"But you said. . . ." I was puzzled. He seemed too honest to lie about something like that.

"For Heaven's sake, don't look at me like that, child! I was married. What I meant was that it might as well not have existed. It was brief, painful, and devoid of all emotion."

"How in h.e.l.l did you ever get married then?" It seemed so unlike him.

"Easy. I had to. Or felt I had to. That was twenty-five years ago, and I had seen a young lady briefly, and . . . well . . ."

"She got pregnant."

"Right. She refused to have an abortion, so I decided to do the n.o.ble thing. I married her. But it was untenable. As soon as Greg was born we got a divorce, and that was it."

"Well, at least you got Greg out of it. Are you two close?" His eyes hardened at the question and took on a strange kind of bitterness.

"Hardly, my dear. Greg is a charming young man. Intelligent, witty, independent. And a stranger. When I left, I cut him out of my mind and tried to forget he existed. I never saw him as a small child, and you forget, I was in Spain for ten years. When I came back he was fifteen. It's difficult to become a father to a fifteen-year-old boy you don't even know."

"Perhaps one day you will."

"Perhaps. But unlikely. He thinks me a dreadful materialist. And he's quite right, I am. To earn his respect, I'd have to do something grandiose. Like become an artist for a cause in Afghanistan, or something of the sort. And that's not in my plans. And now, young lady, we have both talked long enough about our grisly pasts. Let's get you home, it's late." He signaled to the turbaned waiter, and it was clear that the confidences had come to a close. Gordon Harte had the evening well in control. And then he looked at me and the brief tenseness left his face.

"You must have a strange power over me, my dear. I haven't talked like this in years." It was a nice compliment, and he reached for my hand as we rose from the cushions we had been sitting on. His hold was gentle but firm, and he kept my hand in his as we rode down in the elevator and stepped outside. It was a lovely night, the air was warm and there was a slight breeze, and the horses tethered to the hansom cabs neighed softly from across the street.

"This city looks like a movie set to me. So unreal." I looked around again and saw Gordon watching me.

"Come, Gillian. Let's walk back to the hotel." It was only three blocks to the Regency and his arm around my shoulders felt just right. We said nothing on the brief walk, and at the hotel he stood outside the revolving door and looked down at me with a small smile.

"How about lunch in the country tomorrow? I'm going to see friends in Bedford. The country air would do you good." Not "I'd like you to be with me," but "the country air will do you good." I would have liked him to say the words, but I could see that he meant them anyway as he waited for an answer.

"I'd like to, Gordon."

"Would you like to bring your daughter?"

"She has other plans. But thank you. She's spending the day with a friend from school."

"Fine, I'll pick you up at eleven then. And don't be sorry about tonight, little one. You needed to talk . . . and so did I." He made no move to kiss me then, but only touched my shoulder gently before he walked away.

We waved at each other one last time as I went in, and I floated past the desk, wondering what lay in store, and fearing that the magic would be gone by the next day.

"Would you mind getting the map out of the glove compartment for me, Gillian?" We were racing along the East River Drive with the top of his car down, and he had been cool when he picked me up. There was no reference to the confidences of the night before, and very little warmth.

"Sure." I snapped open the little door on the dashboard, pulled out the map, and handed it to him.

"Open it, please." I was a little surprised by his tone, but dutifully unfolded the map, and then laughed. There was a cartoon, showing a much caricatured portrait of myself and Mr. Gordon Harte, eating hot dogs under a lamppost outside the building that housed Woman's Life, a Chihuahua and a St. Bernard were dutifully lifting their legs on the lamp post, and what looked like the entire magazine staff was leaning from the windows of the building. The caption read "Let's get away from it all," and when I looked up, Gordon was looking pleased by my obvious delight.

"That means you owe me lunch this week."

"You've got a deal. This is super, Gordon."

"So are you."

The lunch in Bedford was pleasant, I liked his friends, and the afternoon sped by.

By five o'clock I was back at the hotel, in time to meet Samantha.

On Sunday, Sam and I moved back to our old apartment with Peg's help, and the absence of the Regency was sorely felt, by me at least. As for Sam, she was ecstatic to be home. I was less so. Sunday night was spent scrubbing floors and scouring closets, and it seemed as though I hardly had time to go to bed before another work week began.

"Samantha! . . . Breakfast! . . . Hurry up, you'll be late for school!" And I for work. It was quite a major feat of organization to get the show on the road, Sam ready for school, and myself for work. I had lost the knack, and getting it all together at eight o'clock in the morning was like climbing an iceberg wearing roller skates. It had been easier to be up and dressed at six in San Francisco. Maybe it was the clothes.

"Sam! Come on! . . . Where are you?"

"Here I come, Mommy!" and she arrived in a burst of cowboy gear Chris had given her. "Here I am!"

"Okay, love, eat the cornflakes. We're in sort of a hurry."

"Cowboys don't eat cornflakes." She looked insulted.

"Oh yes they do. Now come on, Sam. Eat!" I was trying to juggle coffee and the paper, while wondering if my shoes needed a shine.

There were the usual thousand phone calls to make at work, shooting of the children's rooms to be set up, the dining room a.s.signment to be finalized, and John Templeton had a horde of minor things for me to attend to.

Gordon and I had our promised lunch on Tuesday, and he invited me to a black tie press party at the Museum of Modem Art on Wednesday night.

On Wednesday afternoon, I rushed home from the office, got out a black velvet dress and raspberry satin evening coat, and waited for him to pick me up at seven. I realized as I waited for him to arrive that mixed with the elation of going out with him again was a sagging feeling. Chris hadn't called all week. And as usual, it hurt. I ached for Chris Matthews, for his arms around me, for his quiet voice, even for his indifference, anything.

"Mommy! The doorbell is ringing!" Sam's voice rang through the apartment.

"Okay. I'll get it." I hadn't even heard it. It was Gordon.

"All set? My! Don't you look smashing! You look just lovely, Gillian." He studied me appreciatively and gave me a peck on the forehead.

"Thank you, sir. How was your day?"

"As per usual. Gillian, is there anything wrong?"

"No. Why?"

"You look as though you've had a rough day, as though something hurt." Very perceptive, Mr. Harte.

"No. Really. Maybe a little tired, but that's all. Would you like a drink before we go?"

"No, I think we'd better get started."

"Who are you?" Samantha was suddenly in the doorway, studying the scene.

"Gordon, this is Samantha. This is Mr. Harte, Sam."

"Who's he?"

"Someone I work with and a friend of Aunt Hilary's." I watched them carefully, afraid she'd set his back up by saying something rude. I knew he wasn't used to children.

"Can I touch your beard? Is it real?" Samantha approached carefully and Gordon stooped down to talk to her.

"Yes, and it is real. h.e.l.lo, Samantha." I watched with trepidation to see if she would give it a yank, but instead she just patted it and I stopped holding my breath.

"Feels kinda like a horse. You know?"

"That's a compliment," I interpreted.

"Do you like horses, Samantha?"

"Yeah! A lot!" A lengthy discussion followed, and I was surprised to hear how much Gordon seemed to know about them, and even more surprised when he reached for a pad on my desk and did a few quick sketches for Sam, which delighted her. Gordon and Samantha were discovering each other.

"Gillian, we'd better go now. Samantha, I hope to see you again sometime."

"Sure. Come back and visit, Mr. Gordon."

"Mr. Harte, Sam. Goodnight, sweetheart. Be a good girl with Jane." We exchanged great big hugs and a series of watery kisses, and then Gordon rang for the elevator.

"That was nice of you, Gordon. Thanks." We were waiting for a cab downstairs and my spirits were restored. It was nice to see Samantha enjoying him.

"I like her. She's bright and very direct."

"That's for sure!" I laughed and shook my head as a cab pulled up and we sped off toward the museum.

The evening was wonderful, it was delightful to be swept along in his wake, being introduced to everyone and having a fuss made over us. Gordon was on the board of the museum, something he had neglected to tell me when he had invited me. Hilary was there, sans Rolfe, looking smashing in a long skinny black knit dress and an equally long skinny white coat. Gordon asked her to join us for dinner afterward, which I thought was nice, but she refused.

This time Gordon took me to Lutece for dinner, where he was received as though he owned the place or, at the very least, paid the rent.

We had run into Matthew Hinton at the museum, accompanied by a striking redhead who clung to his arm as though in desperate grat.i.tude. We greeted each other, but coolly, and it was apparent that he had as little interest in what Women's Wear had called "his latest love" a week before as I had in him. He was nice, but there just wasn't much to him.

And I may not have been making the social columns with Gordon Harte, but I was having a beautiful time.

22.

Friday was pandemonium. The actors who owned the eccentric dining room stood amidst a bevy of people, ready to begin the shooting. And four hours later we were still only beginning. They managed to get loaded during the shooting, kept the setting constantly rumpled and disorderly, and drove the photographer crazy. At midnight it was over, and I wondered if we had a single usable shot. And we weren't through yet; we had promised everyone dinner in compensation for their "patience." At 2 A.M. I finally crawled home, exhausted and feeling as though I were about to die.

An hour after I went to bed, I got up, vomited, had chills, cramps, and panicked, thinking I was losing the baby. I should have called Peg, or the doctor, or even Gordon. Someone sensible. But I wasn't feeling sensible. I had that wild animal feeling one gets when surprised at feeling suddenly sick. So I operated on reflex and emotion, and dialed Chris.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Chris? . . . I think I'm losing the baby, I feel so awful. We worked until one o'clock . . . No, for G.o.d's sake, I mean it. No, I'm not drunk . . . I'm sick . . . what am I going to do?"

"For chrissake, Gillian, stop crying. Why did you call me? I can't do anything about it, and you know what I told you. Call the doctor. . . . Look, I can't talk to you now. I'll call you Monday."

Monday? Monday? What the h.e.l.l does he mean, "Monday"? Sonofab.i.t.c.h . . . I put on some clothes and went to the emergency room at Lenox Hill Hospital where I spent the night and was treated for exhaustion and hysteria.

I was sent home at noon, feeling sheepish, and still very tired. Gordon called almost as soon as I got home.

"And where have you been so bright and early this morning? I called you at nine. I hear the shooting was a madhouse last night."

"Yes, it was." And then I told him about the night at the hospital, omitting the part about my call to Chris.

Gordon was sympathetic, and said he'd check on me on Sunday, and why didn't I take Monday off?

I slept all day and when I woke up there were flowers from him, a small basket that looked like a nest, filled with tiny blue and orange flowers. The card read, "Work is the opiate of the ma.s.ses, but it sounds like you had a bad trip. Have a good rest. Apologies from your Senior Art Director, Gordon Harte." Funny and thoughtful and nice, because it wasn't pushy and signed "G." or something equally irritating.

He called again on Sunday, and I was feeling better, but still pretty tired, so he agreed not to drop by, but instead invited me to dinner on Thursday.

As I lay in bed on Sunday afternoon, pleased with the easiness of the Gordon situation, and maybe feeling a little supercilious about it, as though for once I had "control," the doorbell rang. Who the h.e.l.l is that? I got up to answer it. It was Gordon.

"Changed my mind. Besides, Hilary says you love having people drop in on you on Sundays. We just had lunch and she sends her love. May I come in?"

"Of course," but I was angry, really mad. I looked a mess, he had agreed not to come by, I didn't feel well, and unannounced visits from him const.i.tuted an "act of pressure" in my book.

"You don't look too pleased to see me, Mrs. Forrester."

"Just surprised. Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Yes. But I'll make it, you go back to bed."

"No, that's all right, I'll stay up. I'm really fine." . . . I wasn't about to get into one of those "now tell me, doctor," scenes with him on the edge of my bed. . . .

"You look fine to me, but I don't know much about these things. I'll make the tea."

He returned from the kitchen after much sc.r.a.ping and banging, and he sat there looking unaffected by it all, making easy conversation and looking around pleasantly. Samantha was out and the apartment seemed horribly quiet.

I was in the midst of making stiff, pompous remarks about nothing, and looking into my cup of tea to cover the fact that I was uncomfortable, when Gordon got up, came around the coffee table, sat down, and kissed me. His beard felt scratchy, and his mouth felt soft, and I was too embarra.s.sed not to kiss him back. He kissed me, and then leaned back a little, looked down at me, and hugged me.

He hugged me. A nice hug. The kind I had longed for when I was eight years old, and still longed for twenty years later. And there was Gordon Harte, hugging me, while I sat in the circle of his arms and was suddenly in tears.

I tried to make light of it after that, for fear that he was going to try to take it too many steps further, and I didn't want to get into a scene like that with him yet.

"You want to be wooed, don't you?"

"What?" It sounded so ridiculous, it made me laugh.

"Mrs. Forrester, we could spend the next few weeks eating dinner together twice a week and enjoying preambles, I could 'woo' you, and we could say agreeable things to each other, and in three weeks you would probably agree to go to bed with me, or we could go to bed now, and enjoy the three weeks more. What do you say?"

"I can't. I'm sorry, but I just can't. I know I'd get upset, and I couldn't handle it. I know myself." I was almost whispering when I said it, and looking down at my hands clenched in my lap.

"All right." . . . I was a teensy bit sorry that he agreed so readily, but for the most part I was relieved.