“I was hoping I’d contrived to impress you otherwise.”
I turned to face him. My back rested against the door; his hand still lay atop mine on the knob. “I’m afraid we American girls are a little harder to impress than that.”
James dropped Aunt Violet’s suitcase from his opposite hand and laid his forearm against the door, next to my head. He kissed my neck, my mouth, forceful, confident, well versed, tasting like wine and poires au Grand Marnier. His torso was large, blocking out the hallway light as I lay back against the silky paint of the door, going through the motions of kissing and arching my back and enjoying myself thoroughly, until James stopped in his tracks and lifted his lips away.
“Open your eyes, Vivian.”
Opened. Reluctantly. James’s eyes were black and far too close.
“You don’t really want this, do you?”
Some damned thing leaked out of the far corner of my right eye.
James swore softly and stepped away. I folded my arms and stared at the red carpet, slightly worn. The ribbon of light from under the door. I heard him rummaging around his clothes and expected him to say Well, I’m off, then, pleasant evening, jolly pip, but instead his body slumped next to mine against the wall and the orange newly lit smell of his cigarette filled the silence.
“What’s the poor bloke’s name?”
I snared the cigarette for myself. “Paul. He’s a doctor. He took a million dollars to marry my boss’s daughter, because his dad got in deep with the Vegas racket and he needed the money.”
James snorted. “That’s what he told you?”
“That’s what he told me.”
“Let me guess. Dad’s severed finger arrives in the post one day, shock and horror, strike me down, he has nowhere else to turn . . .”
“It was the ear, actually.”
“Oh, nicely done. Marvelous touch. Engages the sympathy, a detail like that. A real professional.” He took the cigarette back. “So it seems he wants to have his million dollars and eat himself a little scrumptious cake on the side.”
“The cake is not on the menu.”
“Good. He’s not worth it, Vivian.”
“Are you worth it, James?”
“I expect not.” He rolled to his side and laid his hand atop my left breast, as if to count the strikes of my heart through my dress. “God, you’re astonishing. Look at you. Say the word, Vivian. Say the bloody word, please. We will be so good together in there.”
“Damn it.” I squeezed my eyes shut.
The hand fell away. “He’s an idiot.”
“Well, I love that idiot. That stinking idiot. I love him to death.” I slid down the door and landed ungracefully on my bottom, legs splayed, as if that act of abasement would stop the tears, which ran right through the cracks in my eyelids, no matter how hard I squinted them, and down my cheeks and into my collar. “Why, James? Can’t a girl catch a break once in a while? Does everything have to be so damned difficult?”
He slid down next to me, shoulder to shoulder. Violet’s suitcase sat at our feet. “Because it’s life, Vivian. It’s just life, we’re all out for ourselves. It’s the only way you make it through to the end. You get lucky sometimes, that’s all, and you enjoy it while it lasts.”
“Poor Violet,” I said.
A reassuring glassy patter filled in the silence. Rain, gentle and English, on the window at the end of the hall, the slate roof above us. We lay there listening to it, until James finished his cigarette and kissed my shoulder and rose to his feet. I didn’t move.
“You’ll be all right?”
“I’m always all right, James.” Right as rain.
He was taking out a card from his inside jacket pocket, a ballpoint pen. “When you’re all better, Vivian, ring me up. Sooner, if you need anything. If I can help you with something.”
Tell me another one.
“Thanks.” I lifted my hand and he slipped the card between my fingers.
“Stay here as long as you want. It’s taken care of.”
“So I hear.” I looked up and found his face, which was all wrinkly with handsome worry. Another fine physical specimen, James Merriwether. Really, the world was full of them. Chockablock, dime a doozy. An endless supply. No need to worry. No need to pine for the one that got away.
His lips found my forehead. “Mind yourself, Vivian.”
? ? ?
IN THE MORNING, I found a slip of paper under the door from the hotel reception. A Margaux Lightfoot had telephoned long distance yesterday evening at nine-thirty-eight. She would try again at noon today.
I crumpled the note in a ball and tossed it into the wastebin. A knock sounded on the door. Bell service! I opened with a shiny morning-glory smile.
“Take it all downstairs, please. And could you be a dear and have the doorman call me a taxi for London Airport?”
“Of course, Miss Schuyler. Where are you headed today?”
I slung my overcoat over my elbow and picked up my pocketbook.
“Paris,” I said. “Where else?”
Violet