Seems Like Old Times (26 page)

She looked out the window as the cab crawled along Fifth
Avenue. It would inch forward a while, make a sudden, terrifying spurt around
cars turning or double-parked, then inch forward again. People filled the
streets, eyes ahead, walking in a straight line in singled-minded briskness the
way people in truly big cities learn to do. Neon lights flashed, restaurant and
exhaust smells blended, the ever-present sound of a jack-hammer slammed
somewhere in the distance, along with honking horns, and rumbling trucks. But
throughout it all was the familiar pulse of the city, the almost primitive beat
that soared through her veins with vitality and life.

It was familiar.
Home.
And good to be back.

She walked into her sleek, stylized apartment. Everything
was exactly as she'd left it: perfect. A flash of Tony's warm home hit
her--toys scattered over the family room, old family photos on the walls of the
living room, overstuffed chairs and comfort. She couldn't let herself think of
that now.

She quickly unpacked, showered, and changed. After going
through her mail and messages on her answering machines both at home and work,
plugging in her laptop, taking one look at the overflowing e-mail system, and
shutting it off again, she left for Bruce's place. She'd phoned him from the
airport and told him she'd see him this evening.

The evening air was sultry, but not uncomfortable. A smoky
gray sky, electric with life, brought the kind of evening that, back in Miwok,
would have neighbors standing outdoors, talking and joking with each other. But
a friendly hello was as far as Lee's conversation went with the strangers who
lived nearby.

Especially on a night like this, the streets were filled
with people.
So many of them, so busily going somewhere.
Lee glanced at the happy couples among them.

o0o

With a polite smile and friendly nod, the doorman to
Bruce's condo apartments waved her through. As she fished around in her handbag
for Bruce's keys she stepped into the elevator. Her fingers tightened on the
keys as she watched the floor lights go by in the elevator, bringing her closer
and closer to fifteen. With a 'bong' the elevator stopped and the doors opened.

Her steps slowed as she walked across the small alcove to
the front door. Drawing in her breath, she put the key in the lock, turned and
pushed the door open. "Bruce? Bruce, it’s me."

The lights were on, but the apartment was silent, Bruce
must be working. He didn't like any sound, not even music when he worked. She
dropped her jacket and purse on a black teak bench beside a brightly painted
three foot tall ceramic Thai dancer on a chartreuse pedestal table,
then
walked across the white marble foyer to the living
room.

It was empty. Bruce usually sat in the wine red, high
backed easy chair, his feet on the antique jacquard footstool, while she sat
more stiffly on the Victorian tufted silk chesterfield with the high mahogany
crest rail that stabbed into her back whenever she tried to relax against it.
Victorian furniture, Bruce said, best showed off his collection of Southeast
Asian and Hindu artifacts reminiscent of the
Orientalia
of the British Raj. Guests always complimented Bruce on his fine pieces. The
Panchantantra
collection frowned at Lee now, as if aware
that her thoughts about the room were less than favorable.

She went down the hall to the den. The door was shut. She
knocked. "Bruce?" There was no sound. "Are you in there? It's
me,
Lis
...I mean, Lee."

She heard the rustling of papers,
then
the door swung open. Bruce was just under six feet tall and rail thin. He had
blond, blue-eyed good looks that reminded her of a young Peter O’Toole.

"Lee, I didn't expect you so soon. I'm sorry,
darling." He placed his hands on her arms and gave her a quick kiss then
held her from him. "Let me look at how beautiful you are."

In her high heels, they stood nearly nose to nose. She
could see the red rimmed fatigue of his blue eyes even with his glasses on. His
fine blond hair was usually immaculate, but tonight he'd been running his
fingers through it as he worked, making it spiked and awry.

"You look tired, Bruce."

"I need you here to take care of me, darling. Haven't
I told you that more than once?"

"You have."

"Well, thank God you're back." His arms went
around her waist and he pulled her close into a long, tongue involved kiss. She
tried hard to feel some response, some quickening of her pulse, tightness in
her stomach, but she felt flat. Even the joy of seeing the man who professed to
want to marry her, simply wasn't there, wasn't right.

She didn't want to be disappointed with Bruce, with their
relationship, but she knew herself well enough to know she couldn’t have felt
the way she did about Tony, or allowed herself to have sex with him, if she
truly loved the man before her. She wanted to be fair to him. She had come
here, kissed him, to see if she had simply been dazzled by Tony and by the past
and all she had loved--and lost--because of it. But she felt no magic now,
causing her to question if there'd ever been magic between them, or if she'd
been fooling herself because she was so very tired of being unattached and, as
such, supposedly fair game.

He stepped back and looked at her quizzically.

"I'm exhausted, Bruce," she said with a forced
smile,
then
turned away from him. "This whole
experience has left me an emotional and physical wreck."

He placed his hands on her shoulders and began to knead
them as he stepped closer behind her.
"My poor little
star."

She stepped away. "I don’t know why I came over
tonight. I’m tired. Jet lagged. The time change, you know. Why don’t we just
have a cocktail, then I’ll head back home."

"You’re joking, aren’t you?" He wore a lop-sided
smile.

"I’m afraid not, Bruce."

His face fell.
"All right.
Give me a minute to finish up here."

Instead of going straight to the living room, she
continued down the hall to the master bedroom. Everything in the bedroom was
black lacquer, and so low to the ground Lee felt ten feet tall. The bed was
nothing but a legless headboard and a king size mattress resting on the floor.
Bruce said sleeping on the floor was much better for the back than were box
springs, as well as reminiscent of a Japanese
futon
. Why she'd want to
be reminded of futons--or
futon
as Bruce corrected her, noting that
there was no plural form in Japanese--while trying to sleep, was something she
hadn't bothered to ask.

She’d slept with Bruce in this room, made love with him,
told him she loved him and wanted to spend her life with him. How could she
change so quickly? She never considered herself a shallow person, or a
frivolous one, yet she was acting that way. Right now, she didn’t like herself
very well. She wasn’t being fair. Yet, even as she turned away, she couldn’t
help but compare Bruce’s bedroom to the one where she’d spent Friday night.
Once again she found herself trying not to think of the world she'd left
behind. The more she tried, though, the more she remembered the little
things--the sound of a child's laughter, the pride in a man's eyes as he looked
at his son, the sparkle in those same eyes as he looked at her. They had, as
Tony had said, one evening to live a lifetime on. Now, it was over. She
couldn't upset the life she'd built because of one wild, passionate fling for old
times. She was more practical and logical than that.

And yet, as she settled into Bruce’s living room, neither
could she live a lie.

She had hoped that coming to see him would help her set
aside the past. It hadn’t. Her feelings about Tony and all that had happened
between them ran too deep. Eventually, she knew she would be able to place all
the feeling he'd stirred up back behind the steel wall she'd erected around her
heart and go back to her life. She had to. She had the control, the drive, and
the ambition to take care of
herself
and get ahead,
and she'd do so again.

At this moment, she was being a foolishly sentimental
twit. She despised twits.
Time to get over it, Reynolds.

"Sorry it’s taken me so long." Bruce entered the
room.
"How about those cocktails?"

"All of a sudden I don't feel well. Jet lag, I
think," she said, standing. "I’ll skip them."

"Are you sure? You can stay here. I promise to be a
good boy and let you sleep, hard though that will be, darling."

"I'm sorry. I really must run." She gave him a
quick kiss and walked toward the door.

"I love you, Lee," he called.

She could do no more than smile as she walked out the
door.

o0o

Lee entered the CABN-TV complex and was walking down the
main corridor to her office when she saw Rick Archer, Evening
Newscene's
star anchor, approaching. "Welcome
back," he cried, taking her hands and scarcely touching his
make up
covered cheek to hers in an air kiss while keeping
his eye on the approaching news director.

 "Thank you, Rick. Good to see you."

 
"Wonderful, wonderful.
Take care." He spun off toward his dressing room. His hair was a pouf of
blue white magnificence, his back ramrod straight in his $2500 suit, but his
feet pointed outward, giving him a disconcertingly duck like waddle. It was
good that news anchors never had to walk around while TV cameras were on them.

The news director, Max Hobbs, tossed her a "Welcome
back. It’s about time!" then hurried on his way.

Lee continued down the hall. She opened the door to the
newsroom and waved at the staff. Reporters, film editors, cameramen and
production assistants greeted her with some warmth, to her surprise. Well did
she know that every person here coveted the anchor position, and each felt he
or she could handle it better than any anchor
alive.
That kind of envy and jealousy went with the territory. She’d been the same
while she was working her way up the ladder--although when one is on the lower
rung, it’s seen as having "drive and ambition."

She stopped in the studio to wave at the noontime news producer,
cameramen, light and sound people. The noon news was on the air and the studio
pulsated with frenzied activity. She loved it here. It wasn’t work; it was an
aphrodisiac.

She smiled as she again continued toward her office. This
was her milieu. This was where she had made her mark, Lee Reynolds, anchor with
ice water instead of blood. She of the unflappable presence, able to go
anywhere,
interview
anyone, and not blink an eye.

Lee entered her office and shut the door. The room was
filled with papers, books, atlases, newspapers, a computer--all neatly hidden
behind a variety of built-in white shelving with doors so that, when shut, the
office looked very smart, very elegant. It was practically a full-time job for
her personal secretary,
Xantha
, to keep papers neatly
filed and labeled for Lee.

The walls were papered in white texture and on them hung
bright Georgia O'Keefe originals. No personal photos or frivolous-but-loved
items were displayed. She had never noticed their absence before, only noticed
the calming peace of the office. Now, it seemed a trifle cold, somehow.

In the bottom drawer
of a files
cabinet was a folder marked "Christmas cards--Non-Business." She took
it out, then went to the high-backed, ivory leather chair behind her desk and
sat. It was a rather slim folder. The "Business" related cards took
up an entire box. Opening the folder, she flipped through the envelopes,
looking at the return addresses until she found Cheryl's card. Inside, as she
remembered, was a picture of Cheryl's three children. Lee plopped the picture
up against the
stand up
calendar on her desk, then
leaned back in the chair to look at it.

She liked it. She'd get a frame for it as soon as she had
a chance. Or, maybe
Xantha
could

"Miss Reynolds?" Her secretary knocked on the
door.

"Hello,
Xantha
. How good to
see you. How have you been?"

Short and round, with graying blond hair
in a fringe of curls around her head,
Xantha
stepped
into the office with an armload of folders.
Her eyebrows rose up at the
question and she appeared a little flustered. "Why, I’ve been fine, Miss
Reynolds.
Quite fine."

She put a stack of folders on Lee’s desk. "I brought
you the briefs on the big stories this week. I thought you might like to do
some studying."

"Studying? You mean not go on television and read my
script for the first time in front of my audience the way Rick Archer does? Why
shouldn't I be surprised every night on TV? He seems to enjoy working that
way."

Xantha
chuckled. "That's
why you're so much better than he is."

"Ah, if only the boss knew that."

"But he does! Oh, Miss Reynolds, it isn't my place to
say, but the rumors about you going to Nighttime News are hot. Mr. Hobbs is
furious that he might lose you. He sees how much Rick Archer needs you to
smooth over his tongue-twists and bloopers. Why, one night, he reported that
the IRS bombed a bus station in Northern Ireland, and another night he said an
AIDS rally was held to raise money for Ethiopia."

Lee winced. "He didn't really,
Xantha
."

"It's on tape." Her expression was so solemn,
Lee couldn't help but smile. "Mr. Hobbs chewed the carpet."
Xantha
winked and left the office.

Lee was about half way through them when her telephone
buzzed. She picked it up.