For All Their Lives (45 page)

“I wish I could, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to pass on dessert, Alan. I made a prior commitment to meet a retired colleague at the Algonquin. I don't get here that often, and I try to cram all I can into each visit,” the judge said, sliding his chair back from the table.

“And here I thought we'd have hours to visit,” Alan said dejectedly.

“Another time.” The judge was standing, staring down at Casey. She immediately rose to her feet. She hated to be towered over. The man was imposing enough when he was sitting.

The judge's sudden leave-taking was awkward at best. Something had gone on here, something only Alan and the judge understood. They were both smiling and shaking hands. She was reminded of a shark and a barracuda, but she didn't know which was which. She offered her hand to the judge and was surprised at the limp response. She smiled.

“I wonder if he gave his chauffeur a Christmas present,” Alan said when the door closed. “Do you believe the man has been sitting out there in front of this house the whole time? It's Christmas Day, for God's sake,” Alan said sourly.

“He's your friend, Alan,” Casey called over her shoulder. “Let's have dessert and coffee by the fire.”

With her legs curled under her on the sofa, she turned to Alan. “Whatever possessed you to invite him here today? It's obvious you don't like him.” She hesitated. “You know the truth, don't you? About me, I mean.”

Alan nodded, his face full of misery.

“How long have you known?”

“A year, possibly a little longer. With what Singin told me and what I surmised, I was able to put two and two together. You tend to babble when you come out of anesthesia.”

“Why this charade, Alan? If you'd asked me, I would have told you everything. He lied to me the same way Eric lied to Lily. I was so gullible. It wasn't that I was trying to protect Mac. It was simply too painful for me to talk about him, and there was no point to naming names. He thinks I'm dead. Tell me why, Alan.”

“I was never good at subterfuge. I've been doing my best to do what's best for you. You wanted a new identity. Somewhere, somehow, this will all get out. I feel it in my gut. Marcus can be a very mean adversary. As long as he thinks and believes I'm going to include his family in my memoirs, he'll leave well enough alone.”

“This goes beyond me, Alan. How could he possibly . . . he doesn't even know about Casey Adams, and if he did, what could he do? Mac isn't going to announce it to the world. He's probably forgotten all about me. People are generous in their forgiveness of manly indiscretion,” she said tartly.

“Mac is very active in Asian affairs because of Lily. I've made it my business to read the papers. I don't know what he hopes to do. I don't know if it's a crusade or guilt. I don't know Mac all that well, as I've told you. I'm sorry, Casey. I've just tried to do what you said you wanted.”

“Yes, and I do thank you. This is all wrong, I know it. I'm not Casey Adams anymore. It's that simple. If things fall down around my ears at some time, I'll stand and take my punishment, whatever it may be. You said you understood that I have to start clean and new. I need to hear you tell me you still understand.”

“Yes, my dear, I do,” Alan said gently. He put his arm around her shoulder, reveling in the warm closeness of her.

Casey snuggled against him. She could talk about Mac now. She could open her heart and let it all pour out. If she wanted to. But wouldn't that just perpetuate the pain of the past? Alan was giving her the means to move on, to begin a new life. She made an instant decision, because she cared dearly for the man sitting next to her. “I'm glad, Alan, because it's been over for me for a long time. I came to terms with it months ago, and I will always be grateful for your support. Now, tell me about those memoirs you're going to write. I want to hear it all.”

Alan felt something alien squeeze his heart. He was so grateful for her life. She was everything he thought she was: fine and good and caring. He smiled sadly. “I have to warn you, it's pretty boring stuff.”

“I don't care, I still want to hear it. While you're in Spain, I will think about you writing, and feel like I'm close to you.”

“Dear girl, I shall never forget you.”

“Nor I you, Alan. Everything, don't leave a thing out.”

“Let's see, I was twenty-eight when I . . .”

T
HE POLISHED BRASS
numerals and letters above the double plate-glass doors read 440
PARK AVE. SOUTH
. On the doors themselves the gilt lettering read
TSN STUDIOS
. A bitterly cold wind surged through the naked branches of the trees that lined the street before it rushed at her, almost catapulting her back- ward. She reached for the huge, polished brass door handle when the marauding wind struck her a second time, pushing her against the glass doors. She whirled to see if it was indeed the wind or someone's hands. There was no one in sight. An omen, she thought. She stepped backward just in time, as the left side of the door swung open and a gaggle of people swept out to the sidewalk. The wind attacked a third time. The girls, three of them, squealed and grasped for the one young man who'd exited the building with them. She was spooked now, uncertain if she should enter the building or not. She wished Alan were here to give her a pep talk, but he was on his way to JFK Airport. She was on her own now for the first time since she'd been injured in Vietnam. Alan would say there was nothing to fear but fear itself. With a burst of confidence she palmed the door and strode through, grateful for the warmth of the lobby.

The black and white register said that
TRI STATE NEWS
was on the ground floor—101. The polished brass arrows pointed to the right. It seemed simple enough. The buzzer was loud and long. When the door opened, a petite redhead smiled. “May I help you?”

“I'm Mary Ashley,” Casey said without a moment's hesitation. “I have an appointment with Steve Harper at ten o'clock.”

“I'll ring him.” The redhead smiled. “Take a seat. I'm sure he'll be with you in a minute. Would you care for coffee?”

“No, thank you.” Casey looked around the small reception area. It was blinding. The walls were hospital white, the chairs black leather and chrome. The small round table was black lacquer with glossy, well-thumbed magazines and a white plastic ashtray sitting on top. Black and white pen-and-ink drawings of the New York skyline dotted the walls. The floor, when she looked down at it, made her dizzy with its black and white squares. She could see her reflection when she bent over. Obviously this was not a room for one to get comfortable in. Waiting rooms, as a rule, were restful places decorated in pale earth tones. This room made one's eyeballs stand at attention. She couldn't wait to get out of it.

Casey felt a head rush when the shiny black door opposite her opened. The man who came through it was bigger than life, she thought, a giant with a Neanderthal face that would frighten little children. His eyes twinkled and his smile was engaging. One paw-like hand shot out. She'd seen tree limbs the same size as his arm. His voice was low and deep, just the way she thought it would be. She felt completely intimidated.

“I'm Steve Harper. Obviously, you're Mary Ashley. I like the name Mary. My mother's name is Mary. I have a cousin and a sister named Mary too. Good name,” he said, bobbing his monstrous head up and down. “Come along, Mary. I bet you can't wait to get out of this horror we call a waiting room. We decorated it this way on purpose so people wouldn't want to hang out here.” He was through the door before Casey could get off the chair. She had to run down the long corridor to keep up with him. When he stopped, he actually created a breeze. Casey felt a smile tug at the corners of her mouth.

“What's so funny?”

“I don't think I ever saw anyone as . . . tall as you,” she blurted.

“Then I'll have to introduce you to my father. Come along so I can go through the formality of interviewing you. You'll be working for me, you know.” Casey nodded.

Casey looked around the forty-by-fifty-foot room with a mixture of horror and awe. It seemed made of three ingredients: part circus, part jungle, and part Steve Harper. She walked around, careful not to disturb the sawdust on the floor. The longest wall of the room was dotted with real banana trees in huge tubs of dark brown soil. A chimp swung from tree to tree, doing flips and somersaults in midair before he secured his perch, all the while making ear-splitting sounds. He wore a red vest and a gold chain around his neck. The color matched the red plumage of the parrot who had her own perch between the last two banana trees. She squawked her disapproval as the chimp shimmied down the last tree to land on a crate of bananas in various stages of ripeness. The opposite wall was filled with colorful posters from Barnum & Bailey. There was a stuffed elephant, and a stuffed giraffe that had its nose pressed into a high wire, on which was a make-believe aerialist in pink tights and satin ballet shoes.

The sound of a motor broke the stillness. Casey looked around wildly, aware that she was standing on a set of tracks that housed a motorized miniature car driven by a stuffed clown.

“Watch this.” Harper cackled.

Casey watched as colorful red balls shot up from the bottom of the car. The chimp scurried about trying to catch them, while the parrot screeched, either in happiness or misery.

“It's all mechanical,” he said, waving a small black box for her to see.

She nodded before her eyes found the giant fish tank set amid flora and fauna on the smaller wall. Hundreds of fish swam about lazily in the warm, well-lighted water. The matching wall at the opposite end of the room held a small desk, a chair, and two filing cabinets, all of which were practically hidden behind a red-and-white-striped awning with colorful tassels. The miniature car still circled the room, red balls popping in every direction.

“Well, what do you think?” Harper asked, his voice curious.

“It's . . . interesting,” Casey said honestly.

“That's the usual reaction. You see, I produce the
Noonday News,
which is depressing. Drugs, crime, murder, you name it. This is New York City, so we have it all. Don't get me wrong. I like producing; it's what I do best. But it gets to me, so this is, well, I guess you can call it my lair. By the way, the chimp is Izzy and the parrot is Gertie. Izzie can fetch, rub my feet, and he never leaves this room unless I take him on a leash, which I do twice a day. Animals need fresh air. You'll be working in here. I'll scrounge up another desk for you from somewhere.

“All you need is a few of your own plants and a picture or two on the wall and it will seem like home,” Steve went on. “You'll be doing mostly legwork and research. Later I'll find an application for you to fill out.” He looked around vaguely, as though he thought it would materialize out of thin air. “Alan Carpenter told me pretty much what I need to know. Great guy, isn't he? So, Mary Ashley, tell me about yourself.”

She was on, as they said in show business. Everything she rehearsed on the way to the studio flew from her mind. She felt a warm flush creep up her neck into her cheeks. “I take direction well. I'm willing to learn, and I'm dependable. I don't mind working late.”

“No, no, I know all that. Tell me about you. You've seen who I am.” He waved his arm to indicate the room. “Tell me about Mary Ashley. What do you like? What are your hopes and dreams? What do you do when you get off work? Do you like to cook? We're going to be working together, and it will help if I know something about you.”

For some reason she wanted to tell this big, burly man the truth. She searched her mind for the facts Alan had written out for her. She spoke softly, her eyes on the twinkling ones assessing her. She wondered how she was measuring up. “I'm a fair cook. I'm partial to French food. I like kitchens and bathrooms. Decoratingwise, I mean. Someday I hope to have my own house with a yard, and a beautiful kitchen with herbs growing on the windowsill, and a hanging green plant in the window. Maybe a window seat so I can watch the rain. I like rain. Fog too,” she said with a catch in her voice. “I really like fog. Once . . . I . . . tried to catch some. I guess that sounds kind of silly.”

Harper grinned. “Not to me it doesn't. I try to catch it all the time. You're talking to the biggest kid I know.”

Casey smiled and immediately felt at ease. “I didn't have . . .” She'd been about to say the happiest of childhoods, but that was part of her real background. This wasn't going to be as easy as she thought. “Too many friends growing up. I tend to snuggle in at the end of the day. I haven't really made any friends here in this city. I'm sure Alan told you I've been pretty much out of it for the past two years, since my accident. That will change, of course,” she said confidently. “I like music—the Beach Boys and the Beatles. As for my hopes and dreams, well, right now, I'm just glad to be alive. I hope to be the best at what I do, whatever that may be. As for dreams, I've found that dreams have a way of turning into nightmares. One day at a time is the way I'm living these days. If that bothers you . . .” She let the statement hang in the air.

“Not at all. You don't think I arrived at all this,” he waved his arms about the room, “overnight, do you? It took awhile. I think we'll get on just fine. I've got to leave you now. I have to get the feed-in ready for the news. This is the busiest time of the day for us. I'll introduce you to Danny, and he'll show you the ropes. I do want you to watch the show today. You can stay, can't you?” She nodded. “Alan explained about the salary and everything, didn't he?” She nodded again. “We have a good benefits package,” he called over his shoulder. She nodded again, forgetting Harper had his back to her.

The rest of the day was a total blur. When Casey walked out of the studio at five-fifteen, she felt like she'd done a full day in a MASH hospital. In the taxi ride uptown to her new apartment, she leaned back and closed her eyes. All the new terminology she'd learned today ran together in her mind. She'd taken notes and had them in her purse to review later in the evening. She thought about all the people she'd met, all friendly, all hurried, all generous with their expertise. Steve was the executive producer, Morey Baker the producer. There were also directors, editors, a graphics chief, and assorted aides, at least a half dozen of them. She still didn't know how everything was so synchronized. Everyone seemed to know what they were doing except the anchorman, Matthew Cassidy, who was a study in slow motion.

The computer terminals confused her, as did the news wire-service printers. She'd never seen so many telephones in one area. She couldn't remember now what a voice-over or a show-and-tell story was. What she did remember was that she didn't like Matthew Cassidy. At all. Throughout the program, she kept one eye on him and one on the monitor. She thought him a stuffed shirt. Pompous, with an inflated ego. He was good, though, with the TelePrompTer; he hardly seemed to look at it. He really did appear to stare out directly at his audience. One of the aides told her the pages of copy he constantly turned over were just a precaution in case something went awry with the TelePrompTer. She probably could have handled Cassidy, and would never have given him a second thought, if she hadn't overheard him say to one of the writers, “What is she, another one of Harper's charity cases?”

She'd fled to the bathroom and with shaking hands smoked a cigarette. That's
exactly
what she was—a charity case. And she would remain a charity case until . . . what? Until she proved herself indispensable. Work hard, work hard, work hard, work hard, her mind shrieked as she paid off the taxi driver and headed for the elevator that would take her to her new apartment on the sixteenth floor. This was hers, compliments of Alan. As long as she paid the rent. In order to pay the rent, she had to keep her job.

This was her first look at the apartment. She knew that the housekeeper and butler had brought all her things over in the morning and had probably unpacked them. The housekeeper and butler were staying on in the brownstone for a few extra days, according to Alan, to close up and put dustcovers on all the furniture. She assumed, although he hadn't said, that they would join him in Spain. Where else would they go? They were old, and Alan did like his comfort. He wouldn't look at it that way though. He'd want to take care of them. They'd been together for years and years. They all belonged together. She missed him already. She would miss him more in the days to come.

She did look around now and was pleased with what she saw. The apartment was of a nice size, and if one didn't look out the windows to see other windows and rooftops, it would be fine. The couches that formed a half circle were wheat-colored, deep and comfortable; the two recliners and ottomans on each side of the window overlooking the rooftops were the color of dark café au lait. A small entertainment center that held a television, stereo, radio, an assortment of books, and a deep brown center carpet completed the living room. It looked spacious because it was uncluttered. She closed the sheer basket-weave draperies, but could still see twinkling lights in the distance.

The bedroom was neat, almost spartan, the only color added by a flowered spread and matching drapes. The floor was polished wood, the closet doors hung with mirrors. Again, no clutter of any kind. The second bedroom was empty and painted a soft shade of blue. The bathroom and kitchen were neat and clean, but archaic. The three security bolts on the entrance door pleased her. She was safe, cut off from the outside world, while she was here.

She poked around, opening closets and drawers. There were blankets and linens in the closet, along with soap and cleaning supplies. The dresser held her personal things, the closet all of her clothes. Her luggage was piled on the top shelf of the foyer closet. In the refrigerator were juice, milk, eggs, bread, and coffee. The cabinet overhead was filled with soup, crackers, tuna, assorted canned vegetables, and several boxes of macaroni. On the kitchen table was a receipt for the garage rent as well as the keys to the new Mustang. Her bankbook showed a three-thousand-dollar balance and a note from Alan saying she could stay rent free for a full year. The note was to be given to the company that managed the building.