Sapphire and Shadow (A Woman's Life) (17 page)

Jocelyn shuddered as Tommy grinned, but said nothing. “And that?”

Johanna leaned over and read. “Rob Roy’s Pleasure.” She looked at Tommy questioningly.

“Venison,” he told her. “With chestnut puree. It’s a favorite.”

“Venison?” Jocelyn’s eyes opened wide. “Like in deer? Like in Bambi?”

“She’ll pass on Rob Roy,” Johanna commented, scanning the menu. “This looks good.” She chose another item, one that was lower priced.

“Don’t they have any hamburgers around here?” Jocelyn moaned, dropping the menu on the table.

“My daughter, the cultural gourmet,” Johanna laughed.

“I’ll see what we can do,” Tommy promised her.

The hamburger that Jocelyn craved was not done to her satisfaction, but then, Johanna assured Tommy, her daughter didn’t like it unless it had been prepared three hours earlier and had sat under a sun lamp, waiting to be bought. “That’s the way they handle fast foods back in America,” Johanna explained.

Tommy frowned slightly, considering her description. “Doesn’t sound very tasty.”

“I know, but the worse it is, the better kids claim it tastes.”

Tommy shrugged with a grin, one that Johanna found terribly endearing. “Well, to each his own.”

“Exactly,” Johanna agreed.

She tried to sound nonchalant, but Johanna had a definite feeling that they were skirting around something more here, like two primal animals doing a ritualistic mating dance.

Mating?

Johanna cut right through the steak on her plate and a slice slid onto her dress.

“A little water’ll get it out,” Tommy assured her, dabbing his own napkin in his glass. With firm, sure strokes, he rubbed on the material. Johanna felt heat climbing up her limbs to the center of her being as his hand touched her through the layers of material.

His eyes met hers and held for a moment. Her own darted nervously toward Jocelyn, but the girl was busy watching a teenage boy on a bicycle who was in turn eyeing her as he rode by slowly.

“Thank you.” Johanna took the napkin from him, her fingers trembling. She wiped the rest off herself.

My God, what was she thinking of?
It had be more than nine months since Harry had touched her, since he had even tried to make love and that had ended disastrously. He had blamed her, saying that he had no trouble performing with anyone else.

Her fault, always her fault.

But her lack of fulfillment didn’t explain the reason for her feeling this restless, edgy way around Tommy. She had never been one who needed sex. Sex was something to be coupled with love, with feeling needed and cherished. It wasn’t just an exercise to be completed if the “vibrations” were right.

Her throat was suddenly dry. Johanna took a sip of her coke.

“What are you thinking about?” Tommy asked.

She nearly choked. “Why?”

“You look pensive.”

“Just wondering about the future.”

He smiled at her as if he knew what she was thinking, she thought nervously, then told herself to calm down and act like an adult. Perhaps that was the problem. Perhaps she was.

Tommy Reed was basically an uncomplicated man. He knew what he liked and what he didn’t like. Life was too short for pretenses, although not too short for social amenities. He liked Johanna and had absolutely no doubts that he and she would come together as lovers as long as she could free herself of her inhibitions. He had no intentions of seducing her, because seduction wasn’t fair. A mutual coming together was the only way to approach the very pleasurable sensation of making love. He too did not believe in sex. He believed in sharing and pleasure and kindness. And he liked Johanna very, very much and admired her as well.

“Johanna, sweetie, is that you?”

Johanna turned to look directly into Arlene’s amused dark eyes. “Hello, Arlene.”

Arlene presented herself in front of the threesome. She made no secret of the fact that she was appraising Tommy. And giving him very high marks. Tommy smiled back at her, which pleased her.

“Well, well, well, I see you’ve done very nicely for yourself.”

Johanna drew her lips together. She didn’t care for Arlene’s inference. “This is Tommy Reed. He used to work for Harry.”

Arlene tried to imagine what he would look like without his shirt. “A lot of people used to work for Harry.”

Something in Arlene’s tone alerted Johanna. “What do you mean?”

The older woman struggled to draw her eyes away from Tommy, but finally succeeded. “Haven’t you heard?”

“Heard what?” Johanna pressed. She was in no mood for much of Arlene’s unintentional unkindness.

“Harry’s on page three of the newspaper if you’d like to see what he’s been up to.”

“Not in front of Jocelyn,” Johanna hissed.

“Mother, I’m not a baby.” The young girl stuck out her chin. But at the same time, there was a tremor in her lower lip. “You and dad aren’t going to split, are you, Mom?”

She would have to tell her daughter soon enough. But not now. “Not over an article in a rag, no,” Johanna said.

Her precocious daughter seemed to relax, letting the topic go. Johanna saw Tommy studying her over the rim of his glass. They had spoken of her getting a divorce and she knew that he felt she should be honest with Jocelyn. Her answer had been vague and evasive, but she couldn’t deal with the pain that she would be inflicting on Jocelyn or the recriminations she knew she would receive from her. Right now, she was having trouble dealing with her own strong attraction to Tommy.

“I’ll see you later, Arlene,” she said quietly.

Arlene took no offense at Johanna’s dismissal. Her eyes slid over Tommy slowly one last time. “My compliments, Johanna.” She patted Johanna’s shoulder. “Better than any one of my fantasies.” She laughed at her own words as she walked away.

Chapter Eighteen

She was upset. He could tell by the way she held herself, the way her smile had tensed about the corners of her mouth. It was that woman and her bloody article that had done it, Tommy thought, resigning himself to the situation. He leaned over the table and lightly placed his hand on her shoulder.

“Would you like to go back to the hotel?” He had made plans for them for the rest of the day, but he knew that the day had been spoiled for her. It was best just to let it go for now.

For a moment, she was flustered. He had read her mind. “I—“ There was no use pretending. “Yes, Tommy, if you don’t mind.”

“Yes, I do mind.” He leaned back in the chair. “But I also understand. We’ll pick it up tomorrow.”

“Thank you.”

He heard the gratitude in her voice. It was payment enough. “Any time, luv.”

“But why can’t I see the newspaper?” Jocelyn protested as soon as she and Johanna entered the hotel suite. She had barely been able to contain herself until Tommy had let them off at the hotel.

Johanna ran one hand against the border where the door met the door frame. The white enamel paint was so smooth to the touch, so perfect. The door and frame were like one. Tommy would appreciate such fine workmanship. Tommy. Her one temporary haven in this storm. He was wonderful. He was making her aware of herself again, as a person. A person who had something to offer. Who deserved to be treated well. If it weren’t for him, she might be coming unglued right now. She felt so confused, so terribly impatient. She wanted things to be over, settled. Yet nothing would be for some time. And until they were, things like this article would continue to creep up and haunt them.

“Because,” Johanna said, shutting the door firmly and crossing through the sitting room, “it’s trash.”

Stubbornly, Jocelyn reached for the newspaper under her mother’s arm. “But if it’s trash—“

She knew Jocelyn was consumed with curiosity, but she didn’t want her exposed to the kind of things that were written in the tabloid. As long as she could shield her from it, she was determined to do it. Johanna held onto the newspaper tightly. The look on her face made Jocelyn drop her hand.

“The way trash gets perpetuated, my love, is by people reading it, paying for it, asking for more.”

“Are you going to read it?”

There she had her. Johanna refused to lie to Jocelyn. “Yes.”

“Why?” Jocelyn’s hands were on her hips, impatience registered on her delicate features.

“Because I’m old enough to be able to separate fact from fiction. Because what’s written here can’t hurt me anymore. But it can still hurt you.” She walked into her bedroom and put the newspaper away on a shelf in her closet. With a firm jerk, she slid the mirrored door shut and faced her daughter.

“How am I supposed to learn anything if you don’t let me?”

Deliberately, Johanna walked out of the room. Jocelyn was forced to follow. “We’ll start out with an easier object lesson, okay?”

“He’s my father.”

“No one ever disputed that fact, Jocelyn,” Johanna said wearily, sitting down on the sofa. Except, maybe Harry when he was particularly out of control.

“I have a right to know what he’s doing.” Jocelyn stood in front of her, hands on hips again, legs spread wide, the picture of petulant adolescence.

“You have rights that I give you, my love.” Johanna touched her cheek lightly. “Face it, until you’re eighteen, you’re living in a dictatorship.”

Jocelyn muttered under her breath as she flounced out of the room.

Johanna hated Harry for making her go through this. Why couldn’t the fool keep his private life just that? Why couldn’t he exercise a little discretion with his affairs instead of flaunting them?

It wasn’t until late that evening, when her daughter was asleep, that Johanna took the newspaper down from the closet shelf. She spread the paper on her bed, opening it to page three. Then she sat down to read.

A morbid curiosity drove her to it. She wasn’t interested in what Harry was doing these days or with whom, although it appeared that the rest of the world was. And it wasn’t the first time that her husband’s infidelities and excesses had been recorded. Usually, they screamed up at her from the rack at the local supermarket. Which was why she had left the shopping to Amanda, her housekeeper, these last few years.

Johanna supposed that she was just attempting to reinforce her decision, to show herself one more time how useless it had been to waste all those years, hoping for the return of a man who no longer existed. He wasn’t just buried deep within Harry, sublimated by years of drugs and frustrations and fears. He was gone. There would be no resurrection, no second coming of Harold T. Whitney. She might as well mourn his demise and go on.

But the pictures on page three did not make her mourn. They made her angry. Not for herself, but for Jocelyn. Whatever wasn’t there between them any more, there was still Jocelyn to consider. How could he flaunt his infidelities this way when he had a young daughter who could read and hear? And feel?

She didn’t blame Hollywood, or pressures or drugs. She blamed Harry. He didn’t have to succumb. He didn’t have to give in and take drugs. It wasn’t as if he was alone. He had made himself alone, shutting her out when all she wanted to do was help him, to listen to his problems and to love him.

His own fault. It was all his own fault and no one else’s. She was a firm believer that to a greater extent, people held their own destinies in their hands. Harry had held his and had destroyed it.

Johanna pressed her lips together. It was about time she took responsibility for hers.

Very quietly, she tore out the picture of Harry and the near nude model, folded it into tiny squares, and then tucked it away in her wallet. If, in the coming weeks and months ahead, the ensuing turmoil would cause her convictions to waver, she would just take out this picture and remind herself what she was walking away from. To remind her how low she had managed to slip.

But no more, she promised vehemently, making the vow to the glowing city that was just below her feet, outside the hotel window.

No more.

She was awakened by persistent knocking. Rousing herself, she groggily looked at the clock on her night-stand and saw that it was a little past three in the morning. Who—?

Her first thought was of Tommy, but that faded just as quickly. He wouldn’t come at this hour.

Harry.

Johanna fairly leaped out of bed. The comforter fell on the floor behind her but she didn’t notice. Damn, why couldn’t he stay away a little longer? She grabbed her kimono, jamming one arm into a sleeve searching for the other sleeve behind her as she quickly made her way to the door. “Who is it?”

“Santa Claus. It’s three o’clock in the morning and I have jet lag. I don’t want to stand in the hallway and play twenty questions, Jo.”

The woman’s voice, tinged with the edginess of exhaustion, was low, smoky.

Johanna blinked, dazed. She dragged her hand through her hair, as if that would make her think straighter. It couldn’t be, and yet—

“Mary?”

She felt foolish for even thinking that her younger sister was standing on the other side of the door. Mary was half a world away, in New York, working on the new spring line for I. Magnum. But it sounded just like her, especially the choice of words.

“Okay, you win the prize. It’s me. Now for God’s sake, open up.”

Johanna threw open the door and saw her sister, two suitcases in her hand, standing a foot away from her. Not a single hair was out of place and she looked as if she had just had a leisurely stroll down the block, not come halfway around the world in the middle of the night. But then, Mary always had style.

“What are you doing here?” It still seemed unbelievable.

“Growing roots in the hall carpet.” Mary began to make her way into the suite, using the suitcases in her hand to forge a path. “Let me in.”

Johanna took one of the suitcases out of her hand and moved aside simultaneously. It was either that, or get hit with a suitcase. Mary had no intention of standing out in the hallway a minute longer than she had to.

Johanna closed the door with her free hand, then followed Mary to the sofa. “Seriously, why aren’t you in New York?”

Mary raised an eyebrow. “That glad to see me, eh, Johanna?”

Johanna let the suitcase drop where she stood. She put her arms around her younger sister and hugged. Hard and with a flood of sudden gratitude. Although there was only eighteen months difference, she always considered herself a lot older. She had always felt the burden of being the oldest in the family. The big sister. Mary, however, never quite saw it that way. Now it felt as if the roles had finally been reversed.