"Hey, chief," said Mildred, leaning into his office.
Remington glanced up.
"Got a minute?"
He surveyed the otherwise empty room. "Possibly."
"The Dragon Ladies are in the prelims of the tournament tonight!"
"Congratulations, Mildred. Well done!"
"So I was thinking — "
Holding up a hand to forestall the inevitable, he replied, "Thank you, Mildred. An evening at Thunderbird Lanes sounds delightful, but I’ve already made plans for the evening."
"You have?"
"I have. But thank you for the invitation."
"You haven’t heard it yet."
"No?"
"I wasn’t going to ask you to the tournament. I was just trying to tell you that Esther’s daughter’s moved back to L.A., and I was thinking that if you weren’t busy, maybe you’d like to come over and have a bite to eat, and then Jill can drive her mother over to my place to share a ride, and you could meet her, and it wouldn’t look like we were fixing the two of you up."
"Mildred, that is so convoluted it can only look like you’re fixing us up." Remington couldn’t begin to enumerate the holes in the plan. "Doesn’t Esther have a car? Why does she need her daughter to drive her? Why don’t you just pick her up? If I’m not going to the tournament, for what possible reason would I be at your house?"
Their indispensable secretary had already considered this. "Can you fix a garbage disposal?"
He stared at her. "Why on earth would I — "
"Or maybe install a lock."
"I can pick one," he said. "Take one apart. Put it back together … "
Mildred shook her head. "Doesn’t matter. If you’re busy, you’re busy." She turned to go.
"Let’s not be so hasty, Mildred," he suggested, half rising from his desk. "This Dragon Lady daughter. She would be about — "
"Thirty."
"Brunette?"
"Blonde."
"Natural?"
"Just like her mother."
Remington wouldn’t put any money on that, but that was by the way. "Fat?"
Mildred smoothed her dress over her hips as she mulled this over. "Average."
"Single, obviously."
"Oh, she’s that all right."
"Any particular reason?"
"Not ready to settle down, really choosy, run of bad luck, who knows? And what’s it matter, anyway?"
"Just trying to get me back on my feet, eh, Mildred?"
The edges of her eyes crinkled as she smiled. "You just need some cheering up, Mr. Steele."
"Indeed. Let’s see about that lock, then, eh?"
To make things realistic, Remington dismantled the lock on Mildred’s kitchen door and was putting it back together when the doorbell rang. He heard cheerful greetings, and then the Dragon Lady and her daughter came into view.
"Oh, hi, there, Mr. Steele," said the Dragon Lady in her low, rasping voice.
He wiped his hands on a towel. "Esther. How nice to see you again."
"I don’t think you’ve met my daughter," she offered suggestively.
Mildred elbowed her fellow-bowler aside and took over the introductions. "Jill, this is Remington Steele, the head of our agency."
"How do you do?" smiled Jill.
"A pleasure," Remington replied, and he meant it.
The four of them stood around in awkward, or expectant, silence for a moment. Then Esther grabbed Mildred’s arm.
"Mildred!" she exclaimed. "Didn’t you tell me you got new curtains for your bathroom?"
"Oh!" Mildred replied, only momentarily startled. "Yes!" she agreed enthusiastically, back on her game. "Would you like to see them?"
"Love to," Jill’s mother told her. "I’m thinking of re-doing my bathroom myself and I … "
The two older women bustled ostentatiously out of the room.
Esther’s daughter let out a pent-up breath. "My mom thinks she’s being really subtle."
"Ah, yes." He kicked idly at a speck of dust on the carpet. "Mildred’s certain the thing’s in the bag."
She shook her head ruefully and glanced up at him out of the corner of her eye.
He had no choice but to smile at her. She was really quite pretty, and her voice was pleasant and soothing; unlike her mother’s, it hadn’t been spoiled by a lifetime of whiskey and cigarettes.
Taking one hand out of his pocket, he tugged thoughtfully at his ear. "You wouldn’t — ah — " What’s the matter, mate? he thought. Forgotten how to ask a woman out, have we? He tried again. "You wouldn’t happen to be free for dinner," he suggested, this time with utter confidence. "Thursday evening, perhaps?"
She gave him a sharp look before realizing he was serious.
"This Thursday?"
He shrugged. "Day after tomorrow."
"Oh!" she said, flushing a bit. "I — Yes. I am, I think."
Hadn’t lost his touch after all. After a moment of confused searching she pulled a card out of her wallet and wrote her home number on the back.
"Lawyer?" he said, reading both sides of the card.
"Need one?"
"Ah, no." He tucked it carefully away and fixed on her the smile that never failed to dazzle any woman who had a pulse. "That is," he added, "except to spend a pleasant evening with."
Sometime later, inspection of the non-existent new curtains complete and the requisite number of private minutes having elapsed, Mildred and Esther returned to find Mr. Steele explaining the workings of a lock to Ms. Jill Silverman, Esq.
* * *
Camping wasn’t exactly Laura’s idea of a weekend out of town. She enjoyed hiking with William on the trails in the hills above Malibu, and a ride around Griffith Park on a couple of recalcitrant horses from the livery stable was a lot more fun than it seemed at first. But Laura drew the line at camping. Lying under the stars, snuggled together in a sleeping bag — William’s lyrical description brought back an unwanted memory, and Laura began lobbying for silk sheets and room service.
"Catalina?" he offered instead.
Laura loved Catalina. If only someone else hadn’t always been proposing that romantic island as a destination.
"What about — " she began to suggest.
He laid a finger on her lips. "What about a surprise?"
His eyes sparkled with anticipation; Laura decided to give him the pleasure of choosing a secret destination for a weekend of wonderful togetherness and carnal delights.
She had a case in progress, but managed to wind it up Friday morning. Friday afternoon, she found herself in William’s Mercedes, rolling up to the valet at the Disneyland Hotel.
"You’ve got to be kidding," she said.
"What? You don’t like Disneyland?"
"Well, yes, but — "
"Are you scoffing at the possibility of turning Pirates of the Caribbean into a tunnel of love?"
"Not at all. I’ve always found all that ‘Yo ho’-ing kind of a turn-on."
"I know you better than you think," he winked.
From Laura’s point of view, they couldn’t get checked in fast enough.
* * *
Laura had been staring out the window since take-off. The white puffy clouds mesmerized her, shielded her from the astounding chaos she’d made of her life over the course of one short weekend. Staring at them, she could almost imagine she was floating, floating, with no tethers, no shockingly poor decisions weighting her down-----
"Did you call him at least? Tell him you were leaving, going back with me?"
She turned and snapped at him: "Of course I did. What do you take me for?"
Steele knew when to keep silent. When he thought it was safe, he reached across the chasm that was the armrest and clasped her hand in his. She returned the gesture by squeezing his hand; a ceasefire was tacitly agreed upon.
* * *
Any qualms he might have had about his evening with Jill vanished the instant he handed her into the limo. "Take us to Rex, Fred," he commanded.
"Yes, sir," Fred replied.
"Rex?" Jill repeated.
"You don’t care for it?"
"No. Oh, no! I’ve never been there. I’ve just read about it."
He settled back smugly, prepared to dazzle.
The maitre d’ of Rex Il Ristorante led them to a secluded table. When he consulted her about her wine preferences, he found her ready to follow his lead; he ordered authoritatively from the notorious sommelier. The wine came, and the appetizers, and more wine, and dinner.
Watching attentively, he ate and drank and listened to tales of Jill’s college days, of how she made her career choice, why she moved back to Los Angeles. She was really rather surprising: smart, attractive. She was rather like …
As he walked her to her door, Remington studied the way her hair curled about her neck, how she twisted her watch around her wrist, her flushed cheeks. An intriguing little bit of cleavage was revealed every time she took a breath, and every few steps her hip bumped him a little.
She turned the key in the lock, turned back to face him.
"It was a lovely evening," she told him, pro forma.
"It was indeed. I’m glad you could join me."
The door opened wider as she stepped back over the threshold. "I had a great time," she added.
"So did I." He hesitated.
She was clearly open to the possibility.
When he came nearer, she didn’t move away; if anything she came forward a bit to meet his kiss. It was just a little peck, testing the waters, then it was a gentlemanly good night kiss, and then it was more. Jill’s arms slipped around his neck; his own pulled her against him.
Then she pulled away, gasping, smiling, her eyes alight and gazing into his own.
Remington smiled back, automatically, as he realized with increasing shock that he was not responding to any of the warmth of her embrace. He thought, perhaps, it was a delayed reaction — out of practice, so to speak — and he gathered her into his arms again. Her breasts, under her sequined top, pressed against his chest; he could feel the padded bones of her pelvis as she held him close. He slid one hand down her back and lower and gave a gentle squeeze; with a sigh, she let her head droop against his shoulder.
Still nothing. Horrified, he wondered if she noticed that a significant part of him seemed utterly uninterested.
Apparently not. She stood back from him. "Come in for a nightcap?" she asked, her voice and expression cheerfully suggestive.
He stared back at her. "Good lord! Look at the time!" he exclaimed, glancing belatedly at his watch. "Love to, Jill, but I have an early appointment. A very early appointment. Fred should have reminded me."
"Oh." She seemed disappointed. "Too bad," she added. "Maybe — "
"Yes. It is. Too bad." He kissed her again, quickly. "Jill, it was a lovely evening. Thank you. I’ll give you a call. Good night," he added, beating a hasty retreat.
* * *
Mildred always had a good idea of where Miss Holt had spent the night. If she came in late and grousing about traffic, or early and full of good cheer, Mildred knew the head of the agency had driven across town from her loft. If, on the other hand, Miss Holt arrived on the dot, ostentatiously talking about the traffic, or really pouring on the cheer, Mildred knew she'd spent the night at a certain someone's place close by in Westwood.
Laura had begun to anticipate William’s broaching the topic of moving in together. All the signs were there, and anyway, it made a lot of sense. Her loft was right by downtown, making it extremely convenient to William’s office; his condominium in Westwood was barely ten minutes away from the agency’s office in Century City and a very easy drive. Either way, one of them would benefit; she didn’t care who.
A selection of his suits already hung in her closet; he had his own drawer in her bathroom, and his own corner of the medicine chest. For her part, Laura never had to worry about showing up in the same outfit as the day before; William had made plenty of room for some of her things.
He brought the idea up one evening after dinner, but it didn’t exactly involve her moving into his condo, or him moving into her loft. It had something to do with a house that had come on the market in Brentwood, and would she like to have a look at it, and would she, possibly, consider doing him the honour of becoming his wife.
* * *
"Good morning, chief." Mildred, burdened with two cups of coffee, shouldered his door open. "How are you this morning?"
"Fine, Mildred, just fine."
"Good. That’s good. Beautiful day."
He glanced at the window. "Yes, it is."
Cutting to the chase, Mildred said, "So how did things go with Esther’s daughter?"
"Jill?" Remington looked up into Mildred’s eager face. "Very well. Lovely girl. Lovely."
"So … "
He accepted a cup from her and sipped at it, mostly stalling for time. "She’s very attractive," he said finally. "Good conversationalist, excellent dancer. We had a wonderful time."
"And … "
"Mildred, it was one date."
She considered this. He thought he was off the hook. Then she asked, "Gonna give her a call?"
"Possibly. Yes. I think so."
"Uh huh."
Remington did not, under any circumstances, want Mildred discussing this disaster with her friends. Mildred, of course, had no idea that it was a disaster, but after lunch he decided to launch a preemptive strike.
He appeared in her office with a small sack of cookies and, pulling up a chair, offered one across the desk. "Mildred, I wasn’t entirely candid with you before," he explained.
She gave him a look. "Oh, really?"
"It’s nothing about Jill. She is a lovely girl. Any man should be delighted to enjoy her company."
"But … "
The view out Mildred’s window was similar to his own; still, it drew his attention. "It’s not the same, Mildred," he admitted finally. "Nothing’s the same. Everything that used to be sparkling and fresh and exciting — " His shoulders slumped in a sigh. "It all seems rather shabby now."
When he looked back at her, she stopped munching the cookie. Then she swallowed and shoved some papers aside and leaned forward.
"Chief, I know you said you came back because — Well, that you’ve been sticking around because you said Miss Holt had gotten you out of that old life and you didn’t want to go back to it."
"Yes?"
She seemed to consider something before she spoke. "Have you — I mean, have you ever thought of starting a new life somewhere?"
He laughed harshly.
"No, really. Another town, a fresh start."
"Mildred, I don’t know how to do anything else. Being Remington Steele — it’s all I can do, anymore, and I have a feeling I’m not even accomplishing that."
"You could be Remington Steele anywhere!"
"Eh?"
Mildred got up and pushed the door halfway shut. "Look, I haven’t mentioned this to Mrs. Westfield yet," she said, sotto voce, "but I had lunch with George Mulch the other day."
"George Mulch?" He leaned back in his chair. The name of the bungling idea man sparked a cavalcade of memories. He said wryly, "I can’t wait to hear this."
"I thought it sounded pretty nutty, too, at first, but listen. He has this idea about franchising the agency."
"Franchising? Like a McDonald’s?"
"Kind of. Branch offices in different cities. P.I.’s all over the country, all operating under the sterling name of Remington Steele."
"Ridiculous!"
"Maybe. But what if you were in charge of one of those offices? The real Remington Steele! New York, Chicago, Dallas, Miami. Take your pick."
"I’m not very familiar with any of those places."
"What about San Francisco?"
He shook his head.
"It’s close," she suggested, "but not too close."
Sparing the idea a moment’s consideration, he blurted, "How can I go to San Francisco and open a shop? I don’t know anything about the place — except the location of the museum, the homes of a few collectors of merit, and some of the most romantic tourist spots."
"You wouldn’t have to. You’d hire somebody to be your partner. There’s gotta be some bright, eager-beaver, young detective up there who’d love to sign on with the Steele agency, who could show you the ropes. Like Miss Holt did, when you first came to town. It’d be the same thing: You have the name; somebody else has the experience."
"A branch office … " he mused.
"Mrs. Westfield can’t be the only smart, pretty private detective in the state of California."
* * *
Three weeks after the Steeles’ return from their honeymoon, Laura arrived late, in the Rabbit, after finally picking up 9 rolls of film at the camera shop. Steele made an earlier appearance to continue plowing through all the correspondence that had piled up in their absences.
Laura hummed to herself as she threw open the glass door to the office suite. Mildred wasn’t at her customary post; otherwise everything was as it should be. But when she went into her office, a familiar and not necessarily welcome baritone drifted from the adjoining room.
Daniel. Steele had attempted, unsuccessfully, to reach Chalmers so he could be among the honored-few guests when he and Laura exchanged vows. "What a shame!" Laura had said, all the while crossing her fingers behind her back to negate that lie.
And here he was. Laura sighed and sat behind her desk, briefcase still in hand. She couldn’t shake the dread that Chalmers would strive to force a wedge between herself and his star pupil. After all, he’d never hidden his desire to convince ‘Harry’ to leave Los Angeles and resume their conniving romp across Europe.
For her husband’s sake, she’d paste a smile on her face and try to resist taking the bait that Chalmers was certain to dangle before her. The smile required considerable effort to avoid suggesting a scowl, but she managed to show some teeth as she crossed the distance to the door of Steele’s office.
Hand on the knob, Laura was ready to face the flames, when the indistinct words began to take shape. She hesitated, and listened.
"Married?? To Linda? Surely you’re joking, my boy. Whatever happened to the carefree young man who broke hearts in seven continents?"
"I love her, Daniel. I’d be a fool not to have married her."
"Oh, Harry. The women I’ve loved! There was Elizabeth, and Caroline. Oh and of course Anne. Not to mention Diana. Now she was my undoing."
"Really? I thought your undoing was when her husband---what was his name? Charles---came barreling through the door and found you in bed with his wife."
Laura eavesdropped in distaste as guffaws and backslaps were traded.
"And you, my boy. There was Anna, and Felicia, and Shannon of course. And don’t forget----"
"All in the past, Daniel. Laura’s the one for me."
"How can you be sure? Pardon my. . .indiscretion, but you were never one for sticking around in the morning, were you?"
"Maybe not. And I’m not suggesting it’s been all fun and games. I mean, I knew Laura was stubborn. And opinionated. And apt to fly off the handle. A foot-soldier for women’s equality. So tediously devoted to that Protestant work ethic."
"Tell me about it," Daniel agreed wryly.
"Daniel," Steele’s tone warned that Daniel had stepped over the line.
"Sorry, Harry. You were saying?"
"I was saying, well I was saying that in among some rather earth shattering disagreements is unadulterated happiness. Plain and simple. She brings out the best in me."
"In that case, I’m happy for you, Harry. Truly happy. By the way, Laura’s mother, Abigail, does she ever speak of me? I’ve been meaning to invite her to my chalet."
Laura hastily threw open the door and charged in. Anything to allay that possibility.
So much for Abigail’s admonition that eavesdroppers only heard distasteful truths or creative lies about themselves. Even so, ‘apt to fly off the handle’ is definitely not how Laura would describe herself.
Late that evening, when dinner was over and Steele was dozing on the sofa, Laura looked down at him and remembered all over again why it was she married him. She retrieved the cotton throw from the bedroom and draped it over her sleeping husband.
* * *
Laura Holt. Laura Holt-Westfield. Laura Westfield. It was like a flashback to junior high school, trying to figure out who she was now. Of course she knew who she was; that hadn’t changed. Who she would be to other people, now that they were back from their honeymoon and on the job: That was the question.
"Welcome back, Miss Holt!" Mildred exclaimed, tossing rice at her as she came through the door.
"Hey, Mrs. Westfield, senora!" Gary shouted, flinging his own handful of rice in her direction.
"Don’t we have a case?" Laura asked, faintly embarrassed.
"Gary and I wound up the Braddock case last Thursday," Mildred replied.
"Big finder’s fee on that one," Gary reported.
"Anything new on the books?"
They followed her into her office and watched as she turned over the pages of her date book.
"Well, there is something we’ve been investigating," Gary admitted.
"Yes?"
"So far we haven’t turned up any clues," Mildred confessed.
"What’s the situation?"
They exchanged a look. "We don’t know what to put on your business cards."
"My what?"
Gary picked one up from the holder and showed it to her, as if marriage might have knocked off a few IQ points.
"Are you going to use up the ones that say Laura Holt?" asked Mildred. "Or should I order new ones that say Laura Westfield?"
"Big topic of discussion around here," Gary put in. "Mildred and I stand around the water cooler and go, ‘So, you think she’ll be, like, a real feminista and be Miss Holt, or is she going to be even more muy moderna and be Mrs. Westfield and just be feminista on the side?’"
Laura eyed her two employees shrewdly. "Just how much standing around the water cooler has there been while I was gone?"
"I’ve got a fifty riding on this."
"My brothers, they’re giving odds of eight to three that you’re — "
If Gary were willing to spill that the boss’s life and personal decisions were now the talk of the old neighborhood – giving odds? Taking bets? – it was clear he was no longer an outsider; he was part of the team.
Laura sat down behind her desk and smiled up at them. "It’s Mrs. Westfield," she announced, "and I think that’s our ten o’clock coming through the door."
* * *
Laura hunted through her briefcase, fruitlessly, for the elusive file.
"Lose something?" William asked, bringing her glass of wine from the table.
"Oh, it’s the Conyers case. I thought I brought everything home."
"Is it that urgent?" He sat and put his feet up on the coffee table; his long legs blocked her.
Obviously this was his plan. He pulled her onto his lap, murmured suggestions of better things to do into her ear, ran his hand slowly down her back and along her thigh and up under her skirt.
"It’s kind of urgent," she admitted after a moment.
William smoothed her skirt back into place. If Laura couldn’t detach her mind from a case long enough for a little romance, it had to be very urgent.
She kissed him, her lips lingering, promising. "I’ll just grab the folder off my desk," she murmured. "Be back in time for dessert."
"Mm hmmm." He eyed her ruefully.
She was torn. "I just don’t want to lose our momentum on this case."
"Hurry back," he admonished. "Let’s not lose our momentum here, either."
"Not a chance," she told him, and kissed him again.
With a glance at her watch, Laura unlocked the office. All was as she had left it, dark and quiet. She'd made it from Brentwood to Century City in a little over twelve minutes, surely a record. Not wasting any time, she went straight to her desk and switched on the lamp. The file wasn't where she thought she'd put it; something else was in its place. A little ticked off, she slit the envelope open and read the first three lines of the letter inside. She read them again, just to be sure, and skimmed over the rest to the signature.
" … still a chance … "
Laura jerked open the center drawer.
" … you could come away with me … "
Her hand came up empty.
"I realize that your husband … "
She reached all the way to the back; still nothing.
" … I've always loved you, and I want what's best for you."
Laura stared at the letter. "Damn!"
Calling back her racing thoughts, she tried to gain some perspective. The phone was already at her ear; her fingers flew over the buttons. It rang and rang. She carried it to the window and looked out over the night, her attention flickering between the sheet of paper in her hand and the twinkling lights of the night city.
He wasn’t there. Or was he? Just not answering?
She drove there first. She leaned on the buzzer. She pounded on the door. No response. That had never stopped her; thrusting her key in the lock, she swung the door open.
"Mr. Steele?"
He wasn’t in the bathroom; he wasn’t on the balcony; he wasn’t anywhere. The whole place was neat as a pin, nothing out of place. His clothes were still in the closet, suitcases nested on a shelf.
Laura went out on the balcony again and looked around, looked down. Then she ran out of the apartment, not waiting for the elevator, taking the stairs in a rush.
* * *
On a lazy Sunday afternoon in August, all Steele wanted to do was take in the double feature at the Nuart, and all Laura wanted to do was balance the agency’s books. Once she promised she’d make it up to him after she was finished, he promptly made some popcorn and popped Citizen Kane into the VCR.
From the dining room table, Laura called to Steele, "Who's Monroe Henderson?"
"Eh?" Steele’s head popped up from the sofa.
"Monroe Henderson," she repeated. "You wrote a check for $5,000 to somebody named Monroe Henderson."
"A friend of mine," he said absently, returning his attention to Charles Foster Kane and Rosebud.
"But why did you give him a check for $5,000?"
He hauled himself from the sofa in seconds flat. "Oh, so I can't even write a bloody check? I have to get your bloody permission to write a bloody check?"
Laura set down her pen and calculator with measured deliberateness. "Of course not. It's just you wrote it on the joint account, and I need to know how to categorize it. Is it something we can deduct? Was it for the business? What was it for?"
"It's none of your bloody business what it's for! But if you must know, an old mate of mind needed a bit of a hand up, and I gave it to him. Ok?"
Pushing her chair away from the table and coming to her feet, she said, "That’s the point! It is my. . . ." She stopped herself, but not nearly in time. They both knew what she’d been about to say.
"We’re back to that again, are we?" He stalked over to the dining room, where Laura was standing next to the chair.
"I don’t know what you’re talking about," Laura huffed.
"I think you do. All week long you’ve been dropping little hints, you know, ‘let’s go see the client together,’ or ‘since when does a man’s suit cost $1000?’"
Laura shrilled, "Which you never did explain!"
"Why should I have to? Doesn’t a new suit every now and then fit under your ‘husband’s maintenance’ budget item?" With that, he strode to the apartment door and threw it open. "I’ve had enough. I’m going out."
Laura wanted to ask where he was going, when he’d be back, but she swallowed those words, certain they’d only be met with anger. Over the next couple of hours, she finished her work, all the while expecting him to come through the door. When he didn’t, she curled up on the sofa in his stead, and pressed the ‘play’ button on the remote control.
She skipped dinner. Somehow, she didn’t feel like eating. After an evening of cleaning out her sock drawer and organizing her supply of wrapping paper, Laura went to bed. It was after midnight when she heard Steele return. He crawled into bed next to Laura, but never bridged the gap between them.
* * *
Mr. Conyers’ office was dark, coming in from the bright hallway, but she could feel the breeze from the open window, could see him silhouetted against the hills and the city lights.
"Mr. Steele," she said quietly, so as not to startle him.
He turned sharply, and Laura’s heart stopped for a beat, then two, then kicked in again, faster and faster. She put a hand against her chest to steady herself.
"Laura!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"
"I found your note."
Looking genuinely puzzled, he demanded, "How? You weren’t supposed to — "
"Working late," she shrugged. "Went back to the office to get a file. Mr. Steele — "
"Go home, Laura. Go to bed. Read about it in the paper in the morning, if it even warrants a mention."
"Mr. Steele — "
"Laura, I swear to you, I didn’t mean to involve you in this. I never meant for you to — "
"But I am involved," she told him. "You’re my friend. We’re friends, aren’t we?"
"Friends," he agreed. "Oh, yes."
"For years," she added. "We’ve been friends for years."
"More than three years, yes."
"So tell me. Why this?" She held up her hand, his carefully written note crumpled in her fist.
He shook his head.
When he didn’t answer, she asked, "Did something happen? Something I didn’t notice?"
"Oh, you mean this?" He gestured, and Laura saw moonlight glint off the agency’s gun. "No, no, no. I’ve been thinking about this for a while now."
She took a step forward; he raised the gun to his head. When she stopped, he took his finger off the trigger.
"Have you? You didn’t mention it."
"There’s a lot we don’t mention lately, have you noticed? I was telling Mildred, you don’t share anything with me anymore. You used to tell me quite a lot about yourself. Now … " He sighed and shrugged a little. "I suppose that’s the way it should be. A married woman shouldn’t share private moments with another man, and they’re all private moments now."
"Please tell me what happened. Today was like any other day," she suggested. "Last week — "
"That’s the trouble, Laura. Just like any other day. I can see the rest of my life, just like today, just like any other day. So today might as well have been the rest of my life."
"Um," said Laura. "I wish you’d come in and shut the window. It’s a little chilly."
He smiled at her over his shoulder, as if he was onto her somehow. Then he returned his gaze to the night. "You’re better off without me, Laura."
"Okay," she agreed. "Fine. Then go somewhere else. Be someone else. But not like this."
Not listening, he said, "Lately, I’ve been thinking it would’ve been better if I’d never been born."
"Jimmy Stewart," she said.
"Eh?"
"‘It’s a Wonderful Life’," she replied, edging around to get a better look at him, to gauge the distance, the possibilities. "James Stewart, Donna Reed, Lionel Barrymore. RKO. 1946."
With a wry smile, he closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall. "Ah, you’re good, Laura."
"Think about that movie, Mr. Steele. Jimmy Stewart was wrong. And so are you."
He shook his head. "You’re the angel, I suppose, who’s going to come down and show me what a mean, dark place the world would be without Remington Steele?"
"You’ve touched a lot of people, Mr. Steele. If you don’t realize that, you’re crazy. Just in the last three years, just here, in Los Angeles! I’d be dead now," she reminded him, "several times over, if you hadn’t been there to save me."
"If it weren’t for me, you’d never have been in those situations. I put you in danger, Laura. Over and over again. I turned your life upside down."
"Did I ever say that was bad?"
"You didn’t have to. You’re the one who ended it."
"I didn’t end anything. I just wanted — "
"What?"
"It doesn’t matter."
"It does matter," he observed. "Obviously, it mattered quite a lot."
"Look, if you’ll just come down from there, if you’ll just come in and talk to me, please … "
"If only … " he said, at random. "If only you’d stopped by my place first. If only — "
"If only you’d left a note," she agreed, sad and desperate. She didn’t mean the one in her hand.
He shrugged. "Yes, well, don’t think that hasn’t occurred to me in my darkest hours."
"This isn’t like you, Mr. Steele," she told him. "You’re not a quitter."
"Neither are you," he replied. "That’s why there’s no point. There’s nothing I can say or do that will make you leave him."
"You have so much to offer," said Laura. "Would you please think, just for a minute, about everything you have, everything you could have — "
"Not you," he pointed out.
"Look around," she suggested. "Don’t let that be everything."
"Ah, but it is."
"Then I guess Daniel was right."
His head jerked up and around. "Daniel?"
"He told me once that you only hung around here in the hope that someday, you know, you could coax me into bed. And then that would be it. You’d be gone, because that was all you were interested in."
"Daniel," he repeated. He laughed. "Ah, Daniel. What next, eh? What more can he do? Is that why — "
She shook her head. Then she said, "Maybe, a little. I don’t know. But he’s right, in a way, if somehow my being married to someone else means there’s nothing else for you."
"Baldly stated, that’s exactly what it means."
Fists clenched, Laura kept her voice quiet and even. "Please come down from there."
"And if I do?"
"We can talk about it."
"Talk!" He laughed harshly.
"Can’t we?" She studied him, catching her lip between her teeth. "If I’d ever known I meant anything like this much to you — "
"That’s because you’re the one always doing the talking, Laura. You’re never listening."
"Would you put the gun down and come in here? I promise I’ll listen this time."
"It’s all or nothing with you, isn’t it?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Laura, I can put the gun down, or I can come in. One or the other."
"Then come in," she said promptly. It was far more likely he’d lose his balance than that he’d pull the trigger.
He came in; she shoved him aside and slammed the window shut.
"All right," she said, pushing back her hair and taking a deep breath. "All right. Mr. Steele — "
He frowned and turned away.
"Remington, Harry — whatever," she went on. "I’m sorry — I’m so sorry — that things haven’t worked out right for all of us. I thought they had. I thought you were back to your old life on the Riviera, you and Felicia … "
"I told you," he insisted. "I tried. I couldn’t. This is the only thing I can do now, the only man I can be, and now I can’t, obviously, even be Remington Steele."
"You can. You are. I keep telling you, that hasn’t changed."
"What has changed, though, eh? Do you think being Remington Steele was just a job? That I went home at night and turned into Michael O’Leary again, or Harry? No, Laura. Laura, I was Remington Steele all the time. I was Remington Steele for you. But you don’t need that full time Remington Steele any more."
She couldn’t argue with that, not the way he meant it. "What’s stopping you from being a full time Remington Steele for yourself, for everybody else?" she demanded "The glamourous private detective, the man about town! Only three people know the truth, and we’re not telling anybody." Trying to catch his fading attention, she pleaded, "Look at yourself! You’re smart. You’re resourceful. You’re wonderful and charming. What woman wouldn’t think so? What about that string of girlfriends? What about — "
"Years ago," he told her. "Before I realized how special you were. Before I forgot to show you how special you were. Before I forgot to tell you how much I love you."
"Mr. Steele — "
Something changed behind his eyes, something that suggested to Laura she’d made the wrong deal, that he might have been safer sitting out on the ledge without the gun.
"Give it to me," she said. "Come on."
He shook his head.
"Look, tomorrow’s another day — "
"‘The sun’ll come out tomorrow’?" he suggested, sadly, facetiously. "I don’t think so, Laura. Not for me."
She was quick; she’d disarmed plenty of people more determined than Steele, but he knew her, blocked her, kept a firm grip on the weapon. She managed to knock him off balance, though, and as they hit the floor together, the gun went off.
Someone had seen what looked like a distraught man on a ledge and called 911, and gunfire was a recognizable sound even in this neighbourhood. Three more calls came in, but by the time the police and the paramedics arrived, they found only a familiar scene, and too much blood, and a victim beyond the help the other had tried to give. Transfixed with shock, grief-stricken, heartbroken and sobbing, the blood-stained survivor held the body tenderly and wished the calendar could be turned back a few months — or the clock, even if only by an hour, wished that a merciful God would send some clumsy angel down to set everything right.
* * *
Steele warily eyed Westfield. At first, the silence seemed to drag on forever. Then, as he exchanged pleasantries with his vanquished rival for Laura’s heart, Steele couldn’t help but wish that Westfield hadn’t come knocking on their door on the heels of the Steeles’ worst argument yet.
Steele shook his hand once more. "Good meeting you, Westfield. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to return a telephone call. Urgent business matter."
"Of course. Nice meeting you, Steele." And, Westfield admitted to himself, it was. The guy was charming, likable, and inextricably married to Laura. So much for picking up where they left off in Mexico.
"Mrs. Steele." Steele nodded to Laura, then turned and walked through the connecting door to his office, closing it deliberately behind him. If he couldn’t trust his wife alone in an office with Westfield. . . but he could, he knew he could.
Yesterday’s argument over the check for Monroe seemed to loom even larger, given the current state of affairs. How Steele wished that the night before he’d come home and apologized, and then acted on his almost perpetual desire to sweep her into his arms and make love. Instead, he had assiduously avoided all reference to it the next morning, preferring to let Laura stew over it a little more. Now that he was the one doing the stewing, he realized with an aching heart how much it hurt.
Steele knew that he hadn’t exactly embraced married life. But yet it had been he who cajoled, and convinced, and converted Laura. She’d been the one to say they should wait, while he’d been scheduling appointments for blood tests and perusing wedding bands. She’d agreed to install a toothbrush in his bathroom, while he’d been selecting embossed nuptial announcements. In his eagerness to erase the all too appealing Mr. Westfield from Laura’s mind, Steele had done more than convince Laura to marry him. He’d convinced himself that he needed to seal the bargain he’d made with Laura in Mexico by offering her unwavering proof of his devotion. But once the wedding was over, once Mildred shed her tears of happiness over the handsome couple, once they’d basked in a deliciously wicked honeymoon, getting down to the business of being Mr. Steele to Laura’s Mrs. Steele was more tricky than he’d ever imagined. He’d lived the loner’s life for so long. It was hard to remember that when he dallied at the movie house, someone was waiting for him at home. Not that he regretted marrying Laura. It was just that it still took almost constant effort to be the sort of husband she deserved, and sometimes even then he wasn’t up to the task.
He stretched out on the black leather sofa to wait.
When the door to Laura’s office opened, he almost didn’t hear it. His eyes were closed, and he listened carefully as Laura crossed the room to stand and then crouch next to him. Not until she put her arm across his chest and leaned in to kiss him on the lips did he open his eyes. When he did, she was looking down at him, eyes searching.
"What about something a little more highbrow for lunch today, Mrs. Steele? Maybe that new restaurant over on Beverly?"
"And here I thought you’d have something else on your mind besides lunch." The look on Laura’s face was impenetrable.
"You mean because I was lying here on the sofa waiting for you? Really, Laura!"
Laura gestured for Steele to slide over on the sofa, and she joined him. "That’s not what I meant, and you know it."
"I assumed that if there was anything to tell about that" and he gestured with his head in the direction of Laura’s office "you’d tell me. . . . There isn’t, is there?"
She paused for longer than Steele deemed seemly, and just as he was about to reframe the question, she spoke.
"Not a thing," she claimed, as she lay her head on his shoulder.
"No regrets about the way things turned out?"
She raised her head and looked him in the eyes.
Hastily backtracking, Steele said, "No, of course not." She let her head drop back down.
"Oliver Barrett was wrong, Laura," she heard him say.
"Who?"
"Ryan O’Neal in ‘Love Story,’ Paramount Pictures, 1970."
"’Love means never having to say you’re sorry,’" Laura supplied.
"Very good, Laura. Trite movie, though. Pure waste of celluloid. No idea what love is at all."
"My walking cinematic encyclopedia."
Steele exhaled slowly. "I should’ve told you about the check. I am sorry."
"It’s ok."
"No it isn’t. But give me time, Laura. I’ll get this husband thing down yet."
End