From the Heart (33 page)

“Yes,” she murmured as she watched him walk to the door. “Yes, we do. David . . . if you or Michael need money . . .”

“Are we going to get a raise?” he asked with a quick grin as he turned the knob.

Forcing a smile, Jessica picked up her comb again. “We'll see about it when I come back to work.”

“Hurry back,” he said, then left her alone.

Jessica stared at the closed door, then down at the comb in her hand. On a sudden spurt of rage, she hurled it across the room. Look at what she'd been doing! Pumping him, half hoping he'd confess so that she could see an end to things. She'd watched him, searching for some sign of guilt. And she wouldn't be able to prevent herself from doing the same with Michael. Her own lack of trust appalled her.

Dropping onto the stool of her vanity, she stared at her reflection. It wasn't right that she should feel this way—alienated from the two people she'd felt closest to. Watching for signs, waiting for them to make a mistake. Worse, she thought, worse, wanting them to make one so that she could stop the watching and waiting.

She took a long, hard look at herself. Her hair was wet and tangled around an unnaturally pale face. The pallor only accented the smudges under her eyes. She looked frail, already half beaten. That she could put an end to with a few basic practicalities. Stiffening her spine, Jessica began to dab makeup on the smudges. If an illusion of strength was all she had left, she'd make the best of it.

When the phone rang across the room, she jolted, knocking a small china vase to the floor. Helplessly, she stared at the shattered pieces that could never be put back together.

Betsy answered the phone as Slade reached the bottom of the stairs. “Yes, he's here. May I say who's calling?” She stopped Slade with an arch look as she held out the receiver. “It's a
Mrs.
Sladerman,” she said primly.

Frowning, Slade took the receiver. “Mom?” Betsy sniffed at that and walked away. “Why are you calling me here? You know I'm working. Is anything wrong?” he demanded as annoyance turned to concern. “Is Janice all right?”

“Nothing's wrong and Janice is fine,” his mother put in the moment he let her speak. “And how are you?”

Annoyance returned swiftly. “Mom, you know you're not supposed to call when I'm working unless it's important. If the plumbing's gone again, just call the super.”

“I could probably have figured that one out all by myself,” Mrs. Sladerman considered.

“Look, I should be home in a couple of days. Just put whatever it is on hold until I get there.”

“All right,” she said mildly. “But you did tell me to let you know if I heard anything from your agent. We'll talk about it when you get home. Good-bye, Slade.”

“Wait a minute.” Letting out an impatient breath, he shifted the phone to his other hand. “You didn't have to call to pass on another rejection.”

“No,” she agreed. “But I thought maybe I should call with an acceptance.”

He started to speak, then stopped himself. Anticipation only led to disappointment. “On the new short story for
Mirror
?”

“Now, he did mention something about that too . . .” She let the sentence trail off until Slade was ready to shout at her. “But he was so excited about selling the novel that I didn't take it all in.”

Slade felt the blood pounding in his ears. “What novel?”

“Your novel, idiot,” she said with a laugh.
“Second Chance
by James Sladerman, soon to be published by Fullbright and Company.”

Emotion raced through him too swiftly. Resting his forehead against the receiver, he closed his eyes. He'd waited all of his life for this one moment; now nothing seemed ready to function. He tried to speak, found his throat closed, then cleared it.

“Are you sure?”

“Am I sure,” she muttered. “Slade, do you think I can't understand English, even if it's fancy agent talk? He said they're working up a contract and he'll be in touch with the details. Business about film rights and serial rights and clauses with numbers. Of course,” she added when her son remained silent, “it's up to you. If you don't
want
the fifty-thousand-dollar advance . . .” She waited, then gave a maternal sigh. “You always were a quiet one, Slade, but this is ridiculous. Doesn't a man say something when he finally has what he's always wanted?”

Always wanted, he thought numbly. Of course she'd known. How could he have ever deceived himself into thinking he'd concealed it from her. The money hadn't sunk in. He was still hearing the magic word
published.
“I can't think,” he said finally.

“Well, when you can, get the one you're working on now together. They want to see it. Seems they think they've got a tiger by the tail. Slade . . . I wonder if I've told you often enough that I'm proud of you.”

“Yeah.” He let out a long breath. “You have. Thanks.”

Her chuckle was warm in his ear. “That's right, darling, save your words for your stories. I have a few hundred phone calls to make now; I love to brag. Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” he said again, inadequately. “Mom . . .”

“Yes?”

“Buy a new piano.”

She laughed. “Good-bye, Slade.”

He listened to the dial tone for nearly a full minute.

“Excuse me, Mr. Sladerman, would you like your breakfast now?”

Confused, Slade turned to stare at Betsy. She stood behind him—little black eyes, wrinkled skin, and graying hair on short sturdy legs. She smelled faintly of silver polish and
lavendar sachet. The smile Slade gave her had her taking a cautious step back. It looked a bit crazed.

“You're beautiful.”

She backed up another step. “Sir?”

“Absolutely beautiful.” Swooping her up, he spun her in a fast circle, then kissed her full on the mouth. Betsy managed one muffled shriek. Her lips tingled for the first time in ten years.

“Put me down and behave yourself,” she ordered, clinging to her dignity.

“Betsy, I'm crazy about you.”

“Crazy, period,” she corrected, refusing to be charmed by the gleam in his eye. “Just like a writer to be nipping at the brandy before breakfast. Put me down and I'll fix you some nice black coffee.”

“I'm a writer,” he told her with something like wonder in his voice.

“Yes, indeed,” she said soothingly. “Put me down like a good boy.”

Jessica stopped halfway down the steps to stare. Was that Slade grinning like a madman and holding her housekeeper two feet off the ground? Her mouth dropped open as he planted another kiss on Betsy's staunch, unpainted lips.

“Slade?”

Taking Betsy with him, he turned. It flashed through Jessica's mind that it was the first time she had seen him fully, completely happy. “You're next,” he announced as he set Betsy back on her feet.

“Pixilated,” Betsy told Jessica with a knowing nod. “Before breakfast.”

“Published,” Slade corrected as he swung Jessica from the stairs. “Before breakfast.” His mouth crushed hers before she had a chance to speak. She felt the emotion coming from him in sparks; hard, clean emotion without eddies or undercurrents. The joy transferred into her so that she was laughing even as her mouth was freed.

“Published? Your novel? When? How?”

“Yes. Yes.” He kissed her again before continuing to answer her questions in turn. “I just got a call. Fullbright and Company accepted my manuscript and want to see the one
I'm working on.” Something changed in his eyes as he drew her back against him. She saw it only briefly. It wasn't a loss of happiness, but a full dawning of realization. “My life's my own,” he murmured. “It's finally mine.”

“Oh, Slade.” Jessica clung to him, needing to share the moment. “I'm so happy for you.” Lifting her face, she framed his in her hands. “It's just the beginning. Nothing will stop you now, I can feel it. Betsy, we need champagne,” she said as she wrapped her arms around Slade's neck again.

“At nine o'clock in the morning?” The sentence trembled with righteous shock.

“We need champagne at nine o'clock on
this
morning,” Jessica told her. “Right away in the parlor. We're celebrating.”

With her tongue clucking rapidly, Betsy moved down the hall. Writers, she reminded herself, were hardly better than artists. And everyone knew the sort of lives
they
led. Still, he was a charming devil. She allowed herself one undignified chuckle before she went into the kitchen to report the goings-on to the cook.

“Come inside,” Jessica ordered. “Tell me everything.”

“That's everything,” Slade told her as she pulled him into the parlor. “They want the book, that's the important thing. I'll have to get the details from my agent.” The figure of fifty thousand finally registered fully. “I'll get an advance,” he added with a half laugh. “Enough to keep me going until I sell the second one.”

“That won't be long—I read it, remember?” On a sudden burst of energy, she grabbed his hand. “What a movie it would make! Think of it, Slade, you could do the screenplay. You'll have to be careful with the film rights, make sure you don't sign away something you shouldn't. Or a miniseries,” she decided. “Yes, that's better, then you could—”

“Ever thought about giving up antiques and opening an agency?” he asked mildly.

“Negotiating's negotiating,” she countered, then smiled. “And I'm an artist.”

With her face set in lines of disapproval, Betsy entered carrying a tray. “Will there be anything else, Miss Winslow?”

When Betsy used such formal address, Jessica knew she
had sunk beyond reproach. “No, nothing, thank you, Betsy.” She waited until the housekeeper had disappeared before casting Slade a baleful glance. “That's your fault really,” she informed him. “She'll be polite and long-suffering all day now because you molested her and I joined you in champagne depravity before breakfast.”

“We could ask her to have a glass,” he suggested as he worked the cork from the bottle.

“You really do want me to be in trouble.” Jessica lifted both glasses as the cork popped out. “To writing ‘James Sladerman' on one of those necessary cards in my library,” she said when both glasses were full.

Laughing, he clinked his rim against hers. “You'll have the first copy,” he promised, then drained his glass.

“How do you feel, Slade?” Sipping more cautiously, Jessica watched him refill his glass. “How do you feel really?”

He studied the bubbles in the wine as if searching for the word. “Free,” he said quietly. “I feel free.” Shaking his head, he began to wander the room. “After all these years of doing what I had to, I'll have the chance to do what I want to. The money just means that I won't starve doing it even after this last year's tuition is paid. But now the door's open. It's open,” he repeated, “and I can walk through it.”

Jessica moistened her lips and swallowed. “You'll quit the force now?”

“I intended to next year.” He toyed with the wick of a candle on the piano. A restlessness crept into the other feelings—a restlessness he hadn't permitted himself to acknowledge before. “This means it can be sooner—much sooner. I'll be a civilian.”

She thought of the gun he secreted somewhere in his rooms upstairs. Relief flowed through her to be immediately followed by anxiety. “I guess it'll take some getting used to.”

“I'll manage.”

“You'll . . . resign right away?”

“No need to wait,” he considered. “I've got enough to get by on until the contract's signed. I'll need time if they want rewrites. Then there's this novel to finish and another I've been kicking around. I wonder how it'll feel to write full-time instead of grabbing snatches.”

“It's what you were meant to do,” she murmured.

“As soon as this is over, I'm going to find out.”

“Over?” Her eyes fixed on his, but he wasn't looking at her. “You're staying?”

“What?” Distracted, he brought his gaze back to her. The expression on her face made him frown. “What did you say?”

“I thought you'd turn over the assignment to someone else.” Jessica reached for the bottle to add champagne to a glass that was already full. “You'll want to get back to New York right away.”

With deliberate care, Slade set down his glass. “I don't leave things until they're finished.”

“No.” She set the bottle back down. “No, of course you wouldn't.”

“You think I'd walk out of here and leave you?”

The anger in his voice had her taking a quick sip of champagne. “I think,” she said slowly, “when someone's about to get what they've worked for, waited for, they shouldn't take any chances.”

He went to her and took the glass from her hand, then set it beside the half-filled bottle. “I think you should shut the hell up.” When she started to speak, he cupped her face in one strong hand. “I mean it, Jess.”

“You're a fool to stay when you have a choice,” she blurted out.

His eyes narrowed with temper before he brought his mouth to hers for one brief, hard kiss. “You're a fool to think I have one.”

“But you do,” Jessica corrected more calmly. “I told you once before, we always have a choice.”

“All right.” Slade nodded, never taking his eyes off hers. “Say the word and I'll go back to New York today . . . if you'll go with me,” he added when she started to speak. Her answer was a quick, defiant shake of the head. “Then we're in this together until the finish.”

Jessica went into his arms and clung. She needed him to stay as badly as she wanted him to go. For now, she would only think of tomorrows. “Just remember, I gave you your chance. You won't get another one.” Tilting her head back,
she smiled at him. “One day I'm going to remind you of it. We're in this together.”