Once Is Not Enough (37 page)

“Nice theory,” said Hugh. “He sounds like a good man. I mean, it’s a good story to tell a little girl. Makes her believe in eternal life and takes away the fear of the unknown.” Then he went on to explain about the solar systems and his firm belief that one day there would be interstellar communication.

Tom seemed fascinated with Hugh’s theory and kept throwing
questions at him. January listened with interest, but Linda was bored. After making several attempts to get the conversation on a more personal level, Linda gave up and sat back. She shot a murderous glance at January when she asked Hugh a question that set him off on another long explanation.

But January was genuinely interested. Also she found it easy to talk to Hugh. And when she talked to Hugh, she felt she was also communicating with Tom. She was even able to make them both laugh—as long as she directed her conversation toward Hugh. The one time Tom said something directly to her, she found herself tightening up, choosing words, withdrawing.

She watched Tom covertly as Hugh explained something about the moon and the tides. He looked so intense, like a man molded in granite. Yet she felt there was a vulnerability about him, a quality Mike never had. Mike was always a winner. You knew when you looked at Mike that no one could ever hurt him. Yet oddly enough, you felt that with all of his toughness, Tom had been hurt. Tom wasn’t as strong as Mike. Yet, perhaps in some ways he was stronger. He admitted that some of his best books had bombed, the last four . . . Yet he had sat down and written another. Mike had quit because he was positive the dice had grown cold. Tom Colt obviously didn’t believe in dice.

“Are you a gambler?” she asked suddenly.

Both men stopped speaking and looked at her. She wanted to dive under the table. The question had just slipped out. Tom stared at her for a second and then said, “Only if the odds are in my favor. Why?”

“No real reason. I . . . you remind me of someone.”

“A long-lost love?” Tom asked.

“Yes . . . her father!” Linda snapped.

Tom laughed. “Well, that’s a pretty good bringdown for any man. And when a guy is in his late fifties and thinks he can entertain two beautiful young girls, he should be brought back to reality.”

“You can’t be in your late fifties,” Linda said.

“Don’t try to make it up to me,” Tom said with a smile. “Yep, I’m fifty-seven, a few years older than Mike Wayne. Right, January? And Hugh, you’re young enough to know we’ve
been boring these ladies with all the talk about stars. The only stars they’re interested in are Paul Newman, or Steve McQueen.”

“I wasn’t bored at all,” Linda insisted. “It was fascinating.”

They left “21” at eleven. The weather was clear and there was very little wind. “Let’s walk the girls home,” he said. “They share a pad.”

“We live in the same apartment building, but we each have our own apartment,” Linda said pointedly.

Tom dismissed the car and they walked to Doubleday’s. The sales people all greeted him; he bought books for January and Linda, autographed them, and grudgingly autographed a few for the store, then quickly cut out. They walked east. Linda tried to steer January and Hugh up front as she held on to Tom’s arm, but he kept talking to Hugh, and when they could, the foursome walked abreast. They finally reached a narrow block and were forced to separate into couples. Linda and Tom walked ahead. January noticed he was holding Linda’s hand. Suddenly she realized Hugh had asked her a question.

“I’m sorry . . . I didn’t hear you,” she said. “That taxi was making so much noise . . . I . . .”

He smiled. “Don’t let your girlfriend bug you. Tom is married . . . and you don’t look to be the type for a quickie romance.”

“I’m not bugged. What makes you think I am?”

“The way you’ve been staring at them holding hands while I was talking. No cab was making any noise.”

“Actually . . . I suppose I was daydreaming. That’s a bad habit of mine. And really, Hugh, I’m delighted to be walking with you.”

“We’re both deadbeats . . . romance-wise . . . me and Tom. Me, I’ve got the stars and the ocean . . . and Tom’s got himself a new wife and a new baby. He never had a baby before . . . you realize that? Four marriages and gets his first baby at fifty-seven. So if your little friend has any serious ideas beyond—”

“No, Linda knows the score.”

“That kind of talk doesn’t sound like you,” he said.

“How do you know what I sound like?”

“Because I know who you are and what you are. Just like I know what Linda is. Tom always winds up with the Lindas. He even married a couple of them. Know why? Because he doesn’t go after any girl. He’s a lazy sonofabitch—he takes the ones that come after him. It’s easier that way. Besides, I don’t think he’s capable of being in love . . . except maybe with the characters he creates in his books. So to him, it’s whichever girl chooses
him
. Only now that’s he’s got a son . . . he’ll stick with this new little wife forever.”

“What’s she like?” January asked.

“Beautiful . . . red hair . . . had a kind of a career going in pictures for a few years. Didn’t ever get beyond doing bits. But she was pretty. And she met Tom . . . went after him . . . gave up her career and gave him a son.”

“What was her name . . . I mean as an actress.”

He stopped in the darkness and stared at her. “January,” he said softly. “Lady, want some advice? Leave him to the Lindas. You’ll get hurt.”

Before she could answer, Tom suddenly called out, “Hey, Hugh, you still want me to come out and spend the day at the beach tomorrow?”

“Sure, all set. The freezer is loaded with steaks.”

“Well, how about inviting the girls to come along and cook the steaks?”

“We’d adore it,” Linda said quickly. “I’ve never been to the beach in February.”

They had reached the apartment building. Linda looked at Tom. “Can I invite you all up for a nightcap? I have no bourbon, but I’ve got rye—”

“No, we want to start early,” Tom said. “I dig the beach in gray weather . . . even in cold weather. It belongs to you then. At Malibu I do my best writing when it’s cold and the fog rolls in.”

Sunday was cold, and rain was predicted, but they all left for the beach at ten-thirty in the morning. Everyone wore heavy slacks and sweaters and old jackets. Tom Colt looked truly relaxed for the first time.

It did rain, but the house was warm and they kept the fireplace
going all day. January felt at times that they were the only people left in the world as they sat before the fire. It was a strong little house. A large living room, a big kitchen, a big bedroom upstairs with its own sundeck. “Perfect for a bachelor,” Hugh said.

“Perfect for a couple in love,” Linda said, gazing at Tom. “Do you like our beaches in New York as much as Malibu, Tommy?”

He smiled and yanked at her hair. “Linda, you can call me shit heel . . . sonofabitch . . . or whatever—but never call me Tommy.”

The limousine returned at ten o’clock to take them back to the city. Hugh was remaining behind. As they left, Tom reached out and grabbed a bottle of bourbon. “Provisions for the road.”

Linda tucked her arm through Tom’s as they walked down the path to the car. Hugh walked the short distance with January. A light rain whipped their faces. “Looks like the match has been made,” he said. “So now it’s up to you to watch out over them on the tour.”

“Tour?”

“Linda says you both are going with him to write the story. And this tour . . . it’s not for Tom. He’ll drink too much. Basically he’s very shy. I’ve only known him for six years, so I don’t know what his private demon is. God knows women love him and men are equally attracted to him. But it seems as though he has to prove something every second. Maybe that’s what the drinking is all about. Maybe after each book he feels he’s said all he has to say. Yet he knows he has to do it again. This tour could hurt him—his psyche, that is. That’s why I say watch out over him. He needs someone who will help make it all not seem too honky-tonk.”

January smiled. Linda and Tom had already gotten into the car. “I like you, Mr. Hugh Robertson,” she said.

“I like you, too, January Wayne. I think you’re very special.”

“Thank you.”

He took her hand. “I mean that . . . in the best of ways. I’m a friend.”

She nodded and held out her hand. “Friend.”

They both smiled and she climbed into the car. Tom opened the bottle and took a long swallow. He handed it to Linda. She managed to take a big gulp. Then he offered it to January. She hesitated . . . their eyes met and held in the semi-darkness . . . for a moment everything seemed suspended . . . like a motion picture when the frame suddenly freezes. She reached for the bottle slowly . . . their eyes still together . . . and suddenly with a quick movement he pulled it away. “No. I’ve changed my mind. No more refreshments on the way home. Tomorrow is a working day.”

The moment was gone. He discussed the interviews that were set up—the appearances he was to make on the
Today
show, the Johnny Carson show, the quick trips he would take to Boston, Philadelphia, and Washington before starting on the tour across country.

“I guess we better stay away from your interviews,” Linda said. “Rita would really do a number if we showed up for any of them. But if it’s all right we’ll cover your TV appearances and some of the out-of-town shows and press conferences.”

“Come along. But I can’t see why it will make that interesting a story.”

“Have you ever been on a tour?”

“Of course not.”

Linda smiled. “It will be very interesting. I promise you.”

When the car pulled up in front of their apartment, he got out and walked them to the door. He leaned down and kissed them both on the cheek and started toward his car. For a split second, Linda was speechless . . . then through her teeth she hissed, “Go on in, January . . . now.” She pushed January through the door and rushed back to the limousine just as Tom was getting in. “Tom . . . I know you’re doing the
Life
thing tomorrow . . . but what time does . . .”

January didn’t hear the rest. She went directly to the elevator and went to her apartment. Her emotions were scrambled. . . .

She undressed and got into bed. She wondered if Linda had made it back to the Plaza . . . to the bedroom that once belonged to Mike. She tried not to think about it.

If Linda wanted to have a romance with Tom Colt, why not?
She punched up the pillow and tried to will herself to sleep. Everything seemed too quiet. She could hear the clock . . . the television set next door . . . a couple arguing across the court. . . . Then the phone rang.

It was so unexpected that she jumped when she heard it. She picked it up on the second ring.

“I didn’t wake you, did I?”

She stared into the phone dumbly. It was Tom Colt.

“January . . . are you there?”

“No . . . I mean yes, I’m here . . . no, you didn’t wake me.

“Good,” he said. “I was just about to leave my wake-up call and I suddenly realized I’m free tomorrow night. Have you seen
Gingerbread Lady?
”

“No.”

“Well, I’m a big fan of Maureen Stapleton, so I’ll get three tickets and we can go tomorrow. You tell Linda.”

“She might have seen it,” January said.

“So what? We haven’t. That makes it two out of three. That’s the way we’ll have to work things between the three of us. Majority rule. I’ll pick you both up at seven. Goodnight.”

She stared into the phone for a moment, after she heard the click. Then she hung up slowly. Linda wasn’t with him. She lay in the darkness and thought about it . . . Linda wasn’t with him! But why was she so happy about it?
Because she wanted him herself!
She lay very still, almost in shock at this sudden revelation. But it was true . . . She was falling in love with a man older than her father. A man who had a wife and a baby! And he felt something for her!

Otherwise, why had he called her and not Linda about
Gingerbread Lady?
Could he feel something for her? But hadn’t Hugh said he was lazy . . . that he allowed the girl to pick him . . . rather than make the effort to go after the girl. And hadn’t Linda very definitely picked him? Yet he had called
her
. She stretched out and allowed herself the freedom of a dream, like suppose his wife suddenly came to him and wanted a divorce, or suppose . . . suppose she suddenly died and . . . no . . . that wasn’t right . . . she couldn’t kill her off. . . . Well, suppose he did fall really in love and wanted a divorce
. . . no . . . he wouldn’t give up his son . . . Tom Colt, Jr., was a big thing to him. . . . Well, suppose the beautiful young wife came to him and said it wasn’t really his baby . . . that it belonged to some beachboy . . . and she wanted a divorce. And then he’d have no guilt . . . he would support the child . . . because it had his name . . . and then he could marry January . . . and they could live in the beach house together . . . and she’d type his manuscripts and . . . it would be wonderful . . . and . . .

IT WAS INSANE!

Yes . . . it was insane . . . but she hugged the pillow and went to sleep thinking about the way he had looked at her for that one instant in the car.

Sixteen

S
HE DIDN’T SLEEP
well. But when the alarm went off, she sprang out of bed, eager for the day to begin. She stood under the shower and found herself singing, “I’m in love, I’m in love, I’m in love with a wonderful guy!” Then she remembered another Rodgers and Hammerstein song: “The gentleman is a dope, he’s not my cup of tea, but why am I crying my eyes out, he doesn’t belong to me.” Only she wasn’t crying her eyes out. She was standing in the shower like an idiot, singing old show tunes . . . and she never felt better in her life.

But he
was
married. She thought about it as she dressed. Where was her conscience? Look how her mother had suffered when her father had affairs with women. But she wasn’t going to go to bed with Tom Colt. It was just so wonderful to feel something for a man . . . other than Mike. To want to
be
with another man . . . to want his admiration. Could that be so wrong? Just wanting to be with him. Especially if no one ever knew how she felt . . .