Hide and Seek (15 page)
The recluse of Greenbriar Road strikes again!
I thought. It was too much too fast. I shouldn’t have come.
Damn it, damn it!
Soon I excused myself, and went to be alone in the gardens that branched off the Lake Club’s riding ring. I felt like such a fool; a loser, outcast, freak. I remembered being that way all the time when I was younger; too tall for most boys, and a stutterer as well.
The gardens were empty, and I inhaled the fragrant air, relaxing into a kind of hazy satisfaction. This was better.
“ ‘The loss of grace is the saddest trip … but grace can be rewon, Maggie.’ ”
My words
, whispered close behind me. I wheeled to face the man who spoke them.
Will Shepherd was standing next to me.
I actually
jumped
.
I
TOOK A step back, but not too far. Somehow, he didn’t seem quite as threatening in the colorful gardens and in broad daylight.
“I came to find out why you were so cold to me when I brought your daughter home.”
My eyes rolled involuntarily.
He couldn’t be that thick
, I thought. “You really don’t remember, do you?”
He shook his head. Sunlight bounced off his blond curls.
“What are you talking about? Please tell me,” he said.
“The costume ball at the Trevelyans. You asked me to go home with you—be with you. You were very crude. Worse than crude, actually.”
“I don’t remem—” He stopped, and slapped his forehead. He actually blushed. “Oh my God,” he said. “Oh shit. You have to forgive me. I was drunk, maybe drugged, and completely crazy.”
“And disgusting,” I added. “Don’t forget that. Well, nice seeing you again. Good-bye.”
I turned and began to walk back toward the party.
He ran to catch up with me.
“I’m not drunk now, not drugged, and I’m just a little crazy. Please talk to me for a moment. It’s important. To me it is. Please? I think I can explain my behavior.”
“But do I want to hear it?” I said to him.
“Fair enough. I’m sure I deserve that, though I still don’t remember much of what I did.”
I studied him for a few seconds. He was dressed in a rumpled white linen suit, and the color of his hair seemed gold. He was tan, and definitely handsome—I had to give him that.
“I only want to tell you one thing,” he said, affecting a sincerity I couldn’t believe was genuine. “You’re an inspiration to me, to a lot of people. I heard you sing at the concert for the Queen, and I thought you were singing to me. I know you weren’t, but that’s what I felt. You touched me, so thank you. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Despite myself, I turned toward him. I saw pain in his eyes. “ ’Loss of Grace’?” I asked.
“That song more than any other, though I loved them all, well, most of them. I was going through a bad patch at the time. You reminded me that grace could be rewon.”
“Yes. Well. Have you rewon it?” I asked.
His expression grew sadder. He suddenly seemed very genuine, almost human. “No, I’m afraid not. Not in this lifetime. Not after … my performance in Rio.”
I shook my head. I was lost.
“In Rio? I’m sorry.”
For the first time, he smiled. I hadn’t seen him smile before, and it was something to see. “You mean you don’t know?”
“I’m afraid not. I seem to remember that when we first met I told you I knew nothing about sports. Sorry, but I don’t keep a little scrapbook of your clippings. We have one Michael Jordan mug from McDonald’s at the house. That’s about it for our sports collection.”
“Well thank God about that,” he said. The smile remained. Turned down, but still present.
We were silent for a moment.
He’s shy with me
, I thought.
He doesn’t know what to say next
.
Oh boy, Maggie, don’t start this. You won’t, of course, but don’t even think about it
.
“I ought to go back,” I said. “My date—”
“He can wait a few more minutes, can’t he? Take a walk with an old retired gent first.”
I hesitated. “I was about to leave.”
“Don’t leave yet. Please. We were talking about you last night at dinner. Winnie Lawrence, June, and I.”
“Oh?”
“They told me about Patrick O’Malley. I’m very sorry.”
“Yes. It was terrible.” There was nothing I wanted to add.
We walked through a tunnel of drooping pine trees, a lamplit watercolor undercourse. We began to talk of all sorts of unexpected things: the old Harlem River Railroad line (Will was a bug on railroads); how rural Westchester compared with rural England; a recent Jeffrey Archer novel we both had read. He was as correct with me as a schoolboy, and I felt my own shyness coming back.
I did fear I was being conned. But I figured he was trying so very hard … and he was sweet that day. And, I have to admit,
to be truthful
, he was gorgeous to look at.
A patch of laughter, scattered party applause, snuck through the blackthorn bushes. I looked at my wrist-watch.
“I don’t believe it. We’ve been talking for over an hour. I do have to go. It’s my night to cook. Will, I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. Not a bit. I’m some terrific guest of honor though. This could be my last retirement party. I’d better go back too.”
As we walked back to the clubhouse, he took my arm for a second, a gentle touch on my elbow, then let it go. “I needed that,” he said. “I haven’t talked to anyone like this in a long, long time.”
“I haven’t either.” I admitted. I smiled. “There—we’ve shared a secret.”
“Could we see each other again? I’m really not the way you think.”
I knew he would ask, and I knew my answer. “I’m afraid not. It’s too soon for me.”
“You’re right,” he said. “Besides, there are far better men for you than a retired football bloke.”
I liked his self-deprecation, at the same time suspecting it might be part of his seduction routine.
It must be terrible for an athlete to retire, to be finished with a career so young. How would I feel if I had to give up singing?
“And there are younger and more beautiful women for you,” I said to him.
“I’m looking for something a little deeper than that now,” he said. “And besides, you are beautiful. Don’t you know that? … You don’t, do you, Maggie?”
“I really have to go now,” I said.
But I already realized he was different from what I had originally thought. He had substance, but he was very complex. Interesting.
M
AGGIE BRADFORD WAS everything that her songs promised, and maybe even more, Will thought. She wasn't aware of it, but she was very attractive as well.
She was the one who could save him. He was convinced of it, and he began to be obsessed by her. He had to see her again. He listened to her songs constantly, at home, and in his car.
He planned everything carefully, beginning with a long letter asking not for a meeting, but for her understanding. Another time he wrote of his mother's desertion when he was a boy, then of his father's suicide. He told Maggie how her songs soothed and helped him, and asked only that she respond in some way.
There was no word from her, and, as was the usual case, he turned to other women. He lashed out at one of them. Nothing as bad as Rio, but scary anyway. The werewolf of New York.
But out of the blue, Maggie wrote him a letter. She told him that the first step was to face his pain, as he so obviously had. He finally called her and asked for a meeting—just once, in New York, and only for lunch.
They met at one o'clock, November 12, at the Oak Room in the Plaza Hotel. The locale was meant to be as nonthreatening as possible. He had it all figured out. He was going to win Maggie over. He couldn't bear to lose again.
He planned to seduce her.
He planned to win.
He had no doubt that he would.
A
MONTH AND a half passed before I saw Will again. He
wrote
to me several times. The letters revealed even more than talking with him had. He was deep, and also sensitive. When he finally called, I was ready to see him again. Just a lunch. Harmless enough, or so I thought.
This was lunch with Will Shepherd!
Even if it was in the dark, gloomy Oak Room. I was sure a lot of women would have died for the opportunity. A few of them were actually there, it seemed, checking us out from nearby tables.
I must admit, he was nice to be with. Will was personable, articulate, warm, and he continued to be sensitive. As I look back on the meeting now, I have a terrible suspicion though: I wonder if he
rehearsed
.
“I like to talk to other people who've been in the spotlight,” Will admitted. “As long as they have their heads on straight.”
I grabbed at my neck. “My head okay?”
Will laughed. We both did. I knew exactly what he meant about talking with people who had experienced “star treatment.” There definitely was a bonding that could happen.
“Tell me about Rio,” I said to him about midway through lunch. “No, tell me some good stuff, first.”
“I don't want to talk about me,” Will said and waved off the question. That was unusual, and refreshing. The thing I
didn't
like about talking to most “stars” was that they loved talking about themselves. I'd have bet that Will was like that. Now I saw that I'd been wrong.
“Leave it at this,” Will said. He took a sip of his wine and stared into space. “I'm changing now. I'm looking for grace rewon. Just like in your song.”
“You'll find it,” I said gently. He had touched me a bit. He was clearly vulnerable, and needy. I secretly liked the fact that he enjoyed my songs so much. I guess I wanted to be a part of his conversion.
“Help me, Maggie.” He said the words softly.
“How? How can I possibly help you, Will?”
He looked at me so intensely I felt my cheeks burning. “Include me in your songs,” he said.
I did better than that. I included him in my life. It was as though I couldn't help myself. As though the planets had conspired to do this to me.
He asked me out, hesitantly, and I found it not so much charming as riveting. He had a way of being attentive that told me I and I alone mattered. He shut out all distractions when we talked. He looked only at me, listened only to me, made me believe I was wise, and
worthy
, and special.
And so, I went out with Will Shepherd again.
It was very romantic in the beginning. It all came very slowly. It felt right.
We didn't even kiss until our fourth “date.” It came naturally, at my front door, as he was saying good night. The kiss had gentleness
and
passion, and I felt myself responding almost despite myself.
I pushed him away, gently. “This will take time.”
Will kissed me again, a longer kiss that was amazingly tender. For me, it was half pleasure, half pain. I wanted him and I was afraid of the need. I'd heard the stories about him; I was skeptical that he could change. And yet, he so desperately wanted to change.
This time Will moved away voluntarily. He opened the front door for me, and was gone.
My driveway was lit at night, and I stood there for a moment, watching him walk to his sports car. Long after it had disappeared into the darkness, I stared after him, my emotions confused, but definitely heightened.
W
ILL DROVE STRAIGHT to Manhattan that night. He pushed his sports car to over a hundred on the Saw Mill River Parkway. Jesus, he was good! But he was also frustrated, and incredibly, painfully horny as a goat. He didn't know how much more of this slow-dance courting business he could take. He wasn't used to it.
Maggie was as straightforward and honest as her songs—but he was beginning to wonder if she was worth the challenge. He was having trouble, well, being so fucking nice all the time. Sometimes, he felt he couldn't possibly be good enough for her.
Cat and mouse
, he thought as he crossed from Westchester into New York City. That's what it amounted to with women. He almost always caught them—some were just more trouble than others. It was another game really, a substitute for football, and
whatever
football was a substitute for.
Rebecca Post was an art dealer who had a big coop on East Sixty-first Street overlooking the bridge.
Rebecca was such an easy little mouse to catch
, Will thought. Maybe she was too easy, but he could probably think of something to spice that up. Sure he could.
Will used his key to let himself into her luxury apartment. It certainly hadn't been hard to get his own key—he'd just asked,
once
.
The Blond Arrow tiptoed when he was inside the darkened apartment. He felt like an intruder. A digital clock in the living room
clicked
the time—twenty past one.
An intruder
—he rather liked that. He thought he could get into it. He was an intruder—wasn't he? He
intruded
into the lives of a lot of women, and they seemed to welcome the diversion.
The werewolf of London, Paris, Frankfurt, Rome, Rio—and now New York. So be it.
He peered into the master bedroom and saw Rebecca. The dear girl was sleeping in the nude, spread out in a comfy, sexy pose on top of the sheets. Her long auburn hair fanned out across the pillow. Beautiful. Desirable as hell.
Will knew exactly what he wanted to do—
rape her, without saying a single, solitary word
. And then just leave her apartment.
That's what the Blond Arrow did—exactly what he felt like doing.
Same as it always was. Love was just a game—to be won, or lost.
W
ILL HAD TO fly to Los Angeles for a couple of screen tests at the beginning of January. I found that I missed him more than I wanted to admit, or thought that I would. Sometimes, I feared that he was a sorcerer, a sleight-of-hand artist, a seduction artist like no other. Barry counseled me that Will was exactly that. “He's not that way with me,” I told him. It was the truth.
Will came back on a Thursday, and took me to dinner in Bedford. I wore heels and a beaded black dress, a little glamorous for me, and was glad when he noticed. “I love the way you look,” he said. Simple, but nice to hear.