Season Of Passion Part 30

He let the door close then and she felt foolish. "Thanks." How unglamorous. How unsophisticated. How stupid. Christ, he was way out of her league. She had never met a man quite like him before. He was more European than American, and very, very smooth. And then she laughed as she let herself into her room. In some ways, he was very much like her father. And not at all like Nick. That was a relief at least. She was so d.a.m.n sick of Nick and Tygue and Tom and all they wanted from her. Sick of the guilt trips and confusion and conflicts. She lay down for a moment on the bed, promising herself she'd get up in a minute and take off her clothes. But she never did. They called her from the desk at six, and she had to rush to get ready. They wanted her on the air at seven-thirty for a show where they were going get her name wrong and liberally misquote her book.

CHAPTER 32.

Kate didn't get back to her room at the hotel again until after eleven that night. She hadn't had a moment to herself all day. That d.a.m.ned women's luncheon, the shows, the dinner with the people from the agency and the publishers ... it seemed endless. A carousel crawling with asparagus and smoked salmon, and heartburn, and she was sick of it all. She had missed the chance to talk to Tygue again, but every time she'd been near a phone, it had been the wrong time for him with the time difference. And now it was after eight in San Francisco and he'd be asleep. And she couldn't even talk to Nick. He was doing the show. And by the time he finished it, she'd be asleep. There had been no messages from him anyway, and that was message enough. She knew he was still angry. She vowed to herself just before falling asleep that she'd find time to call both him and Tygue the next day. No matter what. She needed to talk to them, or they'd never forgive her.

But she was gone first thing in the morning again, and she ran all morning until she reached Quo Vadis at noon. Philip was already waiting for her, and she was breathless as she swept out of the cab and into the restaurant. It was freezing outside, and her cheeks were bright from the cool air. She looked striking in the red slacks with her mink coat, and her eyes looked like emeralds. It was the first time she had worn the mink since she'd put it away when she moved to the country. It was the coat Tom had told her she'd wear to the hospital to have his son. And it was a beauty. Long, rich, and full in l.u.s.trous bittersweet chocolate-brown fur. Its cla.s.sic lines were still very much in style. She looked dazzling, and Philip could hardly wait to get his hands on her.

"Am I late?"

"Not at all. I just got here." He helped her off with her coat and felt engulfed in her perfume. It made him want to nuzzle her neck, but not now ... later. Their eyes met, and with a faint blush she looked away. "So how is New York? I didn't even see you at the hotel yesterday." The headwaiter led them to a quiet table, and Philip took her hand. The gesture surprised her a little, but so did her reaction. There was something very electric about this man, and her response to him made her feel oddly nave.

"I was never at the hotel. I ran around all day. And when I got home, I went right to bed."

"What a splendid idea." He looked at her teasingly and she laughed as he reached for the wine list. He ordered a dry white Bordeaux that was tart, strong, and wonderful. She had never drunk anything like it. Along with everything else, Philip knew his wines.

They had lobster for lunch, and mousse au chocolat for dessert, followed by small delicate cups of espresso. And then he surprised her by ordering something called "poire."

"What is it?" It arrived looking like water, but even one sip scorched her mouth with a hot, pungent taste of pear. He smiled at the look on her face.

"It's pear brandy. And I can see, Mademoiselle Harper, that you need to spend some more time in Europe. Have you been recently?" She smiled at the distant memories. She hadn't been since her last trip with Tom.

"Not in a very long time. I went quite a lot with my parents. But that was part of another lifetime. I haven't been in"-she thought for a moment-"more than seven years. And I was awfully young. No one was offering me pear brandy." And Tom certainly wouldn't have known about poire. He was perfectly happy with German beer. She hadn't even gotten him to try kir, or Cinzano, or some of the local wines as they traveled around Italy and France. Beer.

"Drink it carefully, by the way. It's strong stuff." He said it in a conspiratorial tone and seemed to edge closer to her on the banquette.

"How can I drink it any way but carefully? It burns the h.e.l.l out of my mouth." She sipped again, and almost winced, but Philip didn't seem to be having any trouble with it. He smiled at her as he lit a Dunhill Monte Cristo. Philip Wells was a man of taste. She was sitting back against the banquette, watching him carefully light the full tip of his cigar, when her glance strayed just past him, and she thought she heard herself gasp. But she hadn't, there was no sound. She was only staring ... but it couldn't be ... it ... but it was. She hadn't seen him in twelve years, but it had to be. Her father.

"Is something wrong?" Philip looked at her inquisitively through the delicate blue smoke. "Kate?"

She nodded distractedly, but didn't look at him. "I'm sorry. I see someone I know." Had he changed? No, she didn't think he'd changed a great deal. His hair was whiter, and maybe he was a little thinner. But he was sitting very close to a young woman almost her age. Where was her mother? Who was that girl? And why the h.e.l.l did she care after all these years? She forgot all about Philip, but he was concerned as he watched the color drain from her face.

"Kate, do you want to go?" He signaled the waiter for the check without waiting for her answer. But she only shook her head, and then slid quickly off the seat.

"I'll be right back." That was crazy. She couldn't go over there. He'd laugh at her. He'd tell her to go to h.e.l.l. He ... but she had to ... had to ... had to.... She felt her feet moving rhythmically, and then suddenly she was standing there, looking at him, and saying one word. "Daddy?" There were tears in her eyes, and he looked up at her, shocked, and rose slowly to his feet, with only a glance down at the woman beside him. He was as tall and distinguished-looking as ever and his eyes were riveted to Kate. She had grown to be quite a woman. But he did not hold out his arms. They only stood there, separated by a table and a lifetime.

"Kate." She nodded in silent answer, as the tears ran down her cheeks. But she was smiling, and there were tears in his eyes too. He didn't know what to say. "I read your book."

"You did?" He read her book but he didn't call or write or reach out to her when ... he had read her book. Why?

"It's a beautiful piece of work." Another fan. Only he wasn't supposed to be that. He was supposed to be her father. "Kate, I ... I'm sorry about all that. We ... we thought it was best if we didn't"-he almost choked on the word as she stared at him-"if we didn't interfere. We thought it would only make it harder. It would have been awkward." Awkward? Christ. All these years later and still an excuse. They had read the papers, they knew what was happening to her, and they never held out a hand. Slowly, her tears stopped. And she could see her father had more to say. He was looking well. She could see that now. He had aged, but he had aged well. And she had been right. He did look like Philip Wells. For a moment, she found herself thinking that her father was a successful failure too. Who was that girl sitting next to him and what was he doing in New York?

"I live in New York now." He looked down at the girl and then back at Kate. "Do you?" He was visibly uncomfortable, and in her guts, Kate finally felt something very old slip from its moorings and drift away. Finally. It was really gone.

"No. I'm just here on business. For a few days." It would save them the embarra.s.sment of having to see her, or finding excuses not to. It must have been awkward having a famous daughter who had the bad taste to turn up. She suddenly looked down at the woman lunching with her father, and found herself looking into a young, rich-girl face. "I'm sorry to interrupt your lunch. We just haven't seen each other for a while."

"I know." The girl spoke very quietly, as though with understanding. She wanted to tell Kate she was sorry, but it wasn't her war. It was theirs.

Her father was looking at her uncomfortably again, as he still stood there, the centerpiece in the drama between the two so much younger women. The woman at the table was three years younger than Kate.

"Kate, I ... I'd like to introduce you to my wife. Ames, this is Kaitlin." Kaitlin ... he still called her that. It rang emptily now. Kaitlin. It was a name on a book. Nothing more. But this woman ... this woman was his wife? The words suddenly got through to her.

"Your wife?" Kate looked at him in astonishment. "You and mother are divorced?" G.o.d, whole lives had gone on, on their separate continents. But he was slowly shaking his head.

"No, Kate. She died." He said it so softly she could barely hear him. And for a fraction of a moment she closed her eyes, but when she opened them again she did not cry. She only nodded.

"I see."

"I tried to find you, to let you know, but there was no trace of where you were." And then he had to ask. "Is ... did Tom ... But she shook her head and cut him off.

"No. He's still alive."

"I'm sorry. That must be very hard. Or don't you ..." He still remembered everything he had read in the papers. But he couldn't ... they had said ... they had decided to stick to ... but had they been wrong? He could feel the reproach of his young wife as she sat next to him. He and Ames had argued about it often, especially after she had read the book.

"Yes, I still go, Father. He's my husband." And you were my father. That was what the words said. And then she looked down at Ames again, with the faintest of smiles in her eyes. "I'm sorry to do this to you. It's a h.e.l.l of a way to have lunch." Ames only shook her head. She wanted to reach out to Kate, to be her friend. G.o.d, what b.a.s.t.a.r.ds they had been to her. She had never been able to understand it when he tried to explain it to her. If he ever did that to their son, she'd kill him. But he'd never do that again. He knew that too. This child would be his forever.

"I ... you had ..." It was unbearable, standing there, asking those questions, but they seemed to be frozen into a Greek play, a tragedy, with a phalanx of waiters off in the distance somewhere as the chorus. "You had a child?"

"A little boy. He's six." It was her first real smile. And then she looked pointedly at her father. It was as though she already knew. "And you?"

"We have ... we also have a son. He's two." Poor little b.a.s.t.a.r.d. For only a second, she hated this man, and then she looked at Ames and knew she could not.

"Would you ... would you like to sit down and join us?" He waved helplessly at the unoccupied chair, but Kate shook her head.

"No, but thank you. I really ... have to go." She stood there for a moment, not sure whether to reach out to him, or just leave, and then slowly he held out his hand. It was like a scene in a very bad movie. Across a span of twelve years he held out a hand, only to shake hers. No hug, no kiss, no tenderness, no warmth. But it was fitting. They were strangers now.

"Good-bye." She looked at him for one last moment, and said it in a whisper as she started to walk away. And then she looked back, and saw his wife crying. She wanted to tell her it was okay, but that was his problem, not hers. She walked quietly back to Philip and he stood looking at her with concern. He had paid the check ten minutes before, but he had sensed that a drama was unfolding and he hadn't dared to approach. He had suspected that the tall, distinguished man who had stood there looking so unhappy was a past lover, and it was clear that the meeting hadn't been a joyful one. The woman seated at the table was obviously upset. His wife? It stunned him a little that Kate had had the b.a.l.l.s to go over and talk to him, if that was the case. He hoped it wasn't, as he thought of Margaret in Chicago.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes. Can we go?"

He nodded and took her arm. It was a relief to get out in the chilly wind. It whipped her hair and squeezed fresh tears from her eyes. But they were clean tears, tears from the cold, not old, rancid tears that had waited years to be shed.

"Kate?"

"Yes." Her voice was very deep and hoa.r.s.e as she looked up at him.

"Who was that, or shouldn't I ask?"

"My father. I hadn't seen him in twelve years."

"And you just ran into him like that? In a restaurant? My G.o.d, what did he say?"

"He told me that my mother had died, and he has a two-year-old son. He's remarried." Philip looked at her with horror. It was an incredible story.

"That woman was your sister, the one who was crying?"

Kate shook her head. "His wife."

"Jesus." And then he looked at Kate again, and simply took her in his arms. They walked a few steps away from the restaurant, and slowly, painfully, she started to sob. She had nothing to say, but she had to get it out. It was twenty minutes later before he walked her slowly back toward the hotel. And the b.i.t.c.h of it was that he had to be somewhere at three. He would be late. The lunch had taken much longer than planned.

"He didn't even ask to see me again." She said it like a heartbroken child, but he looked down at her, sensing something else too. A woman who understood.

"Did you really want him to?"

And then she smiled up at him through her tears. "He could at least have asked."

"Women. You wanted him to ask so you could tell him to go to h.e.l.l, right?" She nodded and wiped her eyes with the handkerchief he handed her. It was fine Swiss linen monogrammed with PAW. Philip Anthony Wells. "Listen, I hate to say this." He hated it more than she knew. He had had such sweet plans for after lunch. "But I have a meeting at three, and,"-he looked at his watch with a grin-"it's five past. Do you think you'll be all right, and we'll kind of put back the pieces over dinner?" He gave her another quick hug and she smiled. There were no pieces to put back. She had done that years ago. With Tom's help. She was only crying at the funeral. But for her they had all been dead for so long. Maybe Tom had been right after all. The old b.a.s.t.a.r.d was a hypocrite. There he was married to some kid in her twenties, and with a son.

"Can you make dinner?" She had forgotten all about Philip and looked up in surprise.

"Sure. I'd love to." She needed someone to talk to, and he was easy company. "I'm sorry you got mixed up in all this. I don't usually drag my life around in front of strangers."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Why, are you fond of dirty linen?" She smiled at him as they walked briskly toward the hotel.

"No, but I didn't think we were still strangers. I hoped you thought of me as a friend." He put an arm around her shoulders again and she sighed.

"I do." And then he surprised her and simply stopped, there on the sidewalk. He looked down at her, and holding her tightly in his arms, he kissed her. She started to pull away, but what surprised her more was that she didn't want to. She found herself responding to him, kissing him back. Her arms were around him now top, and she felt him press his body close to hers. She wanted to feel more of him, but she couldn't through their coats. And she was sorry when he took his lips from hers.

"Dinner at seven?" They were almost under the canopy of the hotel as she nodded, with a serious look in her eyes. She was shocked at what she had just done. There was something powerful and magnetic about Philip Wells. She wondered if he did that often. But she knew he did.

"Seven will be fine."

"Then I'll leave you here." He kissed her very gently on the cheek and started toward a cab stopped at the corner of Park Avenue. He looked back over his shoulder once with a smile and a wave. "Ciao, bella. See you tonight." And then he was gone, and she stood there, too stunned even to feel guilty. Then she walked slowly past the doorman and into the hotel. And as she waited for the elevator, she heard someone call her name. A man at the desk was gesticulating wildly as she turned around.

"Mrs. Harper! Mrs. Harper!" She walked toward him, confused. And he was almost breathless with excitement when she arrived at the desk. "We have been trying to reach you everywhere. Mr. Waterman had us calling every restaurant in New York."

"Mr. Waterman?" Why? Maybe because she hadn't spoken to him in three days. She looked down at the message they handed her. "Call Mr. Waterman immediately. Urgent." It gave her home phone number.

She waited till she got to her room to call back. Nick answered the phone.

"Hi. I got the message. What's up?" She sounded strangely unconcerned to Nick, who didn't realize it was only that she was numb. She had been through too much in two hours. Her father, Philip, and now this wildly urgent call from the Coast. All of that and daytime television too. It was more than she could cope with. And all the wine she'd drunk at lunch didn't help. But she was sober. That she was.

"Where the h.e.l.l have you been?"

"Out, for chrissake. Shows, interviews, lunches, dinners."

"With whom? n.o.body knew where the h.e.l.l you were." He had called her publisher and the agency.

"I'm sorry. I was having lunch." She felt like a truant child apologizing to an irate father. But she was beginning to pick up something more in his tone, and she sat up straighter in her chair. "Is something wrong?"

"Yeah." He took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. "Yes. Something's wrong. Tygue is gone again."

"Oh G.o.d. Since when?"

"I don't know. Maybe last night. Maybe this morning. Tillie put him to bed last night, and I checked on him when I got home. He was fine, but he was gone this morning. He could have left anytime."

"Did he leave a note?" But they both knew where he was going.

"No. Nothing this time. Can you come home?" It stunned her that he would even ask, and her heart melted. He sounded frightened and exhausted, and all she wanted in the world was to see him again. She had had enough of New York.

"I'll get on the first plane out. Did you call the police?" It was almost a familiar routine now.

"Yes. Same old routine. I know we're going to find the little b.u.g.g.e.r on the way to Carmel somewhere."

"Yeah." She knew he was right.

"I want to drive down there myself."

"Now?"

"I'll give the cops a few more hours, and wait for you. We can go down there together."

She smiled softly as she listened to him. Nick. It was like hearing a whole family in one voice, and she knew they'd find Tygue. They had to. He had to be all right. "What are you going to do when we find him? We can't go through this every two days."

"I'll think about it on the flight." He was right, of course. He had been right all along, about her going to New York. She should never have gone. If it hadn't been ...

"Hey, Kate ..." She waited as tears filled her throat. It had been a rough day. "Baby, I'm sorry I gave you such a rough time before you left. I know you're going through a lot." And then the sobs engulfed her again. Everything was happening at once, it was all swirling around her like a nightmare. "Come on, baby, it's all right. We'll find him. I promise."

"I know. But I shouldn't have come here."

"Was it rough?" She nodded, and then squeezed her eyes shut, thinking of Philip. Christ, what if Nick found out? She prayed that he wouldn't. She'd only kissed him. But ... she thought of the dinner date they had for that night. At least she wouldn't be there now. The fates had intervened. She forced her mind back to Nick.

"Yeah, it was rough. And I ... I just saw my father."

"Just now? You were having lunch with him?" Nick sounded stunned.

"No, he was in the same restaurant. With his wife." She said it very softly.

"Your parents got divorced?" He was almost as stunned as she had been, and he didn't even know them.

"No, my mother died. He's remarried to some very young girl and they have a two-year-old son."

"Sonofab.i.t.c.h." Just hearing about it made Nick want to kill him, but Kate got control of her voice and dried her eyes.

"It doesn't matter anymore, Nick. It's all over."

"We'll talk about it when you get home. Call when you know your flight."