Seems Like Old Times Read online

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

  "I’m afraid not, Bruce."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "I love you, Lee," he called.

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

  o0o

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

  "Thank you, Rick. Good to see you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Ah, if only the boss knew that."

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

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

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

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

  "Lee, glad to have you back on board." Jake Metcalf, the general manager of the Cable American Broadcasting Network news department, assumed anyone he personally telephoned had to be important enough to recognize his voice. Lee recognized it immediately.

  "Thank you. It's good to be back."

  "I’d like to talk to you about a few things. Could you come to my office in, shall we say, a half hour?"

  Lee's smile was smug. She knew exactly what he wanted to talk about. "We say, that'll be just fine, Jake."

  o0o

  "What do you mean you're going to turn down Nighttime News?" Bruce dropped the fork that held a morsel of poached salmon onto his plate. The other diners in The Russian Tearoom glanced at their ta
ble. "That was the perfect opportunity for you."

  "Metcalf made me a better offer. And I'm happy at Evening Newscene."

  "That job goes nowhere. It's nothing but a simple news show. We need better than that."

  "It's on a national network."

  "Tawdry," he said with a sneer.

  She couldn’t believe him. "Tawdry? You think my job is tawdry? As if Nighttime News isn't?"

  His face was nearly against hers. "I'm thinking of your future, Lee. Of our future." He was all but scolding her as if she were a child. "How could you make such a decision without consulting me first?"

  "Bruce, we’re talking about my job, my career."

  He sat back, his cheeks streaked with red. "Well, pardon me. I see I’m put in my place. I was simply saying that if I were you, I’d jump at the chance to do NN. It beats EN in the ratings. You know everyone talks about it. You'd have it made."

  "I won't argue about it, Bruce. I like my job. I'm happy there."

  His mouth wrinkled in disgust. "What's all this happiness business? It sounds like touchy feely California claptrap if you ask me. Maybe you should"--he wriggled his fingers--"channel with your aura to get a holistic reading on your future life?"

  "Very funny." She took another bite of scallops. Bruce had been nagging her since she first learned about the Nighttime News offer to make the switch. Her heart simply wasn't in it.

  He placed his hand on hers, lightly stroking it with his fingers. "Lee, darling, where's your sense? You've always been the practical one, the one who could look at all sides and then coolly--some might say coldly--make the right assessment to get ahead. It was always one of the things I admired about you. My God, Lee, I've used you as a model. I just don't understand what's going on. Talk to me, darling. Have I done something to offend you?"

  She pushed away the plate, her appetite gone. "You haven’t done anything, Bruce. It’s not you--it’s me." She studied him for some acceptance, some understanding. Nothing but confusion showed in his face. What did she expect? He was so much like her--ambitious, driven and ultimately self-serving. They saw themselves as a team. But she had suddenly changed the rules. "I need time. Time to sort out everything--including us."

  He was stricken. "Us? I don't--"

  "I'm sorry, I truly am. I know it doesn’t look that way, but I am trying to be fair to you, and to me."

  "You’re damned right it doesn’t look that way! Are you saying you don't love me anymore? Is that why I haven't been able to even touch you since you've been back? What happened in Miwok, Lee?"

  She felt terrible. He’d always been good to her--exactly what she thought she wanted. She looked at his movie-star perfect face and hair, his expensive clothes and watch, the manicured nails, the fashionably reed-slim body, and the politically-savvy wheeling-and-dealing nature that used to intrigue and interest her. In a sense, she and Bruce had been made in each other's image, and had been perfect together. Just like she’d been perfectly matched to Ken Walters and even--God help her--Stompin’ Steve Peters.

  Was it love she had felt for Bruce, or was he the type of man she’d been taught she should have to move ahead in life, to fulfill her ambition? Good God! Was she really so callus?

  "Something did happen in Miwok, Bruce. I came face-to-face with a part of myself I hadn't known was still there. And I don't know what to do about it."

  He lightly traced his finger along her jaw. "Can I help?"

  "The only one who can help me in this, is me. Give me time. Give me distance."

  He nodded. Big blue eyes searched hers, and the hurt in them went straight to her heart.

  Chapter 19

  On Saturday night, Lee agreed to accompany Bruce to a party. He said it wouldn’t be fair for him to go alone, and that she needed to be seen there. It was just a little get together for some dear friends, given by Sissy Springfield. Bruce rented a limousine to bring them the seven blocks to the Springfield townhouse. Lee spent a king's ransom on a new Donna Karan outfit, a black sheath with a see through, black lace, long sleeved over blouse from her neck to the top of her bustline where the black voile began.

  "All your friends will be so happy to see you," Bruce commented as they sat in the limo, sipping champagne. It was given as an amenity to compensate for the exorbitant cost for a seven-block ride.

  Lee didn’t respond. She couldn't exactly picture the other guests falling over themselves with joy. She had been too busy working to spend time cultivating friendships. Her so-called friends tended to be business associates and colleagues, scarcely bosom-buddies. She rarely socialized with women, preferring the company of men. Women, she discovered, considered her too cold and aloof. With men, though, she donned an unapproachable demeanor, making sure it was clear to them she wasn’t one to sleep around.

  He covered her hand with his, then raised it to kiss her fingers. She allowed it to remain. She had been in a malaise ever since returning from Miwok. Nothing seemed to matter much to her anymore.

  She floated into the party, as if watching her body from afar. Sissy swooped down on her, gave her a hug and an air-kiss, then pulled her into the crowd of at least two hundred people. But then Sissy was renowned for her parties, so when Sissy said it would be a little intimate thing, everyone knew it would be the largest, most formal "little intimate" party anyone had ever been to before. Sissy made a big splash with everything she did. She deposited Lee in front of the assistant to the deputy ambassador from Gambia, then flew away again, cawing at the newest guests to step into the doorway.

  Lee and the tall African man stared at each other. She smiled. He smiled back. "I watch you on TV every night," he said.

  "Thank you. I don't believe we've ever done a story on Gambia yet."

  "Good. That means we're keeping out of trouble." His accent was vaguely British and he smiled broadly.

  "Except for the weapons deal with China," she murmured, then sipped her champagne. "Our government will be most unhappy when they hear about it."

  He gawked at her, shifting from foot to foot, then cleared his throat. "I have no idea about that."

  "Oh really?" she asked sweetly.

  His face darkened and a small bead of perspiration appeared on his upper lip. "Would you like more champagne, Miss Reynolds?"

  "Why not? If you don't make it back here in this crowd, I’ll understand."

  She watched him disappear. The poor fellow must be new to this game; that was far too easy. But now she knew the rumors she’d heard were all true. Very interesting. She turned and walked toward the windows with their breath taking view of Manhattan.

  "How beautiful."

  She glanced over her shoulder at the stranger staring intently at her. His eyes were as gray as his hair, and he had the Shake'n'Bake skin tone of someone who spends a lot of time in a tanning salon, rotating like a too white chicken on a spit. "Is it?" she asked.

  "Not it, you."

  Disappointed, she turned again to the view. "Clichés are so boring."

  "Even clichés can be true."

  She didn't answer.

  "I'm Chandler Hastings." His back was so straight he appeared skewered, and he had to tuck in his chin to avoid staring at the ceiling. "I know you're Lee Reynolds. I'd recognize you anywhere."

  "Perhaps I merely resemble her."

  "That's possible." He turned shoulder to shoulder with her and also looked out the window, making her mind flip flop to another time when she stood just this way with another man. "Lee Reynolds probably doesn't bother to look at the scenery anymore," he said. "She must be a very busy lady. So what do you see, lovely stranger, when you gaze out these windows?"

  She moved forward, resting her palms on the sill and she studied the Manhattan scene so long he must have imagined she’d forgotten him. "I feel like I'm sitting inside a cloud," she said, "and far below, is a place teeming with life that I can't quite reach."

  "Aren't we part of that life?" he asked.

  "Oh, no. We're up here. Observers. Down there"--she
placed her finger on the cold glass, running it through the mist her breath created--"people are living, dying, loving. But not us. We're above it all, untouched."

  He placed his hand on her shoulder, and ran his fingers down her arm to her elbow, then back again. "You can be touched, Lee."

  She drew back and gave him a sad, wistful smile. "No, Chandler, I'm afraid not." She walked away.

  "Lee?"

  She heard him call, but she kept going.

  Three women surrounded Bruce, all oohing and aahing over his words. It would have been déclassé for her to approach him at this point. He was, after all, one of the city's most eligible bachelors. Maybe that was why they had never set a wedding date despite their protests of undying love. That, or a more profound, destructive reason.

  "Lee, are you all right?"

  Pulled out of her reverie, she saw that she'd wandered into Sissy's library. She spun around to find Melanie standing in the doorway. She smiled, glad to see her best friend again. Melanie's big green eyes were owlish and her black hair too curly, as if she just stepped out of the shower and couldn't control it. "Melanie, I didn’t know you were coming to this. How good to see you."

  Her friend's gaze shifted furtively as she walked into the room. "I'm glad we're alone."

  "Alone? Why? What’s up?"

  Melanie walked over a row of first editions from the 'twenties and 'thirties. She ran her fingers along the edge of a bookshelf, the kind of gesture women made checking for dust in the homes of unsuspecting hostesses. Lee waited, curious at Melanie’s uneasiness.

  Melanie glanced from Lee to the floor. "I feel bad about what happened between Bruce and me. That's what I wanted to say to you."

  A myriad of suspicion rushed through Lee’s mind at Melanie’s "Bruce and me,’ but she dismissed them as fast as they struck. Melanie was her friend, Bruce her fiancé...but then that engagement hadn’t stopped her and Tony. But that was different... or was it? She raised an eyebrow, waiting for an explanation. "What do you mean?" she asked emotionlessly.