Surprise Package (8 page)

      
“Let me guess,” Jeff said, fury rising with each breath. “You convinced them that my scholarship money should be cut off.”

      
“Tuition is payable in advance, immediately after course registration, and this is your last term before graduation. It would be such a shame...almost as much of a shame as if you threw your life away prosecuting pimps and drug dealers.”

      
“Like I said, Dad, I'd rather prosecute pimps than be one.” Jeff slammed down the phone, then dug through a dog-eared Rolodex, found a number, and quickly dialed it. “Hello, Archie? Yeah, it's Brandt. That job you called me about the other day—is it still open?”

* * * *

      
Gilly walked from the dance floor in a cloud of flaming silk. Heads turned, women's eyes hard with appraisal, men's with hunger. But she was as oblivious to the attention as she was to the stunning view of New York's skyline. The restaurant’s floor-to-ceiling windows showed off Manhattan to best advantage, glittering like a million winking diamonds spread on the black velvet of a December night.

      
She had danced with Bill Lawrence and a number of mutual friends, while her eyes eagerly scanned the doorway to the private dining room, waiting for Jeff to appear. It was well past eight, and dinner would soon be served. She had not been able to fit her cell phone in the tiny sequined bag and would not have carried the device regardless.
Is he breaking another date—this night of all nights?
The limo had been a little early. What if...Gilly forced herself to push the horrible thought from her mind. But then worse ones flashed through it. Jeff lying bleeding on the pavement somewhere, victim of a mugger, or run over by a reckless cabbie.

      
“I'd say ‘a penny for your thoughts,’ but I don't have to ask,” Charis said as Bill pulled out Gilly's chair and she took her seat at their table—next to the empty one reserved for her date.

      
“I don't know whether to wish him dead or call the hospitals to see if he's been admitted,” Gilly said through gritted teeth.

      
“From the look on your face, I'd say it's a fair bet that he will be if he isn't already there,” Charis replied.

      
When the messenger service delivered Jeff's excuses at eight-thirty, Gilly alternated between sheer rage and hopeless tears, but pride kept her from resorting to a tantrum or a crying jag. She reread the terse message, then folded it up and placed it in her bag without further comment.

      
Dinner was served at nine. She shoved Belgian endive around on her salad plate, picked at her Lobster Newburg, and declined the Bananas Foster in spite of the ardent young waiter who dramatized his whole flambé act to impress her. When the dancing resumed, she made her excuses to her worried friends, feeling doubly rotten that she had put a damper on their holiday celebration because of Jeff's perfidy.

      
In the limo, she read the note over once more as icicles formed around her heart:

My Dearest Gilly,

No words are adequate to express how much I regret this. I would not willingly hurt you for the world, but I had no choice tonight. I'll call tomorrow and try to explain—if you'll let me.

Jeff

      
If you can explain your way out of this one, buster, either I have to be the most gullible fool since Eve ate that apple, or you're as slick as the serpent.
Neither prospect appealed to her at all. But still her closet romantic's heart hoped...even as it ached.

Chapter Seven

      
Jeff sat bleary-eyed in his apartment, counting last night's take. He had made enough to pay the tuition—in one night. Of course, that still left the small matters of food, rent, and the loan payment for the better part of a year; but Jeff was far more concerned with how he was going to explain to Gilly why he had stood her up on her big gala evening. She had wanted him to meet her best friends, the nearest thing she had to family. He knew she also wanted to meet his parents, even though she'd been very careful not to say so directly. Gilly was the sort of woman who expected to be treated that way when a relationship became as intense as theirs had.

      
She was entitled to better than his last-minute retreats and unexplained absences. But was he ready for that kind of commitment? He honestly didn't know. What he did know was that Gillian Newsom scared him to death. She represented everything he had left behind after the last fight with his father when he'd left Scarsdale for good and went to see the world courtesy of Uncle Sam.

      
Although the Newsoms might have been from a small town in Ohio, they were clearly the same sort of socially prominent, hidebound conservative people as his family. And they were rich. Gilly surely made a very respectable salary working for a big publishing house, but that alone could not have paid for the way she lived. Family wealth must be kicking in to supplement her income. His career plans would put him in an income bracket barely above food stamps. And what about the way he worked his way through law school?

      
What would Gilly think?

      
Right now, she was his primary concern. He cared altogether too much for her.
But I won't be sucked into that kind of life. I hated it, and I'll never go back.

      
Would she ask him to? They had never really talked specifically about where or how they would live. She probably assumed that he would fit in with her country club set. He had mentioned the idea of working in the D.A.'s office, but he doubted she realized what that would mean in terms of income.

      
Of course, he had never wanted to dwell on those sorts of long-term plans. They reeked of stultifying marriages. After observing nearly thirty years of his parents' life, then his sister and brother-in-law's, he was sure that was not what he wanted. But he was damned if he knew what he did want.

      
The telephone sat accusatorily on the bedside table. He started to pick it up and call Gilly. It was ten in the morning; and she was at work, even if she and her society friends had made a night of it. Of course, she might slam the receiver down the moment she heard his voice. “Can't blame her for that,” he muttered under his breath.

      
He'd tried to phone her the moment he'd accepted Archie's offer yesterday evening, but her line was busy. He'd borrowed Karl's cell and tried again en route to the job, but he couldn't get through. All he could do was hire a messenger service to deliver his apologies.

      
Swallowing a considerable amount of pride, he picked up the phone and dialed.

* * * *

      
Jeff's voice had sounded strained and tired. “Stop it. You're making excuses for him already!” she scolded herself. He could do that for himself, not her job, man. If he even deigned to try. All she'd ever gotten before was a simple apology with no frills added. Well, if you counted white roses, she guessed there were a
few
frills. But he couldn't buy his way out of this with flowers. Literally. He had no address for her place in Yonkers. He couldn't send flowers.

      
She stood glumly, watching the Christmas shoppers bustling all around her, carrying bags filled with gifts. Ice skaters glided across the rink at Rockefeller Center. The enormous tree, all bedazzled with lights, stood in the distance. A light snow was falling. And she was stalling.

      
Let him wait for me this time.

      
When he called, she had made a frosty agreement to meet him at a small Chinese restaurant near Rock Center at noon. It was now twelve-fifteen. Charis had walked into her office first thing that morning to check on her and offer advice. Gilly knew she had to confess her deception to Jeff, but there were some things that simply had to come first from him. Charis had agreed with her this time. In fact, her friend had urged her to really “kick his butt!”

      
Her footsteps came down hard on the snowy pavement as she made her way toward the small restaurant. He was waiting inside the dark interior, looking heart-stoppingly handsome. He wore jeans and that ratty old green sweater, his lucky sweater.
You're going to need a lot more than luck to get out of this one, bud.

      
When she walked closer she could see in the dim light that he looked tired and haggard, with dark circles under his eyes. “Your night must've been even better than mine,” she said without preamble, not letting her guard down.

      
He shrugged. A waiter glided up with menus and ushered them to a booth in the back. Although the room was crowded, conversations were muted, blending in a low hum. They removed their coats and hung them on the wall rack across from the booth, then scooted in opposite sides. As they looked across the table adversarially, the waiter took their drink order and beat a hasty retreat.

      
“I don't know how to start, Gilly...”

      
“How about by telling me where you were last night,” she supplied, shoving the menu aside.

      
Jeff rubbed his eyes, which felt as if half the sand under the Coney Island pier was lodged behind the lids. “Look, I know you wanted me to meet your friends, and I fully intended to be there—”

      
“Even if you didn't want to meet them? Look, Jeff, I guess I can see the handwriting on the wall. You're never going to level with me about who you are, other than that you're Lyle Brandt's son from Ridgecrest Drive in Scarsdale. I already know that. What I want to know—”

      
His head was pounding as he tried to think through how he was going to admit the truth to her when her last words hit him. Lawyerlike, he interrupted, “How do you know about my father—where I lived?” At her blank look, he continued, “I never mentioned my father's name, and I sure as hell never reminisced about fond childhood memories on Ridgecrest Drive.”

      
Her face began to heat up.
Oh, shit!
“Well, I, er, that is, I sort of investigated to see if you were who you claimed you were. Charis said—”

      
“You society types sure do like to be certain of a guy's pedigree, don't you?” he lashed out before thinking. “What did you do, hire a discreet private detective to check up on me? That day you just happened to be on campus for a workshop—that was a setup, too, wasn't it?”

      
Guilt was written all over her face, but Gilly's own temper was beginning to simmer. In fact, it had just come to a full, rolling boil when he accused her of hiring a private detective. “I probably should've hired a detective to find out about you, since it was obviously the only way I'd ever get the facts straight. You never had any intention of taking me to meet your family, did you? I was just some silly romantic fool to have a fling with, then walk away from, no strings! Well, let me help you out, Jeff.” Abruptly, she slid out from behind the table, practically knocking over their approaching waiter as she whirled around to glare at Jeff. “I'm walking away first—no strings, no regrets.”

      
Go after her
, a voice deep inside him urged. He almost gave in to it but then sat back down with a sigh and cupped his aching head in his hands. Life was just too damn complicated.

      
The baleful-looking Chinese waiter seemed to agree. “You not order now, sir?” he said in halting English.

      
“Afraid not,” Jeff muttered, pulling out his wallet and extracting enough to pay for the pot of oolong tea and a generous tip. “Never get involved with high society, my friend.”

      
The waiter nodded gravely at the parting “fortune cookie” advice.

* * * *

      
All afternoon Gilly thought she was going to die. By the time she left work, she was even more afraid that she was going to live. The rest of her life stretched before her, filled with endless Gwendolyn Gleeson manuscripts and no Jeff Brandt. She moped around her apartment without eating supper. Then a sudden fit of energy—or was it insanity?—sent her in search of Mrs. Kleinschmidt.

      
The super opened the door, her round face scrunched like a prune as she glared up at Gilly. “Yeah. Whaddya want? If you come to bellyache about paying yer own heat, find another place to live.”

      
“I haven't come to complain, Mrs. K. All I was wondering was whether that paint was still in the basement and if I could look through it to see if there was a color I could use to paint my apartment.”

      
“Yerself?” A look of intense suspicion crossed her face. “You 'n' all them other troublemakers on the third floor always wanted me to hire someone to do it like I done the halls.”

      
The halls had been painted three years before Gilly moved in, six years ago. Subway station walls were cleaner, but she forbore to mention that. “Yes, myself. I just wanted to spruce the place up a bit, sort of cheer myself up, since it's Christmas time.”

      
Mrs. K made some sound between clearing phlegm and burping. The dozen or so hairs arranged over the top of her pink scalp jiggled as she nodded. “All right by me, I guess. KKK stored the stuff so anyone who wanted could use it. Themselves,” she added meaningfully. KKK was the nickname tenants and super alike had bestowed upon Klinger & Kinsolving Consolidated, a slumlord corporation.

      
Half the night Gilly scraped, rolled, and brushed until she was ready to drop, then stood looking around at her handiwork. The once dingy place now had soft cream walls with celery-green trim. She hung some old prints from college and several travel posters. Tomorrow after work, she'd go out and buy some new throw rugs, scatter pillows, and other accents to brighten up the oversized, garage-sale furniture.