. He frowned, noticing how thin she was. Bony, even.
It was the first time in more than a dozen years that he’d held another woman, and it reminded him of his old life. Images of other women tumbled through his mind, memories of long, hot, wet nights spent in hotel beds.
And of the night it had come to an end.
He’d been at Tavern on the Green with a woman he couldn’t now remember. Another pretty blonde. It had been one of those flawless late spring days in New York; the smog and humidity of summer hadn’t yet arrived.
They’d been outside, dancing cheek-to-cheek beneath the light of a hundred Chinese silk lanterns. The band had been playing “My Romance.” That, he wouldn’t forget.
Jack had heard a sound, something out of place. He’d turned, and there was Birdie, standing on the edge of the grass with her handbag clutched to her chest and tears streaming down her cheeks.
Before he could get through the crowd, she was gone. When he’d gotten home that night the house was empty. She’d taken the children to a hotel.
There was no note. Instead, on their big king-size bed, Birdie had left an open suitcase beside a framed picture of their family.
Her point had been obvious: Choose.
He’d stared at the open suitcase forever.
Then he’d closed it and put it away.
Thea drew back. “Is something wrong?”
He was saved by a sudden noise. People streamed into the restaurant in a buzzing, chattering throng.
“Damn.” She eased away from him, smoothed her hair. “I’m staying at the St. Regis, Presidential suite. I’m listed as Scarlett O’Hara. Come see me after the party.”
He wanted to say yes.
We’re separated, for God’s sake. And at Birdie’s insistence. That gives you carte blanche, Jacko, said his bad side, the part of him that had been quiet for years.
But he knew.
He knew. Some boundaries remained.
“I don’t think so, Thea.”
“What do you mean, you ‘don’t think so’?” She sounded harsh, as if she hadn’t been denied something in a long time.
“I can’t.”
“There she is!” someone cried out as the crowd pushed toward them.
As Thea went to greet her fans, Jack got the hell out of there.
Because if he stayed, he’d finish that Scotch, and then drink another and another, and sooner or later, he’d forget the reasons not to go to Thea’s suite.
TWENTY-TWO
The newest art gallery in Echo Beach was on the corner of First and Main. A scrolled ironwork sign above the door read: eclectica.
Only a few weeks ago, the Flying High Kite Shop had inhabited this space, but the new owners had obviously gone all out in refurbishing the site. Espresso-colored shingles covered the exterior; freshly planted flower boxes graced the area beneath the front window.
That window was blank now, covered from end to end by a sheet of black paper. A small sign was tacked to the glass. It read: no peeking. we’re doing the window display and you’re going to love it.
Elizabeth glanced down at the piece of paper Daniel had given her. This was the place.
Just go see her, he’d said over coffee; she’s new in town and could use a little help.
Elizabeth had wanted to decline, but when Daniel looked at her with those incredibly blue eyes, she’d automatically nodded.
Now, she wished she’d been firmer. Most of the so-called art galleries in Echo Beach carried knickknacks—coasters made out of polished driftwood … Christmas ornaments made of that ugly Mount St. Helens ash that looked like a jumbled swirl of chocolate and vanilla ice cream … crocheted doilies … dried sand dollars in brown mesh netting, that sort of thing. She stayed away from most of them.