The Crasher Page 29

  With the jewels stashed in the same unsavory place in her toilet, it all added up to the high-wire tension of her life. There had been no word from Alex and no news of him, either—not from her mother, from Poppy or, thank God, from the police.

  It was hard to say she’d grown used to living each day as if it was her last before captivity, but that was the reality. Thank God, she was busy, busier than she’d been since her Gosman days, working and reporting for Johnny at least twice a week and designing and making clothes for the fast-approaching wedding.

  Several outfits for Esme’s trousseau had been added to the original order, plus a couple from guests who’d heard from the bride-to-be about Ginny’s “genius.”

  As the big day drew near Ginny set the alarm for six and worked till midnight, sometimes even forgetting for a few hours the secret she was hiding. At last, everything was finished.

  The wedding ceremony in the Transfiguration Church on Mott Street was so moving—and Esme in her silver-pink velvet gown so serene and joyful—Ginny’s waterproof mascara wasn’t up to coping with her continually moist eyes.

  As she cleaned up in the cloakroom of the Silver Palace in Chinatown, she tried to suppress her excitement. Any moment now Johnny would be arriving. Because of a deadline, he hadn’t been able to make the church ceremony, but of the banquet he’d said, “I wouldn’t miss it for all the tea in China.”

  And as she emerged, there he was, holding out his hands, saying with the voice that had the laugh buried in it, “Hi there, gorgeous. I haven’t missed any of the fifteen thousand courses, have I?”

  What had Lee said about her over dinner that night? That she used to look as if something wonderful was going to happen in the next twenty minutes? She may have lost the look, but for the first time in weeks, Ginny felt an unexpected surge of optimism, as if life was about to change for the better. It was irrational; there was no reason for it, except for the unmistakable look of admiration on Johnny’s face.

  The reception was jammed. Taking Johnny’s hand, Ginny pushed through the crowd to introduce him with pride to the other bridesmaids—Sue Jane, with her boyfriend, Ping, who looked like a Chinese Robb Sinclair with an earring in his left ear, and Carol, who Ginny had decided at the first fitting was just as predictable and stiff as her brother Ted.

  As they stood laughing and drinking, there was a loud clanging of gongs. The guests began to clap and cheer, dividing without direction into two seas of people to make way for the bride, exotic now in the red and gold brocade, on the arm of an obviously embarrassed groom.

  Behind them came Ted’s parents, ramrod straight, his father in a tuxedo, his mother in an elaborate tiered evening gown with a small train. Ginny felt disloyal, but she couldn’t help thinking back to Dallas and a certain Robespier creation, which hadn’t flattered that wearer either. Ginny scolded herself. Just because she hadn’t been asked to design anything for Ted’s mother. She told herself she was glad she hadn’t been asked. It was hard for Caucasians to equal Oriental elegance anyway, particularly in the splendor of the Silver Palace, and particularly when Esme’s parents and the procession of her relatives who followed were now all in full Chinese ceremonial regalia.

  “Aren’t they breathtaking?” Ginny sighed.

  “You are,” Johnny responded, bending to kiss her hand.

  She was cocooned in pleasure as the night of celebration went on. She sat next to Johnny, thighs touching, at a closely packed table with Sue Jane, Ping, and four more of Esme’s relations.

  The restaurant was festooned with balloons and swagged from ceiling to floor with brilliant crimson and silver drapes. On every table were dark red velvety roses, tied with matching velvet ribbons in elaborate silver cups, arranged by Perri-water, a new florist-find of Esme’s.

  Ginny inhaled the exquisite aroma of the roses, joined in the laughter and the merriment as one delicious course followed another and Chinese musicians delivered what to Ginny’s ears was a cacophony of strange sounds. Every so often the music stopped as someone grabbed the microphone to make a speech or a toast—some hilarious, others just hokey—but who cared, everyone was having a wonderful time.

  When a downtown group Esme had told Ginny was “really hot” began to play, Johnny pulled her onto the dance floor to dance cheek to cheek, body-to-body close. She wished she could hold the moment forever; she had never been happier.

  There was only one jarring note. “Excuse me,” said a familiar voice. Oz’s weird, pale face appeared over Johnny’s shoulder. What on earth was he doing here? Then she remembered. Way back she’d met Oz through Esme’s introduction.

  What nerve, he was trying to cut in. She couldn’t believe it

  “No, Oz,” she said angrily, trying to hold on to Johnny.

  To her added fury, Johnny stepped back with a graceful little bow, laughing as he said, “Come on, Ginny. I can’t have you all to myself all the time.”

  “Loosen up, Ginny,” said Oz as he tried to steer her around the floor. “Why are you treating me like some ogre? Why do you never return my calls? Who exactly do you think you are anyway? Do you know how successful I am now? Loosen up, for God’s sake. After all I did for you!”

  She was as stiff as a board. She knew it and she wanted Oz to know this was the way she would always be with him. She prayed the music would stop and to her relief it did, almost immediately. She rushed away, leaving the photographer red-faced, in the middle of the floor.

  “Who’s that? An old boyfriend? He looks as if he could kill you,” said Johnny, still amused. “Can’t say I blame him. You were pretty rough.”

  In the excitement of the cake cutting, with more speeches and toasts, she soon forgot about Oz; and then came the precious moment when Esme looked around for her and tossed the wedding bouquet almost into her lap.

  “You look like a little girl,” Johnny said, as she buried her nose in the sweet-smelling flowers. He was smiling at her in the way he’d smiled the first night he took her home from the Pierre, the way he’d smiled as he’d studied her face so intently on West Seventy-seventh Street.

  The bridal pair left the restaurant in a hailstorm of rice, and as the party wound down, Ginny knew she’d drunk too much rice wine, too much Chateau Lafite-Rothschild, too much champagne, too much of everything. It had to be the reason she told Johnny as they waited for a cab, “I never, never, never want to go home again.”

  He had a solution. “Come back to my place.”

  It seemed the most natural thing to do. And it wasn’t to the office part of “his place” either, but up to the tenth floor, where she saw for the first time the apartment where he lived as opposed to worked.

  Darkly paneled, richly draped, paintings softly lit, bookcases overflowing with books, and photographs in silver frames on polished wood tables, the apartment had an understated grandeur that stopped Ginny in the doorway. “Wow,” she said, trying to think of the right words. “This looks… rich.”

  “What did you expect? That I live in a hovel?”

  As she stood unsteadily, examining a small, elegant bronze, Johnny came up behind her and started to kiss the nape of her neck. “Oh, Johnny.”

  If she’d ever thought she was in love with Ricardo, this was the moment of truth. There was no comparison. Her feelings for Johnny ran deep, too deep. As much as her body was ablaze, she tried to hold back, knowing that while she’d already made a commitment, Johnny had not.

  Turning to face him, she said hopelessly again, “Oh, Johnny.”

  “Oh, Ginny, darling little giant of a girl.” There were no more quick, sweet kisses. He was kissing her as if he’d been longing to kiss her for months, their mouths, tongues at first meeting softly, then fiercely, crazily, the fever building, tenderness going fast.

  The blush crepe bridesmaid dress was only half unzipped before she was out of it, the lamp throwing rosy shadows over her pale skin, her tiny breasts with such delicate nipples.“Ginny…” He groaned. “Ginnnnny….” It was the last word spoken as th
ey discovered each other.

  She heard a clock chime one, two, wondering for a panic-filled second where she was. Johnny opened his eyes at the same time, stroked her hair, lifted her up from the living room floor, carrying her across his shoulder, into his bedroom, as light and spare and modern as the living room was dark and cluttered and antique.

  He lay her down on the white bed as carefully as if she were a piece of porcelain. He clicked on the light and straddled her thighs, looking down, inspecting her. “Taking inventory,” he called it later. Their breathing quickened; the steep, sweet climb began again.

  When next she heard the chimes, there were five, and he was smiling down at her. “Hello, sleepyhead.”

  She was too full of happiness to speak, frightened that any word would be the wrong word. He shifted his arm to wrap it more firmly around her. “Ginny, Ginny, Ginny… what am I going to do about you?”

  “You don’t have to do anything,” she whispered. “Talk to me… tell me about you…”

  It had been painful to listen to him talk about his life that Sunday evening of several weeks back, when she’d yearned so much for him, feeling so close and yet so far. Now, as he whispered about his sense of failure, of never measuring up to his Goliath of a father, it was the most natural thing in the world to murmur comfort, to nuzzle her face against his, to sweet-kiss his neck, his chin, his shoulder.

  “When I was a kid of five or six I added to family history the day Dad won his first Pulitzer. ‘I’m tired of your awards, Daddy,’ was apparently my response to the news. I’m told he thought it was very funny, but somehow I doubt it. Pulitzer, Polk, Overseas Press Club… there have always been so many, all related as far as I’m concerned to moments of painful growing up.”

  Johnny felt her shiver, pulled the coverlet up, drew her closer. He went on dreamily, “I can still remember the yellow telegram on the white tablecloth in the thatched cottage in Wiltshire, England, where he’d put Mother and me while he covered Europe. I can still remember how nervous my mother looked as she opened the telegram, although it was addressed to him, announcing yet another triumph. As usual he wasn’t home, but he’d promised he’d make it for my birthday, my eleventh, and I rode my bike to meet him with the news at the train station, but also as usual he never turned up, and riding back I was so angry I fell off and broke my arm.”

  His chest heaved in an almost silent sigh. “Another time, I forget when, we were living in Cairo and my mother waited and waited for him to arrive and a huge wooden plaque, his most recent award, came home instead. It was the first time I ever saw her lose her cool. She was so angry she threw it out the window… I spent my youth acting as a buffer between my parents, Ginny… between my long-suffering mother, who won the prize for long-distance sulking over the phone, and my celebrated usually absent father…” His voice trailed off, his face almost on her breast, he was falling asleep and so was she.

  Brilliant shards of light hurt her eyes. It was morning. She could hear water running, smell coffee brewing. Johnny. She caressed the word in her mind. Her Johnny.

  He poked his head around the door, his hair wet, close to his head, a few tendrils curling up. He looked young, happy, relaxed. “Good, you’re awake. Thank God, it’s Sunday. I’m going down the block to get some bagels. Okay? If you behave I might even spring for some carrot juice.”

  While he was gone Ginny showered and looked in his closet for something to wear to breakfast. A pale gray heavy knit sweater appealed to her, but it was too rough on the skin. She settled for one of his denim shirts, leaving the top buttons undone, not at all sorry, because of her height, it barely covered her behind.

  Exploring the roomy, beautiful apartment, she padded around into a large, brightly lit kitchen where, below a television mounted on the wall, Johnny had already set the breakfast table with cutlery, glasses and coffee mugs. Through a swinging door was a small formal dining area, with round, dark green, almost black malachite table and high-backed, elegant blackwood chairs; concealed by a handsome Japanese screen, the dining area led directly into the living room.

  The peach-colored drapes were still drawn, the soft lamps still lit on the polished tables. Ginny wrapped her arms around herself, shutting her eyes, savoring the memory of the night before.

  On an antique desk in the corner she saw a large silver framed photograph. Although she’d never studied his face, she knew it had to be Quentin Peet. There was a slight resemblance to Johnny, but there was also something formidable in this face, or was it better described as a look of leadership that Johnny didn’t have?

  On the desk a couple of invitations spilled out of opened envelopes. Ginny picked them up idly. One was to a private screening of a new movie, followed by supper at Le Madri. The other looked like a slim book of heavy cream-colored paper with a red-ink sketch of a noble lion on the cover. Was this the Literary Lions invitation? She opened it excitedly.

  “A Literary Evening at the Library honoring literary friends of the Research Libraries of the New York Public Library,” she read. On the next page, side by side, were two lists of names, one under the heading “The Lions,” the other under “The Patrons,” both columns in alphabetical order. Ginny casually scanned the list of Lions, finding, as she’d expected, Quentin Peet’s name.

  She grimaced as she found a name she was not expecting on the patrons’ list—none other than the dreaded Svank. No wonder Poppy wanted a new dress for the “Library do.”

  Just reading Svank’s name was enough to bring the black pit of fear and despair back, along with the now unavoidable knowledge that Alex was using her, involving her in something that could only end in disaster.

  Should she confide in Johnny? No, it was too soon, or was it? After the events of the past few hours she could trust him, couldn’t she? Trust him to look after her, yes, but he would have to tell the police. And perhaps he’d even feel this was the story he’d been looking for, the big one to put him on the map, a story that would surely lead to Svank and who knew what else?

  Nothing had changed. There was nothing she could do—yet—until she heard from Alex. She would give him another month, she told herself. By then she would have met Johnny’s father at the Library do, as Poppy called it. There was no one in the world who had more influence than Quentin Peet, no one who knew more about tracking somebody down and solving problems. She would pretend she’d only just found the jewels and tell both father and son without mentioning Alex’s name. They would know what to do. Yes, that was the answer. She would give Alex one more month. If he hadn’t come to her rescue by then, the Peets would. A rush of relief came just from making this decision.

  She heard the door open. The invitation still in her hand, she turned to greet Johnny, glowing with love, waving it as she said, “I can’t wait for this event, Johnny, darling. I’ll design something special to look like a literary heroine to meet your famous father.”

  Before she finished the sentence, she knew she should never have said it. Johnny scowled and walked past her into the dining area and on into the kitchen. Before she reached him, he’d switched on the television and was pouring himself a cup of coffee, the brown paper bag he’d been carrying, thrown down on the counter.

  “What’s wrong, Johnny?”

  At first she didn’t think he was going to answer. Tim Russert’s voice on Meet the Press filled the kitchen. Then, “Ginny, I told you once before not to push your luck. After all I mistakenly told you no more than a few hours ago, I’m surprised you keep on pushing it.”

  It was impossible to reconcile this tight-lipped stranger with the sweet, loving man who, his arms wrapped around her, had confided in her some of his childhood memories.

  Ginny stared at him uncomprehending. It wasn’t as if his father and he were sworn enemies or never saw each other or talked on the telephone. That wasn’t the case. He’d told her so in a dozen different ways.

  “My father told me at lunch…” she’d heard him say; or “I’ve got to rush, meeting my old ma
n…” And how many times had she read: “John Q. Peet, the columnist, seen here attending one of the many book parties given to celebrate the latest book by his illustrious father, et cetera, et cetera…”

  “What’s going on, Johnny? I don’t get it,” she said angrily. Silent, he kept on sipping his coffee, staring at the TV.

  This was crazy. She wasn’t going to accept the drawbridge going up. She tried to put her arms around him, but he hunched away. “Don’t you understand, Ginny, I keep my private life separate—totally separate—from my father. I made that promise to myself when my marriage broke up. I’m never going to give him the opportunity to say ‘I told you so’ again.”

  She knew she was flushing, for all she knew from her bare behind to her eyebrows. “Thanks a lot. Has it crossed your mind your father might approve of me? Might think I’m a worthy…”

  “Don’t say another word,” Johnny yelled.

  The invitation was still in her hand. Ginny smacked it down on the kitchen table. “So you’re not going to take me to meet your father?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “You’re sick,” she screamed.

  “Maybe so. I call it self-preservation.” As suddenly as she’d triggered his black mood, it was gone. He stood up, pinning her to the wall, his hands tight beneath her naked bottom. “Be patient, Ginny. I know this situation better than you, wouldn’t you agree.”

  “No, I would not. You’re—” His mouth stopped her. She tried to wrest herself out of his arms, but as he began to caress her body, kiss her mouth, her neck, her anger disappeared fast. She was too much in love with him not to respond. As he opened the rest of the buttons on the shirt and his mouth reached her nipples, they began to slither down the wall, wanting each other so much that neither noticed the cold of the tiled floor.

  She didn’t refer to the invitation again or certainly to his father. Johnny tried to make amends when he said sometime during the long, lazy, delirious Sunday, “There are some interesting things coming up, Ginny, things we’ll go to together, maybe even a short trip—and others you’ll go to alone, things we’ll plan a strategy for—to cover for the book.”