Valentine (35 page)

“Oh, Jill, there you are,” she’d said, smiling and reaching out to pat her daughter’s hand. “Your father will be home soon: would you like to help me with dinner?”

She’d stared, the tears welling in her eyes. Then, forcing a smile, she’d replied, “Of course, Mother. I’ll help you with dinner.”

“Thank you, dear. I’m making beef Wellington, his favorite. Won’t he be pleased?”

Assuring her mother that Daddy would be very, very pleased, she’d kissed her on the forehead and fled from the place. She hadn’t stopped running until she’d reached her rental car in the parking lot outside. Then, she’d leaned against the steering wheel and wept.

The shopping center had been a blur, but she’d gone into Macy’s and collected the clothing and toiletries she thought she’d need, and handed her credit card to the cashier. Then the long drive here. She’d stopped once, for gas, and arrived at the Peconic Writing Colony just as Gwen and Mike and the others were gathering for dinner.

That had been Saturday, she reflected as she came out of the shower. A mere six days ago. And in that six days, this restful, soothing place had helped her immeasurably. She couldn’t do anything about her mother, she knew, but there were other possibilities. Infinite possibilities. There was Nate, dear Nate. And the baby. And her friends. And this strong new idea for a novel. Barney Fleck was incommunicado at the moment, but she was sure he’d surface soon with concrete news about Valentine, about Victor Dimorta. Barney and the police would find him; she was certain of it.

As she went out into the main room to make coffee,
the clock above the desk chimed seven times. Lucky seven. It occurred to Jillian Talbot for the first time in several weeks that maybe, just maybe, everything was going to be all right.

The van Henry Jason had leased arrived at seven o’clock, mere minutes after he and the framer had finished wrapping the twelve newly framed paintings for moving. They loaded the pictures into the back as quickly as possible. Then he jumped on his motorcycle and followed the van down to the gallery on Spring Street.

Just put in the damn paintings, he told himself as he drove. Then you can get the hell out of here. Peconic . . .

“Oh, Nate, I’m so glad you’re here!” Henry squealed as he entered the gallery. “There’s been the most awful screw-up!”

Indeed there had. He stood staring around the room as the previous tenant, a young woman named Dina Lustig, rushed about the place, shouting orders to John, Henry’s latest lover, and two assistants. Ms. Lustig’s male nudes were still in place, only now being taken down for removal.

“What the hell?!” he shouted.

“My fault,” Henry said. “Dina swears I told her
Friday
evening. I could have sworn I said Thursday! Last night, when she didn’t show up, I—”

“Forget it,” he muttered, already stepping forward to help. “Let’s just get her stuff
out
and my stuff
in
.”

“Right,” the gallery owner said. “Wouldn’t you know, it’s Friday the thirteenth!”

Cursing silently to himself, he went to work.

Gwen had outdone herself in the short hour she’d had the big room to herself. With the obvious help of Mike and the elderly handyman, she had festooned the place with red and white streamers. There were heart-adorned white tablecloths and napkins, and clear plastic cups rimmed with valentines. Hors d’oeuvres and party food were laid out on the dining table. Heart-shaped red balloons, hundreds of them, floated against the ceiling around the mirror ball in the center. A hundred red candles, augmented by the crackling fireplace and the flashing mirror ball, provided the room’s only light.

Jill cringed inwardly at the sight of the valentine-themed room, not because it was garish but because of the two cards it brought to mind. Then she braced herself: she had carefully avoided mentioning the particulars of her recent ordeal to Gwen and Mike. Gwen would never have dreamed of doing this had she known.

“How lovely!” Jill said as she joined her hostess in the already crowded room.

Gwen’s hearty laughter transformed her face. “Oh,
tell the truth, Jill. It’s the tackiest thing you’ve ever seen! Just like the parties in the high school gym. We couldn’t afford crystal and silver and caterers, so I just went to the other extreme. Everything you’re looking at cost about fifty bucks, which is just in my budget. But we’re all going to have a good, old-fashioned, high-school-gym time!”

Her friend’s enthusiasm drove all thoughts of the past two weeks in New York from Jill’s mind. She could feel herself relaxing.

“Of course we are!” she said, reaching over to squeeze Gwen’s hand.

The other authors were there—all but the new one, she noticed. Several couples she’d never seen before milled among them, introducing themselves. There was quite a crowd around Barbara Benson and Jeffrey Monk, the most famous writers. Two local teenagers, obviously hired for the evening, were serving drinks on trays, and a third manned the bar in the comer. Mike’s promised big band music played softly in the background.

“Coats go on the bed upstairs,” Gwen said above the din. “Then I’ll take you around, introduce you to everyone.”

Jill nodded and headed for the stairs.

He stood naked before the full-length mirror on the bathroom door of Cabin 5, listening. He heard the
low rumble of voices and Benny Goodman music coming from the main house, through the trees and across the clearing. The party had begun.

As he dried off with the towel, he inspected himself. My face is pale, drawn, and I’m entirely too thin, he decided. Oh, well, I can’t worry about that now. Now there’s something I must do.

Jillian Talbot.

She doesn’t recognize me, he thought. Not from the street that day, and not from outside the phone booth on Sixth Avenue, when I heard her talking to Gwen Feldman. And the address of this place, Peconic Writing Colony. She couldn’t recognize me from the restaurant on the ground floor of her building: I was wearing that disguise, just to be safe.

So, here I am. With Jillian Talbot . . .

Thinking of her, and of what tonight would bring, he slowly began to dress. He put on his underpants, socks, white shirt, gray slacks, striped tie, and shoes. He donned his double-breasted navy blazer and his thick winter coat.

The Beretta went in his coat pocket.

Then he left Cabin 5 and walked through the mounting snow toward the lights of the main house.

Jill put down her ginger ale and inspected her watch: nine o’clock. Verna Poole wouldn’t be in the office this late, she reasoned. With a sigh, she fished in her
purse for her wallet. Drawing out Barney’s card and two singles, she went over to the phone and dialed his home number in Brooklyn. No answer.

She was replacing the receiver, wondering if she should call Nate, when someone touched her elbow and asked her to dance. She turned around, already forming a polite smile and a polite refusal.

It was Richard Farnum, looking more handsome than usual in a double-breasted navy jacket and gray pants.

With a bright smile, she accepted.

He didn’t get out of the gallery until nearly nine-thirty. He and the assistants carefully hung the big final painting,
Life
, on its own wall at the end of the exhibit. As soon as it was in place to everyone’s satisfaction, he grabbed his coat and headed for the door.

“Don’t forget,” Henry Jason called after him. “The opening party is at seven o’clock next Wednesday. Seven o’clock!”

He nodded and ran out to his motorcycle. Five minutes later he ran into his own building and up to the second-floor apartment. He grabbed the things he’d need and threw them in his saddlebag. Then he ran back down to the street.

Nine-thirty, he thought as he strapped on his helmet. In this snow, I’m going to be slowed down. I
should get a car. Williamsburg Bridge, Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, Long Island Expressway to Riverhead, Highway 25 to Cutchogue, Cutchogue to Peconic. . .

He started his engine and raced across Seventh Street to Second Avenue, then south toward Delancey Street.

She wondered where he’d learned the Lindy. He started with her, and soon he had everyone out in the middle of the floor, jumping and swinging as if they’d done it all their lives. Even Barbara Benson, who, judging from her age, had probably done it before, hopped around the room now with a succession of partners. Jill smiled as she danced, thinking of Gwen’s comment about the high school gym. Tonight, everyone was having even more fun than that. They all danced to Mike’s old 78s featuring Harry James and his band as the snow continued to fall outside.

At ten-thirty, Gwen clapped her hands, calling the room to order, and announced the sweetheart prizes. This involved all the women in the room writing their names on slips of paper and placing them in a bowl. Then, the men would each draw a name, and they got to kiss that woman and dance with her.

The names were drawn. The next thing Jill knew, Craig Palmer had arrived to kiss her on the cheek
and lead her out to the floor. She glanced over to see Richard Famum doing the same with a pretty young local woman. He winked over at her as he swept the woman into his arms.

After that, she had to stop to catch her breath. She threw herself down on the couch next to the telephone, looking at her watch. Ten forty-five. She’d pay the kitty later, she decided as she reached for the receiver and dialed.

She let it ring ten times. The machine wasn’t on, she noticed. Oh, well, Nate must be out somewhere. I’ll call him tomorrow. . . .

He watched her replace the receiver. Then he grabbed two heart-ringed plastic tumblers of champagne from a passing tray and made his way over to the couch. Sitting beside her, he held one glass out to her.

“No, thank you,” she said. “I’m not drinking these days.”

“Just one glass,” he insisted. “For Valentine’s Day.”

She smiled and took it from him. They toasted, and she took a tiny sip before setting it down. “That’s enough for me. Actually, I’m rather hungry.”

“So am I,” he said. With a smile, he reached for her hand. After a moment, she placed her hand in
his, and he led her across the room to the dinner table.

They dined on cold turkey and asparagus vinaigrette and salad. He washed his down with more champagne, she with more ginger ale. They laughed a great deal, and then she danced with him again.

As she moved slowly around the room in his arms, she thought of Nate. They had had evenings like this—they had
met
like this, at the dance club in the Village, when he’d spilled his drink and she’d offered him her napkin. And they would have many more together. It made her happy just to think of it. This man seems very nice, she thought, but Nate’s the one for me.

I’m going to have his child. Our child. Funny; what seemed like such a problem such a short time ago now seems to be a blessing. And it
is
a blessing.

She smiled up at Richard Famum, thinking, I love you, Nate.

He had to stop for gas in Ronkonkoma, and it seemed to take forever for the sleepy teenager to come out of the warm station office to fill up the tank. He threw a twenty at the kid and took off down the road, searching for the ramp that would lead him back onto the Long Island Expressway. At last he found it, and the motorcycle roared off again. Past
Holbrook now, on his way to Manorville, then on to Riverhead.

He glanced at his watch as he drove: ten after eleven . . .

A few more people had arrived, and now the party was in full swing. Gwen announced that the dance contest would take place at midnight, the minute it was officially Valentine’s Day. First prize: a bottle of Dom Perignon. Second prize: a box of Godiva chocolates. Gwen, Mike, and Barbara Benson would be the judges. Everyone applauded.

Then Gwen came over to Jill. As she arrived by her side, Jill reached up to stifle a yawn.

“I’ve just brought out the hot drinks,” Gwen said, pointing at the urns on the bar. “You look like you could use a cup. So could I, for that matter.”

Laughing, the two women made their way over to the bar, where Gwen poured decaf for both of them.

“I’m sorry, Gwen,” Jill said. “It’s a lovely party, really, but I’m suddenly exhausted.”

“You mean you’re not going to stick around for the contest?”

“Oh, I just couldn’t. I’m going to get a good night’s sleep and tackle my new story first thing tomorrow morning.”

Gwen nodded. “Good for you. But I know someone who’s going to be very disappointed.” She
jabbed her thumb across the room, indicating Richard Farnum.

“Yeah,” Jill said, laughing. “He’s very sweet—but he’s not for me, thank you. I already have a dance partner.”

Her friend smiled. “Yes, you do, don’t you?”

He looked around the room, wondering where she could be. Then he saw her at the bar in the comer with Gwen Feldman. The two women were chatting together as they drank coffee. He excused himself from Mr. and Mrs. Monk and went over to join them.

“May I have a cup?” he asked, smiling.

“Of course,” Gwen said, and she poured one for him.

“So,” he said to Jillian Talbot, “are you going to be my partner for the dance contest?”

She smiled and shook her head. “Sorry. The truth is, my coach turned into a pumpkin about five minutes ago. I’m dead on my feet.”