Inheritance (81 page)

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him and admit that she wanted him, even if it was just for this brief moment when nothing else could intrude.

*1 love you/' he said, his hps against hers. **Dearest Laura, I love you. Fve missed you and wanted you and never stopped loving you—^"

With a gasp, Laura tore herself away. "But you married. And made another life." Her voice shook. "And for years you thought I was— *'

"I was wrong! I told you; Vm trying to make you understand— '"

"I can't!** She began to walk around the office with agitated steps. "What do you want me to do? Think of you as a lover again? As a husband? Even if you didn't have a wife, how could I do that? Just . . . switch all my thinking? Just like that? One minute I have a life I understand and can plan for—a life I made and can count on and enjoy —and the next I'm supposed to chsmge it all because you show up and tell me you want to be a part of it? How can you be part of it?" She stood beside the window, looking at him. Her voice was firm now, and her gaze level; her other thoughts were pushed back and she was in control of herself again. "I can't even take the time to think about you. You've brought me something else to think about. Theft . . . and accusations . . . I've tried to get away fh)m this for eleven years! And you want me to think about love?"

His eyes held hers. "I could be a friend, if not a lover, and I might be able to help you, if you'd let me."

She took a long breath. "What did you mean when you said I should be on my guard?"

"I meant it looks like somebody's setting you up, or using you. And Sam has two suspects, not one."

There was a pause, then Laura's eyes daiicened. "You mean Qay. You're telling me to be on my guard against Clay!"

"Right. That's what I'm telling you. He could have done it; anyone in his job would have access to every part of every one of your hotels, and he could, use the money. He gambles—did you know that?—and for big stakes. Laura, too many things point to him for any reasonable person to ignore— **

"Reasonable! Who are you to talk about being reasonable? You want me to believe you've changed and you trust me even

Judith Michael

though it's not logical and I shouldn't expect it to be! Well, I'll tell you— logically and reasonably and trustingly —that Clay is not a thief. He hasn't stolen any art; he wouldn't do that to me even if he wanted to! He loves me and he cares about what I'm trying to build here! He's a part of it—part of my company—he'd be hurting himself to hurt the hotels—he's getting married—he's grown up— he's the one who's changed, not you!"

She knew that wasn't tnie even as she said it, but the words were tumbling out, mixed up with the love and longing she'd cut off while they burned inside her, her anger at herself for letting down her defenses, and the cold fury that had returned —almost exactly as she remembered it—from the time Paul and his family first accused her and Clay of thefts and lies and deception. "You don't know anything about Clay!" she cried. "Or me! You don't know—"

"You're right, I don't. But I want to." He strode across the office to stand close to her. "Damn it, Laura, I love you and I want to make up for the years we lost. I want to know you again; I want to know the woman you've become. You're right, I don't know anything about Clay, but what if Sam is right about him? Should I turn away and pretend Sam never talked to me when I know he might be hurting you? You've been hurt—^I know it, because I caused it—and I'm damned if I want you hurt again. I love you; I want to help you, protect you if I can, from anyone who's doing you harm—^"

"Stop. Please stop." Laura's voice was so low he had to bend closer to hear her; she had turned away to look through the narrow window blinds at the street outside. "I know you think you're trying to help me, but you can't help me by attacking Clay. He's my family; he's stayed with me all these years, and I won't let you or anyone try to make me stop trusting him. You wanted me to trust in you and your family; you want me to trust in you now. Then you can't ask me not to trust in Clay."

There was a long silence. The sound of car horns came faintly through the window; in the corridor beyond the closed door of Laura's office, a man's voice said good night and a woman's voice responded. Paul glanced at the small clock on Laura's rosewood table. He was very late. "I'm sorry," he

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said, his voice as low as hers. "You*re right, of course. You should believe in him and trust him." He hesitated. "I think blind trust may be as bad as no trust at all, but you know him, and Sam and I don't, and you may be right. Laura . . ." He took her hand and she turned to him. Her eyes were shadowed; he could not tell what she was thinking. "I have to leave; I wish I didn't, but I'm already late . . ."

She nodded. "Good-bye, Paul. Thank you for wanting to help. I'm sorry we quarreled again; we seem to do that more easily than anything else."

"No. We love more easily than anything else. Or we would, if we'd let ourselves. We did once; I haven't forgotten it. And neither have you."

"I'll never forget it," she said simply. "But we can't regain the past; too many things have happened since." Suddenly she smiled. "I've spent all these years trying to wipe out the past, and now I'm talking about regaining it. Nothing makes much sense, does it?"

His smile met hers. "If we find a way to regain it, that will make sense. We make sense, together."

Laura reached up and lay her hand along his face. "I wish we did." Then she walked to the door and opened it. "Goodbye, Paul."

When he reached her, he stopped. "I want to see you again."

"I have to think about it. I have so many things to think about. I'll call you."

He searched her face. "If I don't hear from you, I'll be on the phone, or camping outside your office."

"I'll call—when I have something to say."

Paul bent his head and kissed her. Their lips clung for a moment, and then he said, "Soon," and was gone.

Laura shut the door behind him and wsdked back to the table she used as her desk. So much woric to do, she thought, looking at the reports she had meant to read in the last hour of the day, and another stack of literature she had to read to prepare for the Salinger Hotels board meeting. Tomorrow. The meeting was tomorrow, and she still had to give her secretaiy instructions for the day, while she was in Boston. She sat down and picked up a memo from Gerard Lyon requesting

Judith Michael

new equipment for the kitchen and another sous chef because business was so good. But after reading a few lines she put it aside and swiveled her chair to stare again out the window.

/ think blind trust may be as bad as no trust at all.

She thought about Clay, back through the years. His adoration of Ben, how he had followed him around and wanted to drop out of school, as Ben had done, and live by stealing and whatever jobs he could get, as Ben did.

His restlessness at work. What the hell, Laura, you've got to admit it's just a job — even if it is your hotel — and everybody needs something more than that, something risky or free or whatever. . . . His love of fancy cars and expensive clothes. The loft he rented and the way he'd furnished it. The gifts he bought her. His gambling.

He gambles — did you know that? — and for big stakes. How did Paul know that? From the investigator, probably. Colby. But how did Colby know?

"What difference does it make?" She heard the words wrenched out of her in the quiet office, and she dropped the memo she was holding and leaned her head on her hands. I don't believe a word of what Paul said; someone else is stealing that art, and there are simple explanations for everything Clay does.

She turned back to her table and looked again at Lyon's memo. But it was no use. She swept the reports aside. I can't think about them; I can't think about work.

I have to know what the simple explanations are.

She looked at her gold clock. Clay had bought it for her at Tiffany's. Seven forty-five. He'd be home by now. She reached for the telephone.

Just to make sure.

Emily was sitting with a group of people in the Atlantis bar when Paul arrived. He kissed her cheek. "I'm sorry I'm late; the time got away from me."

She introduced him to the others. 'They've been keeping me company," she said lightly. "It's a good thing I found them; otherwise I would have sat here for over half an hour alone."

Paul glanced around, recognizing three television actors, a

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fashion model, and a Broadway star. "You're never alone in this place; that's why you always ask me to meet you here. Shall we go to dinner?"

"My, aren't we short-tempered?" she murmured as they walked down First Avenue. "Is it me, or was it a trying day?"

"It was a trying day, but I didn't think I was being short-tempered." Emily was silent. "Did you talk to Barry?"

"No. He had people in from Rome. His secretary said he'd be free Monday. He'll have to see me then or I'll make a tenible fuss. He knows I'm unhappy; he can't keep putting me off."

"I'm sure he'll see you; you're his favorite model."

"He isn't acting like it."

There was a pause. "And what did you do today?" Paul asked.

"Shopped for cruise clothes."

He glanced at her. "Are you going on a cruise?"

*There's a whole group going to St. Thomas in December. I thought we'd go with them; you'll be finished with the film by then."

"I'm not sure of that."

"You told me you'd be finished by then! I'd love to go to St. Thomas, Paul. Or is it your family? Couldn't we skip Christmas with them just once?"

"Of course we could. I wasn't thinking of them."

**What, then?"

They reached II Nido, and Paul held the door for Emily. Instantly, the maitre d' appeared in the small, jammed entry-way. Emily's beauty always got attention, even in Manhattan, where women are expected to be beautiful, and almost inrnie-diately they were led to a table in the middle of the restaurant, where they could be seen by everyone. Paul took in the room: it was one of his favorites, with rough plaster walls cross-hatched with dark timbers, suggesting an Italian nobleman's house. Dusky mirrors of beveled glass reflected the diners, and he recognized a number of directors and designers, and an actor from a movie that had won an Oscar that spring. Emily always chose places where she would not be the only celebrity. Marriage to her had taught Paul that there was even greater celebrity in numbers, when the famous could feel

Judith Michael

themselves part of an exclusive club instead of adrift in a fickle world.

Paul ordered a bottle of wine, and Emily said again, "What, then? If you're not thinking about your family, what are you thinking about?"

"The film. Vm changing the focus, and that's going to set it back quite a bit. If I even do it at all."

She stared at him. "It's more than half finished. And the network has it scheduled for ratings month. You can't just tell them you're not going to deliver it; they might never help fiind another one!"

"That's a chance I'll have to take," he said. "I don't like the way the film is shaping up, and I'm not going to make it the way it now stands."

"What about Sam Colby?"

"I haven't decided what I'm going to do, Emily. I want to think about it."

The headwaiter brought the wine, and Emily waited until their glasses were filled. "I think you're right. You should drop it."

"That isn't what I said."

"But you're leaning toward dropping it; you're even willing to risk having the network drop you. Aren't I right? You'd really rather drop it and da something else."

"I'd rather drop it than do it the way it is now. But I like the idea of a film about Sam. If I could get him to lead us through some earlier cases, I could still use a lot of what I have. It's not the best way, but it might work."

"Or it might not. Why take the chance?"

"Because I have nothing else I'm excited about right now.'*

"But what about something really different? A different kind of fihn."

"I don't want to do a different kind of film. Why would I? I'm just getting to the point where I feel comfortable with documentaries; I know what I want to do and, most of the time, how to do it.'*

"But you could learn another kind, too.'* She leaned forward, putting her hand on his. "Paul, someone suggested that I do a television miniseries. Models are doing that now, moving into films and television, and I think I'd love it. And I

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know rd be good at it. There's a book I read when we were on the coast; it's wonderful, and a friend of mine wants to do a script with me as the heroine. He's sure he can get somebody at >fBC or HBO interested if he can get a name director."

Paul was frowning as he watched her animated face. "You're not suggesting that I direct it."

"Yes, I am. It would be wonderful for you."

"It would not. Emily, what the hell are you thinking of?"

The headwaiter appeared at their table. "If I may ... the specialties . . ." he said and, without pausing, reeled off his list. By the time they had ordered and he was gone, Emily's face was set. "You needn't make it sound as if I'm crazy. When I told you once I didn't think a photographer could make films, you said you could leani anything you set your mind to. That's all I'm asking you to do. And this is the best time, when you're already dissatisfied and ready for something new."

"I didn't say I was dissatisfied, or that I was ready for something new."

"Well, you should be! What do you get from all the work you do? An obscure award from a festival in France!"

"I'm very proud of that award," Paul said quietly.

Emily bit her lip. "I'm sorry, of course you are. I am, too. But this is a new opportunity, Paul, and it's incredible . . . these don't come along very often!"

"What opportunity?"

"For me to star in a miniseries!"

Paul drained his wine glass and sat back as a waiter inmie-diately materialized and refilled it. He contemplated Emily. "You want me to transform myself into a director of television films so you can star in one."