For a while, they just sat and ate, reviewing the diagrams and blueprints that Conyers’ assistant had left. It was a companionable silence, one that reminded Remington of the old days.
"You never told me," said Laura, "what you did on your trip."
His fork arrested in mid-air, he looked back at her. He thought he’d managed to escape this line of enquiry.
"You said you were on a quest," she added.
"Oh, that." He chewed and swallowed another bite of sweet and sour pork and reached for his glass. "Nothing."
"Nothing?" she repeated. "Four months, five countries, two continents — what were you looking for?"
"Just — looking."
"Oh." She turned the blueprints a little more to her side. "Is it something I can — "
"Laura?" a now-familiar voice called from the outer office.
Laura didn’t move, other than to call back over her shoulder, "In here!"
Westfield came in and bent to kiss his wife. "Steele," he said, offering his hand.
Remington put his fork down and shook it. He’d felt those raking eyes before, but he was never quite able to discern the mood behind them. Mistrust? Certainly Remington had no reason to be a friend of Westfield’s. Jealousy? That would be understandable, too. If Remington thought there was any possible way to extricate Laura from her marriage, William Westfield would have a good deal to be jealous about.
The problem was, there wasn’t. He’d learned that within forty eight hours of his return to Los Angeles, and he had an idea Westfield knew it, too. And if Westfield didn’t, then he didn’t know his wife very well.
"Angela said you were working late," Laura’s husband was saying.
Carefully masked hostility? Remington could sympathize; he felt it himself.
"That’s what Angela said about you," Laura replied.
"We wound up the deposition a little sooner than we expected, so I just stopped by — "
" — hoping we were finished, too?"
Westfield’s smile was at once hopeful and sheepish. Remington gazed at Laura as she gazed up at her husband. The room was very warm, all of a sudden.
"You go on, Laura," he said abruptly, dragging the blueprints away from her. "I can take care of this."
"What, all this?"
"You forget," he smiled. "Analysis of security systems is my specialty."
Reluctantly, Laura rose. "You’re sure," she asked, hanging back.
Westfield already had her jacket ready for her.
He waved aside her objections. "I’m sure. Go on home. I’ll have it ready in no time."
"Okay." She touched his shoulder; he brushed her away gently. Her fingers burned him.
Then she slipped into her jacket and went out.
* * *
Steele ordered another drink at the bar. A day spent discreetly trailing the happy couple through every tourist spot in Acapulco was exhausting by anyone’s standard. He was certain Laura hadn’t spotted him, but the reasons why he’d done it were incomprehensible to him. If he were smart, he’d be on the next plane out of this godforsaken country. He’d put a thousand miles between himself and Laura Holt before daybreak. He’d go to bed with the first woman who seemed so inclined, and then the next, and the next. . . .
This Westfield character was so damned solicitous. And he touched Laura, all the time, even when there was no need for it! Oh, Steele understood why Westfield couldn’t keep his hands off Laura, he just wished she would keep her hands off Westfield. The frosting on Steele’s cake had come when Westfield and Laura walked hand-in-hand back to the hotel. Westfield leaned down and spoke a few words in Laura’s ear, and she’d looked up at him, beaming.
"Buddy, you’re staying at the hotel, right? I mean, I wouldn’t want you getting behind the wheel after what you’ve put away tonight." The well-meaning bartender trod gingerly.
"My good man, I am not inebriated." He wasn’t very convincing, and even he knew it. "But no, I won’t be leaving the confines of the hotel this evening." Steele tipped his head back and swilled the twelve-year-old single-malt scotch in a manner he would later recall with regret.
"Look, whoever she is, she’s not worth it, trust me." World-weary, the young man delivered his rote speech.
Steele’s eyes narrowed as he concentrated on addressing the middle bartender of the trio.
"Trust me, mate, she is." Why it took him this long to realize it, to admit it to himself, and to be willing to let her in on the secret, he couldn’t fathom.
"Yeah? Then why are you sitting here getting sloshed? Where is she?"
Steele slammed his tumbler down with more force than he’d intended. "With another man."
The bartender looked up at Steele, then reached for his glass to refill it. "Then the next one’s on me, pal."
Covering the mouth of his glass, Steele said, "Better make that a black coffee, mate." He was momentarily buoyed by the man’s generosity. "So tell me," as he squinted at the barkeep’s name tag, "Artie, what’s a Brooklynite doing tending bar in Acapulco?"
"Me? Gee, nobody ever asks about me." Artie rubbed his hands together in anticipation after he set Steele’s mug of black coffee in front of him. "I came here on spring break seven years ago. Loved it! Surf, sand, booze, babes," he winked conspiratorially at Steele, "if ya catch my drift?"
Steele quickly downed the hot brew. "Oh, I catch it, all right. How about a head on this, Artie?"
"You got it." Artie refilled Steele’s mug, and then turned his attention to a large group of partygoers who had descended on the bar.
Steele gave a salute to his new friend as he rose unsteadily and blazed a tentative path to a table in the corner of the bar. He slumped in the club chair and set his mug on the table.
Even Artie, the aging surfer boy, felt sorry for Steele, and Steele definitely felt sorry for himself. Why was he here, why had he followed Laura? Was it merely because of the challenge, because it looked like someone else might have won her heart when he had not? Why was he so willing to leave her behind? Or at least he’d been willing to leave until Mildred filled him in on Laura’s Mexican adventure with the golden-boy lawyer, the would-be Senator Westfield.
And how had Laura reacted? Predictably, in Steele’s view, and not at all happy to see him in Mexico. But she’d unnerved him, had actually shaken him to his core. He had assumed, until that very moment, that the first time he’d see Laura so sated after a night in bed with a man would be the first night she and he made love. With the knowledge that she’d just tumbled out of bed with Westfield, he couldn’t bring himself to tell her what he’d come all this way to say. But now he found he couldn’t leave until he said it.
Standing now, Steele fished some good old American greenbacks from his wallet and tossed them on the table for Artie.
* * *
By starting early in the morning, it was usually possible to get in eighteen holes without breaking much of a sweat, but not this Saturday. The beach, Laura noted too late, would have been a better choice.
William reminded her that golf had been her idea.
"If it’s like this now, how bad’s it going to be this summer?" she groused.
William smiled. "If you think this is bad, you’ve never lived in Texas."
"No," Laura admitted. "But I’ve lived in the Valley."
Westfield hauled her set of clubs up the stairs to her loft. Laura rinsed off her hands and tossed a cool towel in his direction. Blotting his face, he flopped on the couch while Laura found some glasses and a pitcher of iced tea.
If she didn’t bring up the name of Remington Steele at such moments, she knew William would; to show he wasn’t concerned about the hole Steele had left in her life, apparently, or his own place in it, or maybe just to share her concerns.
Sure enough: "Heard from your boss?" he asked, chugging the iced tea and holding his glass out for more.
She poured him another glass. Sitting beside him, she drew her legs up under her. "William," she said, for about the tenth time: "He’s not really my boss."
"Sure. I know he looked on you as a partner. You were friends, and you were involved with him — "
"No." She put her glass down and took his out of his hands. "I mean, he’s not my boss because it’s my agency. I just used his name to bring in clients. Remington Steele Investigations — sounds pretty distinguished, doesn’t it? And then he got involved — and we’ve been partners ever since."
William took this in. "Of course it makes sense," he said finally. "You’re smart, talented. He’s obviously the kind of guy who can’t be bothered, so you run the show for him."
"It’s more than that," she said, and suddenly, for some reason — she felt she could trust him, or she wanted him to trust her; she wanted their relationship to be real, not based on falsehood and omission and deception — she explained the reality of Remington Steele, as she had conceived him years ago, and as he had come to be.
He listened all the way through and then just sat and looked at her. "You’re telling me you fabricated the whole thing," he said at last.
"Yes."
"Out of whole cloth."
She could feel it slipping away, but she didn’t back down. She wanted to be honest. She wanted him to know. "Just about."
"And then one day, he walked in — "
" — and assumed Remington Steele’s identity."
"And you’ve been partners ever since."
"Until he left." Laura put some emphasis on the leaving aspect.
Running a hand through his hair, William got up and paced around a little. This was how she imagined him in court: pacing back and forth in front of the jurors, in front of the witness, about to deliver a startling pronouncement. The golf clothes didn’t detract one bit from the scene.
Laura waited, her heart sinking.
"I take back what I said," he announced, turning to face her. "You’re not smart. You’re some kind of genius."
When she looked at him, she found the same guy, the same handsome, straightforward, wonderful guy, looking back at her. He hadn’t changed. Her ridiculous story hadn’t changed him, hadn’t changed his opinion of her. Somehow, he could see into her, see all her reasons, just from knowing her.
What she saw in his face was so reassuring, her words poured out in a flood. "It didn’t start out like much," she explained. "It sort of mushroomed. And he’s really good — I mean, he really was good at being Remington Steele." She took a deep breath, blew it out, looked away. "I guess he just didn’t want to, any more."
"I’m sorry," he said, "that he didn’t deserve you. I can see how much you loved him."
Laura glanced up sharply. "I don’t know if I did or not," she admitted. "I was always afraid he’d pull something like this. Maybe I drove him away. Self-fulfilling prophecy: I’m afraid he’ll leave, so he goes. Simple."
"And now you’re going to keep up the façade, even though he’s gone?"
"Mildred’s the only other person who knows. I did it alone — well, with Murphy and Berniece; they used to work for me — for more than a year. I can do it again." She took his hands in hers and sat back from him. "If it’s too much — too crazy — for a man with his eye on a political career, I understand."
"Political career?" he repeated. "That’s pretty much by the wayside, now."
"But not for long," she countered. "You have so many ideas, William. So much ability, so much to offer."
"Yeah, well, I learned something from all this. Right now, I need to focus on what’s right in front of me: my practice — and you."
There remained but one obstacle. "I have to be honest with you, William," she told him. "Whether I loved him or not, whether he loved me, Mr. Steele and I were very close."
"I get the picture."
"But we couldn’t — "
" — ever make it work. I know."
"So I don’t know if it’s time for me to — I don’t know if it’s fair to you — "
"Take your time," he told her. "it’s okay."
* * *
Laura zipped herself into a black leather jacket and checked the pockets for her gloves.
"Are you sure you don’t need to take Mildred along?"
"Mildred?" she repeated. "What for?"
"Or Gary."
"For this?" She smiled and pulled on her cap. "It’s a stakeout, not an invasion."
"I just don’t want you to get hurt."
"William." She put her arms around him and smiled up into his frowning visage. "It’s a stakeout."
"If he runs out on you again … "
"He won’t."
"Laura, the guy left you flat. Who can tell when he’s going to do it again?"
"Not in the middle of a case!"
"Maybe not that time. But what about before? Remember? You told me he — "
She took a step back. "Are you telling me how to do my job?"
"No. I’m just telling you that a man in his position might not be too reliable."
"And what position is that?"
"Come on, Laura. You just have to look at the guy to know — "
"What?"
"That he still loves you. I just don’t think it’s safe, or reasonable, for you to be out all night with him."
Laura chewed a corner of her lip and looked away.
"You expect things to be business as usual. I think he expects something else."
"Let me worry about that." She reached up to kiss him, then bounced up again to encircle his neck with her arms and offer a more sincere proof of her regard for him. Then she grabbed up her camera and purse. "Home before dawn," she promised.
"I’ll be waiting."
She popped back in to advise, "Get some sleep."
The coffee maker and the doorbell sounded at the same time. Laura swung the door open on Steele and headed back to the kitchen. He entered warily behind her, followed her at a distance.
"Almost ready," she told him, pulling a large thermos down from a cupboard.
"I have coffee," he said, holding up a thermos of his own.
"Great! We’ll have lots." She took some sandwiches out of the refrigerator and packed everything into a bag.
When she got home, she found William propped up in bed with a book. He’d made quite a lot of progress.
"I thought I told you to get some sleep," she remarked, peeling off her jacket.
"You did." He turned over a page. "See anything."
"We got some pretty good pictures."
"Good. That’s good."
When she got out of the shower, the bedroom was dark.
* * *
Westfield had become such a fixture around the office that Mildred barely gave him the time of day as she bustled out to follow up a lead. "Miss Holt should be back soon. If the phone rings, just take a message!"
"Busy day," he said, rising from his station at the phone when Laura came in.
"Where’s Mildred?"
"Out on a case."
He handed her two message slips. Laura laughed at the picture they made and went on into her office.
It looked a bit different. She’d begun taking down the publicity photos; the few that were left held fond memories, and William caught her staring at them before she put down her purse. She put the messages by the phone and began opening drawers, in search of something.
She felt his eyes on her. "You’re a detective," he suggested carefully. "Have you looked for him?"
Abandoning her search for nothing, Laura crossed the room and climbed up on the sofa. Reaching for the highest picture frame, she jerked it off the wall and stepped down again.
"He’s the one who cleared out," she said, carelessly adding the photo to the stack. "It’s not like he was kidnapped."
"At one point, you were afraid he was dead, that he might’ve killed himself or something."
"For love of me." Laura grimaced. "That’s not the way Remington Steele thinks. That was Laura Holt, still grieving a might-have-been."
"You still haven’t answered my question."
"I know he’s left the country. We stopped tracing him after that. He’s probably back in Monte Carlo or Cannes, leading a wonderful life with his merry band of conniving crooks." Realizing how bitter that sounded, she gave a little shrug. "Look, I’ve never tried to find my father, either. A man leaves; good riddance. I’m not dragging anybody back."
Of course talk like that would scare off any sensible man, and Laura really thought William Westfield was a sensible guy. He stuck around though, with his golf dates and Dodger tickets, lending a hand occasionally with a case, helping screen resumes for the job she’d advertised.
Her curfew by now had become a memory, and it was dinner, and dancing, that William had come to fetch her for. Laura was surprised to find herself indulging more and more often in hot and idle daydreams involving a weekend in Mexico, or Catalina, or at William’s condominium in Westwood.
* * *
Determined to spend at least one night in her own bed, Laura left the warmth of William’s to return to her room on the fourth floor. After removing her makeup, carefully cleansing her face, brushing and flossing her teeth, and changing into the negligee she hadn’t worn yet in Mexico, Laura crawled into bed and faced her demons.
With astonishing clarity, she flashed through three years with Remington Steele. In those early days it was lust, plain and simple. It was all she could do to keep her hands off him. But as time wore on, she grew to love him, and in so doing, instill him with the power to hurt her. It was easy to find reasons not to give in to her feelings, to mistrust his undeclared feelings for her; she’d done that time and again. Each romantic setting, paired with every missed opportunity, came back to haunt her. And Laura admitted to herself, then and there, that she hadn't been giving her all in her attempts at a relationship with Steele. It was safer not to, really. It was safer to keep him at a distance, to devote all that energy to the business, to keep her feelings for him, powerful as they were, in a secure little box, and only let them out for air on occasion. For if they saw the light of day any more often, if she allowed herself to feel that depth of emotion, she'd know what an enormous hole in her heart would be carved out, if he weren't there to fill it. And yet, wasn't it wrong to keep him at arms' length, for fear of losing him, for if she ever did lose him, all she'd regret was the distance she'd maintained?
She leapt from the bed, shed her nightgown, and began pulling on clothes. If she hurried, maybe he’d still be in Los Angeles. And if he’d already left, she’d find him. She was a detective, for god’s sake. She tried not to think about the very realistic possibility that the man she knew as Remington Steele could disappear without a trace, if he wanted to. But a knock on her door stopped her frenzied attempts to dress. If it was William, Laura thought it likely she’d scream.
But it wasn’t Westfield after all. It was Steele, looking bedraggled and worn-out, and smelling more than a little of drink. She was so surprised to see him, when moments earlier she’d been wondering whether she ever would again, that she just stared.
With a crack in his voice, he asked, "Will you let me in, Laura? I need to see you."
When she opened the door wider, he crossed the threshold.
"I called Westfield’s room, and he answered. So I took a chance that you were here. I had to see you. Alone." He stopped and looked at her. She closed the door deliberately behind him, and returned his stare.
"I don’t know why I never told you before. Why I let it get this far. Or maybe I do know why. Maybe I was afraid that if I did, if you didn’t feel the same, it’d all be over." He stopped rambling for a moment, and moved closer to her. His eyes flashed with a spark of ire. "No, that wasn’t it at all! I wanted it all from you. I wanted you, body and soul! And I wanted you on my terms, not yours. I thought if I waited long enough, you’d come to me of your own accord."
Steele turned away for a moment, before turning back and blurting, "Dammit, Laura, I love you! Don’t you know that yet?"
She reeled back. Steele’s words felt like an accusation to Laura. "How could I know?!"
"How could you not know?" he countered. "I mean, how obtuse are you? You’re denying the obvious."
Laura took two steps back, and Steele took three steps toward her. "Call it whatever you want. It’s as plain as day! Remember, this isn’t the first time I’ve followed you to Acapulco. Risked my neck with the local constabulary. Why? Because I didn’t want you to get hurt."
Laura’s brown eyes flashed. "I don’t need a babysitter!"
"Of course, how could I forget? Laura Holt, emancipated woman. Doesn’t need anyone! And speaking of geography, what about San Francisco?"
"What about it?" Laura was wary.
"You were the one who said it was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for you. Or have you forgotten?"
"No, I haven’t forgotten."
"And what about when your house was blown to bits, right before our eyes?’
"You were a good friend to me," she answered.
"I was more than that, Laura, and you know it." Steele placed his hands on her shoulders, and leaned toward her.
She shrugged out of his touch. "But not once did you tell me you----"
"Here we go again! Playing that worn-out tune, are we? Who else but a man in love would put up with all your petty grievances, your torpid games, your intricate challenges---" Steele was shouting now. "And who else would follow you here, knowing you were with---" and he paused; could he say Westfield’s name? "another man? Who else would hang around like a down-trodden puppy, hoping you’d tire of him, hoping that you didn’t love him, that it was me you loved instead. . . ."
"But I do love you," she exclaimed.
"Do you really? You picked a damn fine way to show it."
Laura cried out, "Hold on! You were the one who’d packed up everything and was heading out of town."
"You said we needed some time to think things through."
"And that’s what you thought I meant? Pack up all of your belongings and head out of town??"
"Oh, how silly of me! What you meant was you’d pack an overnighter and head down Mexico way with Westfield!"
"For what it’s worth, even as I was waiting at the ticket counter, I knew I couldn’t go through with it. I knew I cared about you, and I had a pretty good idea you cared about me. I couldn’t leave with William before I knew we didn’t have a chance. But then when I saw you, with everything you own, heading out of the country, I just. . . snapped."
"I was going to find out my name."
"You were what? What’re you talking about?" She was incredulous.
"I thought if I could lay my name at your feet, then maybe---you were always asking me for it, how could I tell you I didn’t even know my real name?"
She was silent, but the look on her face told him it wouldn’t have mattered to her.
Steele sat heavily on the bed and tentatively pulled Laura to him, grasping her hips with his hands. "We’ve been working so hard and so long at not having a relationship, do we know how to do anything else?"
"We’ll never know unless we try." Laura leaned a little closer to Steele, and gave him reason to surmise that there might be a chance after all.
He placed an arm around her shoulders while he brushed back the hair from her eyes. "I know I should say something gallant about wanting what’s best for you, but it’d be a lie. I want you, and I don’t give a damn if you’re better off with Westfield."
"I’m not," she whispered into his chest.
"Not what?"
"Not better off with him."
"I’m not so sure, but it’s not in my best interest to disagree right now. Now will you come home with me? Please."
* * *
"What’s the problem, chief? Not enough sleep after last night’s stake out?"
"You’ve put your finger on it, Mildred. Not enough sleep."
"Then why don’t I go and hang out the Do not Disturb sign. You can curl up on the couch and catch a little shut-eye."
He shook his head. "If I can’t sleep at home, Mildred, how do you expect me to sleep here?"
Sympathetic, Mildred made him a fresh cup of tea.
"Mrs. Westfield wants everything to be like the old days," he observed, taking a tentative sip. "She sits in the car and rattles on about the case and imagines everything’s all right."
"But it’s not?"
"Of course it’s not. There’s this whole swathe of her life now that can’t be mentioned. ‘How was your weekend?’" he mimicked. "‘Oh, fine. How was yours?’ ‘Oh, fine.’ Nary a word about how the weekend was spent, what was done. She doesn’t want to tell me, I suppose. None of my business."
"Maybe she’s afraid to tell you. Maybe she thinks it’ll make you feel bad, like she’s gloating or something."
"Gloating over her wonderful life in Brentwood? Impossible. I don’t want to know what she and Westfield are up to. I don’t want to know anything. I just want to — know how things are."
"I used to know a guy," said Mildred, "who was so tight lipped about his life that the lady he loved didn’t even know how he felt about her."
"The shoe on the other foot, Mildred?"
"It pinches a little, doesn’t it?"
"It does, indeed."
* * *
A reception at his firm wasn't William's idea of a great date,
but he tried to make it more palatable by saying they wouldn't
stay long, they'd leave as soon as they could, they'd go on to
a really good dinner at the Top of Five and then .
Laura had to smile at his concern. The reception was fine,
really; she could see where he worked; how boring could it be?
"Pretty boring," William admitted, as they went up the
elevator. "Bunch of lawyers. "
A bunch of lawyers, was right, but she'd already met some of them,
out on the links. "Ah, Miss Holt," one of them
grinned. "Thought you'd be incognito without your nine
iron?"
She laughed and shook hands and looked around her. Uniformed
staff were handing around trays of canapés and glasses
of champagne; the lawyers certainly kept the bartender hopping;
in addition to the trays of treats, there was a buffet spread
out under a huge stretch of window.
"We won't need to go on for dinner," she told him, as
he guided her toward the senior partners.
"Don't get comfortable," he insisted. "Just
a few more minutes and we can make our escape."
Soon after the introductions, William was drawn into some shop
talk, and Laura took the opportunity to visit the ladies' room.
She touched up her lipstick and smoothed her hair and smiled at
herself in the glass. When she came out again, she saw William
fully engaged in conversation and wandered over to the buffet.
A carrot stick wouldn't spoil her appetite. Nor would some
of that guacamole.
She looked up once and found William gazing at her. From
his startled expression, she had the feeling he'd been looking
at her for a while, and that somehow she'd caught him.
Laura knew that look; men had turned it on her many times before.
Steele, certainly, had often looked at her that way. Except
there was something more here. Something she hadn't seen
before, something deeper, something she couldn't quite put her
finger on.
The look became beckoning, and she made her way to him.
He was already making his excuses, pleading a prior commitment,
listening to good natured remarks about how of course he'd rather
not spend the rest of his evening hanging around the office when
the alternative was taking Miss Holt out on the town.
At dinner, they ate and talked and Laura began to find that that
same deep look in his eyes reflected her own.
* * *
Remington was already seated behind the wheel before he realized he’d left his briefcase in the office. He’d seldom had reason to carry one before — not that he had much of a reason to do so now, except with the expanded staff and Laura’s husband’s example it seemed a necessary accoutrement — and he wasn’t into the habit yet.
Slamming the door of the Auburn, he headed for the escalator and took the steps two at a time to the lobby. There, he endured an interminable wait for the elevator, and then found himself, out of habit, on the one that only went to the twelfth floor. He went back down, fuming, and waited again, and at last got on the one that would carry him to the seventeenth floor. He crouched to unlock the door and went to his office.
There it was, propped against the wall in the corner. He snatched it up. As he went out, he noticed light showing under Laura’s door. Laura had already gone out — without, he noted, saying good night. In a rush, no doubt, to get home to Westfield.
No sense in wasting electricity; he pushed the door open and reached for the switch.
Laura hadn’t left after all.
"Ah," he said automatically. "Sorry … "
She didn’t look up. For some reason, she wasn’t sitting in her chair; she was kneeling on it, or leaning against it, and —
Remington backtracked hurriedly, pulling the door shut with what he hoped was complete silence. With their attention fully focused elsewhere, it was possible they hadn’t heard him, hadn’t noticed. His heart thudded in his chest, and he walked back to his office and locked himself in.
What was she thinking? he wondered. Doing that — that! — and not bothering to lock the door. Anyone could have walked in: Mildred, Gary, the janitor, a client … He had a mind to say something to her about it. Did she really consider the office to be an appropriate venue for that sort of activity? Except he had long considered the office an excellent venue, had made creative use of that venue many a time in his dreams.
What he wouldn’t give — years of his life! — to be in Westfield’s shoes at this moment.
He closed his eyes, and the scene came back to him more vividly: the way Laura’s hair swung forward to shade her face, the way her blouse had slipped back on her shoulders, the way her hiked-up skirt revealed — His eyes snapped open, and he stared at the wall, trying to replace the image in his head with something he could bear to see. His pulse raced, and Remington had to take several deep breaths before his hands stopped shaking and he felt he had enough power in his knees to walk quietly out of the office and lock the door behind him.
* * *
Laura left the office a bit later than planned. She'd had to explain three times before the situation was completely understood by the client. It saddened her to see someone who had come through the door the week before, angry and suspicious, reduced to tears because a still-wet set of photos proved there was every reason to be angry and suspicious.
Before heading out, she called William with her ETA.
"The grill's all set," he replied. "And so am I."
She smiled and hung up. She was still smiling as she bade Mildred good night.
Mildred, fresh from soothing the client, was already making out the check for deposit. "Good night, Miss Holt." Of course there was no special nuance to her words.
The drive to Westwood was a short one. The Rabbit zipped down Olympic and up Veteran, then circled the block as Laura looked for a parking space.
The gate buzzed as soon as she pressed the intercom button; she pushed it open and entered a pleasant courtyard. It was a fairly large complex, but the individual townhouses were designed to make it seem like a little village. Potted shrubs flanked each of the dozen or so doorways clustered around a lawn and palm trees.
She turned to her left, per William's instructions. She barely had time to see the number on the door before it swung in to reveal William Westfield, Esq., in full barbecue mode.
"Bienvenida a casa Westfield," he announced.
"Gracias," she replied, laughing. She slipped out of her jacket, and William hung it up in the hall closet. "This is nice," she added, following him through to the living room.
Large windows looked out to the south and west, and a balcony wrapped around both sides. She could see smoke from the grill wafting on the evening breeze.
"Like a drink?" he asked, trying to settle her in a comfy chair. "Or iced tea. Or sangria."
"I'll have what you're having," she answered.
"Sangria it is."
He headed back toward the kitchen; Laura went with him. After pouring a couple of glasses, he raised his.
"Happy days," he proposed.
"Cheers," Laura replied. Her eyes smiled at him over the top of her glass.
A little table was set on the balcony. The approaching sunset was blocked by the building across the street, but it was nice to be outdoors. Laura helped William ferry out a big bowl of lettuce; he followed with some potato salad and the pitcher. Zucchini and peppers and the steaks were pulled off the grill at precisely the right moment.
"This is good," Laura said, tasting the potato salad.
"I'll pass your compliments along to the chef."
She looked at him blankly.
"Maria," he explained. "My cleaning lady. She helped me pull this together. You didn't think I — "
"Oh. Well." Laura shrugged, a little embarrassed. Why had she assumed he could cook? She knew why. "I thought — I guess I thought it might be your mother's recipe."
"Oh, it is. My grandmother's, actually. Maria was kind enough to make it this morning." He put down his fork. "You look disappointed."
"What? No. Oh, no." She touched his hand, let hers lie on his for a moment, felt their fingers twine briefly. "No. I was just wondering if Maria can come over and lend a hand when we have dinner at my place."
He laughed at that and poured another glass of punch.
Just as they were finishing dinner, the sun went down and the marine layer — referred to on weather reports as June Gloom — began to roll in off the ocean. Laura shivered, and William proposed they adjourn inside. As she stacked the plates, he made sure the grill was completely shut down, then grabbed whatever remained off the table. Laura ran the sprayer in a cursory way over everything in the sink; when she turned around, she ran full into him.
"Sorry," she said automatically.
He wrapped his arms around her. "For what?" he enquired.
With a little shrug, she put her hands on his waist. This was not the beginning of a friendly hug, and Laura wasn’t sure, all of a sudden, whether she was ready to go in that direction.
Looking up into his smiling eyes, she replied, "Whatever."
He laughed at that and laid his cheek against her hair. Maybe it was a friendly hug. They stood a long time like that. Laura's mind had shifted straight into overdrive, and as she tried to keep it from racing, she realized William was saying something.
" … some music?"
"Great," she agreed.
His stereo set-up was pretty elaborate, his collection of records, tapes and CDs eclectic. Snapping open the case on a disc, he remarked, "We’ll see how this sounds."
It was not, thank God, Sinatra. It was nice and romantic, though, and with one shove, William had the coffee table out of the way. Laura put her hand in his and let him pull her right up against him.
Laura turned over. She wasn’t alone; someone sighed and shifted in the bed next to her. She opened her eyes. The grey light of early morning revealed a head of short brown hair resting on the other pillow. Even in the dimness, she recognized that this was not her loft; it was somebody else’s bedroom.
Her heart felt like a lump in her chest until it turned over suddenly and kicked into high gear. She sat up and took a deep breath to steady herself.
What to do? What was she supposed to do? She’d almost forgotten the etiquette.
She got out of bed. She made no extra effort to be quiet, but William was obviously sleeping the sleep of the just. Washing quickly, she wrapped herself in a towel and went in search of her clothes. Like Hansel and Gretel’s breadcrumbs, she found them scattered on the stairs: bra, slip, blouse. They led her to the living room, where her pantyhose and skirt lay in a heap by the couch.
All of William’s clothes were nearby, more neatly arranged.
Dancing had eventually devolved to a kind of slow, mutual shuffle in a gently contracting circle. Laura felt herself melting under his kiss. It was warm and passionate, more searching than demanding. Without thinking, out of habit, she detached herself and struggled to the surface.
"William," she said. "I’m not sure if — "
His eyes narrowed. " — if this is a good idea?" he suggested.
"No. No, not that," she told him, fingering his tie. "It’s just — " Just that he deserved so much more than someone who was on the rebound. Deserved more than her confusion. She didn’t want to mention any names — she hadn’t mentioned that name in a while now — but there was still that shadow between them, still that disappointment that she didn’t quite have a whole heart to offer.
"What?" he asked. "Tell me."
"Well." She tried to think of the right way to put it as she tossed aside his tie and unbuttoned another button on his shirt. For some reason, her palms were sweaty. "I don’t want you to think that I don’t want to. Because I do." Oh, God, she thought, letting his shirt drop to the floor. Could she be any more trite than that?
"You do?"
"Of course I do! I’m just not sure if we’re ready. If I’m ready." The belt buckle was a little tricky.
"Of course," he agreed. He bent down for a moment, as if he’d dropped something. Straightening, he added, "When it’s the right time, we’ll both know."
Weak with relief that she didn’t have to argue or justify herself or wonder if he were mad or if she’d been stupid, Laura laid his trousers over the back of the couch.
"Thank you for understanding," she told him. "I’m sorry if I sound like I don’t — "
"Laura."
She looked up at him. His eyes crinkled up in a smile, even though he seemed to be quite serious.
"Would I be way off base here if I thought I was getting some mixed signals?"
He was lean and nicely muscled, and his striped blue underwear seemed a bit too tight for him all of a sudden.
"Oh," said Laura, stepping back. She realized why it seemed so hot in here. "What was I saying?"
William was laughing. "I have no idea."
She was, too. "What the hell," she said, and leapt up into his arms.
He’d staggered back a couple of steps and, his lips crushed to hers, maneuvered them onto the couch.
Distantly, she heard someone in the bathroom, and then footsteps on the stairs.
"Good morning," said William.
The smile came to her lips unforced; of course it was a good morning.
"I see you found a toothbrush."
"Sorry." She shrugged, a little embarrassed. "I was kind of desperate."
"If I’d expected — No." He shook his head. "If I were a better host, I’d’ve put one out for you."
She got up and encircled his neck with her arms. "It was a lovely evening."
He grinned back at her. "Breakfast?" he suggested.
"Sure. I’ll help — "
A little clock on the mantel began to chime. Laura took his watch out of his hands.
"Oh, my God."
"What?"
"I’ve got a nine o’clock! And that new investigator — " Her mind went blank.
"Gary?" he offered helpfully.
"Right. Gary. Mr. Sanchez.. He starts today and I — " She studied the rumpled blouse, then fled upstairs, shedding the towel on the way.
When she came back down, mostly dressed — the stockings were a loss — she found William sitting outside in his bathrobe, reading the paper. She grabbed a bite of toast while hopping on one foot, trying to buckle the strap on her shoe.
"Aren’t you going to work today?" she asked, as she bent over to do the strap on the other.
He smiled up over the paper. "First appointment’s not till ten thirty."
"What happened to that Protestant work ethic?"
Glancing casually at his watch, he replied, "Oh, I’ll probably work late, like someone else I know."