Inheritance (41 page)

"Don't tell him you don't like his name. Or his Christmas tree."

"What's wrong with his tree?"

"You'll see."

Jason finished the portfolio and went back to the beginning, turning the pages slowly. "You're fortunate in your photographer," he said at last. "He's damned good."

*The photographs or the model?" Emily asked before she could stop herself.

"Both. There's a nice ingenuousness here, as if you're only pretending to be sophisticated."

"Or vice versa," she said gaily.

He shrugged. "I assume Barry told you we have models we call on regularly."

"He told me you're always looking for new faces."

"So we can call on them when the need arises."

Emily waited. "And when will that be?" she asked, strug-gUng to hide her growing anger.

"I have no idea." He closed her portfolio. "At the moment we're working on the May issue; I can't say what we'll need for June. We might be calling you." He opened the door to the reception room and stood there, holding it for her.

Stiffly, Emily picked up the portfolio. "Thank you for your time." She was properly correct, but inside she seethed.

"How dare he?" she raged to Paul when she returned to his apartment where she had been livmg since they came to New York from Europe. "Barry recommended me; I didn't come begging. And I'm a Kent from Boston, not just somebody who walked in off the street. Who does he think he is, treating me like that?"

Paul was holding a match to the fire; when the flames leaped up he pulled shut the glass fire doors and put his arms around her. Reluctantly, she kissed him. "Did you hear me?" she asked.

Judith Michael

"I did." He moved away. "A drink might help." At the small bar tucked into an alcove, he mixed two martinis. "Now come and sit down. It sounds as if you walked into the middle of a battlefield."

"What does that mean?''

"Your old friend Barry and your new friend Jason may be at war over who makes decisions, and Jason didn't appreciate Barry's sending you to walk in on him, instead of following the usual procedures."

"What usual procedures?" But she knew, and it showed in her face.

"Barry told you the agency should send over your portfolio."

Her mouth was stubborn. "With civilized people a personal approach is infinitely superior."

"You may be right. But he did warn you. Are they lovers?"

"I doubt it. Barry wants me."

"Does he? What a sensible fellow."

She laughed, feeling better. "He can't compare with you and he knows it, or at least he knows / know it. May I have another drink?"

He went to the bar. "I made reservations for dinner at Le Cirque."

"Impossible. You would have had to call three weeks ago."

"Two weeks."

"You really did? Is it an occasion?"

"Your birthday next week. Christmas three days after that. Do we need any more?"

"You might have wanted to ask me to marry you. Sorry," she added quickly. "That was as much in bad taste as Jason d'Or."

"You're never in bad taste, my dear," Paul said quietly.

Emily was silent and he stood at the bar, watching her as she gazed at the flames. She sat on a dark suede couch in the paneled library he had hung with Audubon prints and three of his portraits of Owen. A Bokhara in taupe and black was on the floor; the shelves were filled with leather-bound books. In that dark room, illuminated only by the fire, Emily's fair beauty seemed to shimmer in its own halo. But as Paul contemplated her, her features subtly changed in the shadows

Inheritance

thrown by the dancing flames, and he saw the other faces behind the public face of Emily Kent.

Her anger was still visible in the tight comers of her mouth-, but then it seemed to become willfulness, then arrogance, then, as swiftly, doubt. It was as if he were looking at a map of her emotions. He stepped back, increasing his distance and angle from the couch, and her face changed again, first calculating, then promising passion. And, as a log fell, sending; sparks against the glass fire doors, he thought he saw sadness.

And in that instant, Emily's face became Laura's, the comers of her mouth curved in sorrow.

Shaken, enraged, Paul flung his glass across the room where it shattered on the stone hearth. Emily cried out but he barely heard it. God danm it, a year and a half and he couldn't get her out of his mind. Every affair had an end; theirs was over. What the hell was wrong with him that he couldn't go on to other women without seeing her wherever he turned?

"Paul!" Emily was staring at him, and Laura's face vanished. "What in heaven's name is wrong? This isn't like you."

"Breaking glasses or thinking of something besides you?" he asked brutally. When she winced, he went to her, handing her her drink as he sat down. "I'm sorry. But you'll notice I threw my own, not yours. So I really was thinking of you, even in my most uncivilized moment."

"What were you thinking of besides me?"

"An old friend. And taking photographs."

"Of me?'*

He never had to fear, Paul realized, that Emily would probe very deeply into his thoughts; she was too absorbed in herself. In a way, it was refreshing: she could never be accused of pretending to be something she wasn't. "Of course of you," he said. "My favorite model."

"And companion."

"Yes." He was thoughtftil. "That's tme." Abmptly, he stood. "Let's have dinner."

"What time are our reservations?"

He had forgotten them. "Eight, but I feel like walking."

"What a good idea." She jumped up. "I'll get my boots; it was snowing when I came in."

Paul smiled as he watched her leave the room. He knew she

Judith Michael

didn't want to walk from Sutton Place to the Mayfair Regent, especially in December, especially in the snow. But part oi Emily's charm and skill was perfect intuition. When she put' her mind to it, she knew exactly which of his moods and desires was important enough to outweigh her immediate comfort. And Paul, knowing how rare that was, appreciated it and was grateful for it.

They walked along the river and turned the comer at Fifty-seventh Street. Emily's face was outlined in fur, her fur-lined boots left small prints in the snow that drifted silently past streetlights and Christmas trees in apartment windows. The buildings all seemed to duplicate Paul's—closed-face high-rises, each with its own gold-braided doorman and glimpses of private lives through draped windows. He had bought his apartment years before, and the one-bedroom apartment adjoining it, as well, converting it to a studio and darkroom. After outfitting it, he seldom used it, but he lived in the apartment when he was in New York and loaned it to friends at other times. He and Emily had been living there for a month, and for the first time Paul was using the darkroom every day.

They had traveled together in Europe, Africa, and India for a month after leaving Amsterdam, and Paul had taken hundreds of photographs, mostly of Emily. For the first time he had used scenery, indoor settings, and other people as contrasts to her ingenuousness and sophistication, which he captured in a series of brilliant photographs—and he had felt a rush of pride when Emily told him Jason had seen it. He isn't as much a fool as she says, Paul thought wryly, if he understands what I was trying to do in those photos. And the sensual pleasure he felt in working, and the ability to lose himself in it, had lasted through most of that time.

Over the years his desire to work at photography had flared and died, like the flames of his fireplace, always giving way when his restlessness returned or his motivation disappeared: the children building the sand castle went home and did not return; Laura was gone; Owen was dead; his college friends, whom he had photographed at play and at their studies, had scattered. Now, walking beside Emily on the quiet street, glancing at her shadowed features, he thought of the many

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moods he had seen in the firelight of his study, and suddenly he felt a hunger to be better than he had ever tried to be, to take photography beyond the narrow boundaries he had lazily explored all these years when he was content to be little more than a dilettante.

He wanted to show what was behind the public facade of people and events; he wanted to photograph secrets: the faces behind each face, the scenes behind each scene. He wanted to make photographs in which people could find themselves and understand something new about themselves and their worlds.

For the first time, Paul wanted to do more than satisfy him-!self. He wanted to reach others. And he wanted it with a i passion that would have delighted Owen Salinger.

Emily turned up Third Avenue and he followed, content to ilet her linger when something in a shop window caught her I eye. The street was brightly lit and crowded; a solid stream of 'traffic moved in honking fits and starts, and the sidewalks on sboth sides were lined with attractions ranging from hot dog Estands to movie theaters, yuppie bars to Bloomingdale's. In jsome small shops wreath-hung doors swung open as Ichristmas shoppers and tourists came and went, and outside the bars, well-groomed young professionals talked of the evening's entertainment. In silence, Paul walked absently beside Emily; window-shopping bored him, and he paid more attention to the crowds, the sidewalk peddlers, and the bell-ringing Santa Clauses and trombone-playing Salvation Army troops on the comers.

They turned up Sixty-third, where it was again quiet, the iows of solenm brownstones like a gathering of old Boston femilies shutting out the clamorous world, and soon reached Park Avenue. Emily was talking about antique picture frames when they came to the Mayfair Regent and Paul stopped bhort.

I Leni Salinger was walking out of the hotel, smiling up at a ^eiy young man who was holding her arm. I They all saw each other at the same time. "Well, Paul," Leni said brightly, and Paul realized this was the first time he had even seen her flustered. "And Emily. Strolling in a snowstorm, how charming, somehow I didn't expect to see

Judith Michael

anyone . . . anyone walking on a night like this, though it isn't cold, of course, just ... Oh, I'm so sorry. Tor Grant, Paul Janssen, Emily Kent." In the brief interval as the men shook hands she regained some of her poise. "I'm quite late or we might have had a drink together. Are you on your way to dinner?"

"Le Cirque," Paul said.

"Well, we mustn't keep you. Perhaps we'll have a drink another time. I'm in town fairly often; we're looking for an apartment."

Involuntarily Paul's eyes moved to the young man's face.

"Felix and I," Leni said evenly. "We've talked about a place in New York for a long time. It does seem a slow process, though; how wise you were, Paul, to buy your apartment when you did. I'll call you one day and we'll have tea or drinks. Emily, how nice to see you; have a pleasant evening. Paul dear"—she reached up and kissed his cheek—^"I'U call you soon. Tor?"

Once again the men shook hands. "Ridiculous custom," Paul muttered as Leni and the young man walked away. "Why do I shake hands twice with a man I don't know and have not exchanged one word with and, if my aunt has anything to say about it, will never see again?"

"She's a little old for him," Emily said carefully.

Paul gave a short laugh. "He's a little young for her.'*

"I don't understand."

"He's besotted. Did you see the way he looked at her? I didn't know Leni was finding other men, though God knows she deserves them, but she needs someone who can match her in sophistication and brains, not some poor kid who's having the sexual adventure of his life."

"How can you know all that? You saw them for two minutes."

The scenes behind each scene. "That was my feeling."

They walked the few steps to an unobtrusive door beside the hotel entrance and went into the restaurant. "Poor Leni," Emily said suddenly. "I think it's very sad."

Paul gave her a quick look. "Why is it sad?"

She took off her boots and handed them to an attendant.

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and slipped on her evening shoes. "Because she should have what she wants; not what she can get. Nobody should have to settle for that."

"But if she has no choice?"

"Well, we don't know that, do we? Anyway, if women wait long enough, their dreams come true. I believe that."

'file maitre d' greeted Paul by name and led them to their table. "You mean," Paul said, "they make them come true."

She shook her head. "There's no need to be masculine and aggressive; the proper way for a woman to behave is to wait and to believe that everything she wants will come to her. Of course she has to be smart enough to recognize what it is she has in the palm of her hand, and sometimes she has to help things along once they've begun, but mostly it's waiting and watching."

Paul thought of Laura, and wondered what she was doing. Whatever it was, he knew she would not be waiting. She would be making things happen.

But Emily had a point, he thought. After all, she'd waited in Rome until he found her; she'd waited until he was ready to photograph her, and she accepted his decisions on the kinds of photographs to take; and, largely because of him, she might be on the brink of a modeling career with Eye magazine and the Marken Agency,

Then he had another thought that made him smile.

"What?" she asked.

"I was wondering if you think I'm in the palm of your hand."

She flushed. "I'd rather have you in my heart."

"Well done," he murmured. The captain brought a bottle of Dom Perignon and Paul watched absently as he opened it. "I'm going to invite Leni to tea," he said.

"Do you want me there?"

"I don't think so." He looked at her thoughtfully. In pale blue silk, wearing a sapphire necklace he had bought her in jParis, she was perfectly at home in the sybaritic luxury of the room. Self-absorbed, and willful, she still could show that instinctive sympathy for others that made her even more desirable than her pliancy and charm. She was especially desir-

Judith Michael

able at that moment, as Paul reflected on the image of his aunt leaving a New York hotel. Emily was right: there was an awful sadness about it, and also, Paul knew, the cruelty of long, lonely days, perhaps years, of waiting for something better, something good, something right. "But I'll tell you what I do want." He reached across the table and took Emily's hand. "I want you to marry me," he said.