Midnight Sun (Sinclair Sisters) (29 page)

Say! You’ve struck a heap of trouble—

Bust in business, lost your wife;

No one cares a cent about you,

You don’t care a cent for life;

Hard luck has of hope bereft you,

Health is failing, wish you’d die—

Why, you’ve still the sunshine left you

And the big, big blue sky.

—Robert W. Service

Charity moved back into her Sixth Street Manhattan apartment. Her year-older, slightly shorter, red-haired sister didn’t mind sharing the place. Though Hope had set up her computer in front of the window, she was rarely in the city. Lately she had been doing more and more freelance assignments and a number of them involved some sort of travel. Besides, with the two of them splitting the rent, the amount was cut in half.

Still, the apartment felt tight and confining after the wide-open spaces Charity had known in the Yukon. When she looked out the windows, she saw a sea of rooftops instead of majestic mountains, vast distant horizons, and glorious evergreen forests.

She had been back in the city three weeks but she hadn’t started looking for a job. She knew she should, knew it wouldn’t be hard to find one. Her sterling reputation in the publishing business and the industry’s constant search for qualified editors assured her a job. The problem was, she just wasn’t ready to return to the everyday world.

Since leaving the Yukon, she had no energy, no will to move forward with her life. It was a classic case of depression and she knew it. She also knew she would eventually work through it and things would return to normal. In time, she would stop thinking of Call. At some point in the future, she would stop remembering their time together, stop seeing him in every man on the street.

It was strange the way her mind seemed to conjure him. Two days ago, she thought she spotted him in the park, feeding the pigeons. Yesterday, for a single split second, he was wearing a dark gray suit and sitting at a table in a small Italian cafe.

But the men were always a little too short, their hair not quite the right chestnut shade of brown, their shoulders not nearly as wide as Call’s. Still, she couldn’t stop looking for him, couldn’t stop hoping he would miraculously appear on the streets of Manhattan, there in search of her.

But Call had never phoned or even dropped her a note. As a celebrity of sorts and an extremely wealthy man, the newspapers had been full of stories about the attempts on his life, MegaTech, and the arrest of Anthony King and Gordon Speers. Stan Grossman had turned state’s evidence, incriminating King, and King had rolled over on Speers, as the police had hoped he would.

Yesterday morning, she and Hope had been watching TV when CNN announced MegaTech’s hard-drive storage breakthrough, the discovery Peter Held had been so close to making. Later that same day, more information was released. When the six o’clock newscast was over, Charity sat back on the sofa.

“My God,” she said to Hope, “so
that
was Speers’s true motive. For the past six years, he invested every extra dime he had and everything he could borrow in platinum futures. He was banking on demand from the software industry to drive up the price.”

“And he very nearly succeeded,” Hope replied. “According to that report, at the time he started investing, only fifty percent of all hard disks contained platinum. In the last five years, that number has nearly doubled.”

“And the computer market has barely been tapped. King and Speers were set to make billions.”

“The bad news was,” Hope added, “according to what they said on the news, MegaTech’s new process uses copper, a far cheaper metal. No wonder they wanted Call dead.”

Charity looked over at Hope, who sat on the sofa with her legs curled up beneath her. “Speers knew Call wouldn’t stop,” Charity said. “Not when his company was so close to success. I guess they thought killing him was the only solution.”

Her sister cast her a glance, and Charity shivered. Call was safe now and that was a consolation, but it didn’t make her miss him any less.

Thank God for my family,
she thought. Her dad had called as soon as she got back to the city. Patience had phoned. Last weekend, worried about her, the two of them had taken the train from Boston to visit her for the weekend. They knew what had happened in the Yukon. Mostly they knew that she had fallen in love with Call and now her heart was broken. With one excuse or another, one of them phoned every other day.

And Hope was a rock in the tempest. With her constant prodding and determined cheerfulness, she forced Charity up off her duff and out of the house.

As she had earlier that morning.

“Deirdre called a few minutes ago,” Hope said when she returned, having insisted Charity go down to the little French bakery in the middle of the block for a bag of croissants. Charity knew Hope was simply trying to get her up and doing something productive. “She wants you to phone her back.”

“Did she say what she called about?” Charity reached over and picked up the phone.

“Something to do with a Literary Arts dinner. I think she wants you to go.”

Charity groaned and started to hang up the receiver. Hope bolted over, snatched it out of the cradle, and shoved it into her hand.

“Oh, no, you don’t. Call her back and at least hear what she has to say.”

“The last thing I want to do is go to some boring dinner.”

Hope just glared at her. Charity blew out a breath. “All right, I’ll call.” She punched in her best friend’s number and listened to it ring. “Okay, Deirdre,” she said the moment she heard her friend’s voice on the end of the line, “what torture have you thought up for me now?”

“I need a favor. Jeremy’s working late tonight.”
Big surprise.
“I have to go to the annual Literary Arts Dinner Dance and he won’t be able to join me there until later. Please say you’ll be my date—at least until he arrives.”

Deirdre and Jeremy were still an item. A very serious item. In fact, it looked as if wedding bells loomed on the horizon for her friends. Charity was happy for them. That didn’t mean she wanted to spend a miserable night out.

“I don’t know, Dee …”

“Please? I’m begging you. You know what those things are like. Say you’ll come with me. It won’t be so bad if I have someone fun to talk to.”

Charity sighed, thinking even if she went, she wouldn’t be all that much fun.

“Go on,” her sister urged. “You’ll know a lot of people there. It’ll be good for you to see old friends. Besides, maybe someone will offer you a job.”

Charity rolled her eyes, but she was weakening. She needed to get out, just as her sister and Deirdre said. “Black tie, isn’t it?”

“Unfortunately, it is,” Deirdre said.

“I’ll have to dig out something, I guess.”

“Yes!” Charity could almost see her friend’s arm shooting into the air. “I’ve got a town car,” Deirdre said. “The publisher is picking up the tab. I’ll be there at 7:30.”

“Fine, I’ll see you then.” Charity hung up the phone, already wishing she had refused.

“I’m proud of you, sis.” Hope grinned, her smooth, dark-red hair swinging along her jaw. She looked into Charity’s face and her smile slowly faded. “I know how you’re feeling. I felt like that after I found out Richard was sleeping with another woman.”

“It isn’t quite the same.”

“Call broke your heart. Richard broke mine. What’s the difference?”

“Richard betrayed you. Call tried to warn me. He didn’t hurt me on purpose.”

“That doesn’t make it any less painful.” Hope gave her a reassuring hug. “In time, you’ll forget him, just like I forgot Richard. Keep remembering that.”

Only Hope had never really gotten over the fiancé who had cheated on her, and Charity didn’t think she was going to forget Call anytime soon.

Wishing the heavy weight of misery sitting like a rock on her chest would ease, she headed into the bedroom to find something to wear to the party.

Seven-thirty arrived far too quickly. Waiting in the lobby of her apartment, Charity spotted the black Lincoln town car rolling up at the curb. Making her way across the sidewalk, she waited for the driver to open the rear door, then slid onto the gray leather seat.

“My God, you look gorgeous!” Deirdre Steinberg was all of five-foot-three with gleaming dark-brown hair cut stylishly to just above her shoulders. She was pretty and intelligent, and always well dressed. Tonight she wore a long black skirt with a gauzy, beaded top that showed her midriff when she moved.

Deirdre examined her, head to foot. “I can’t believe you’re finally wearing that dress.” They had been together when Charity purchased the long, slinky, red-sequined gown. The dress was elegant and expensive, paid for partly with a gift certificate from her dad that she had gotten for her twenty-seventh birthday. It wasn’t her usual conservative style, which was far less formfitting and usually black, and it was more revealing, the strapless gown leaving her arms and shoulders bare.

But it was hot in the city this late-August night and she was determined to get herself into a better mood.

“The dress is still new,” she said, “and it’s bright. I thought it might cheer me up.”

“Good thinking.”

Charity smiled. “Let’s hope it works.” But so far it hadn’t and she wasn’t convinced it would.

After a short ride up Fifth Avenue, they arrived at the party being held at the Plaza Hotel. Following colorful Aubusson carpets, they made their way to the elegant banquet room filled with cloth-draped tables and dozens of guests. Crystal chandeliers illuminated the hall and the rug felt plush beneath her strappy red satin high heels.

“Look—there’s Bob DiForio.” Deirde discreetly pointed toward the tall, silver-haired man. “He used to be the publisher at NAL. I hear he’s an agent now.”

“I know Bob.” She waved and DiForio waved back. Irwin Applebaum from Random House was there and one of the great old gentlemen of publishing, Walter Zacharius from Kensington. Mostly the crowd was more literary, publishers of the Oprah sort of books, self-help and nonfiction.

She saw her former publisher, Judy Blaine, from Glenbrook, and recognized an immediate interest in the stately, black-haired, fortyish publisher who began trying to extricate herself from the conversation in which she was immersed.

“She wants you back,” Deirdre whispered. “I knew they would.”

“I’m not ready to go back yet. I want time to explore my options. Come on, let’s get something to drink.”

The night was as dull as Charity had worried it would be and even the several glasses of champagne she drank couldn’t lift her dismal mood. She wanted to go home, to be miserable where no one would see her, but she didn’t want to leave Deirdre alone.

Jeremy still hadn’t arrived by the time the music started. Charity accepted a dance with DiForio and one with Jack Dolan, an editor she had worked with at Glenbrook. The orchestra was large and played a lot of ’40s big band numbers. As she returned to her seat next to Deirdre, she caught a glimpse of a tall, tuxedoed man near the door.

For an instant, her heart took a leap. She looked again, knowing it was ridiculous, knowing it couldn’t be Call, that it was just another of the many mirages that haunted her. She saw him disappear into the crowd and took another sip of her champagne.

“Would you like to dance, Charity?” It was William Kelsey, a prominent author of children’s books. She didn’t want to dance, but she didn’t want to be rude.

“Of course, William.” The band played a slow song and she smiled and let him guide her around the floor, her gaze searching for Jeremy, cursing him for being so late getting to the affair. The song came to an end and William walked her to the edge of the dance floor.

“Thank you,” she said.

“My pleasure.” He cast a glance at the orchestra, which had struck up a lovely waltz, and she was afraid he might ask her again. Not wanting to refuse, she started walking back to the table but a man in black stepped in front of her.

“Hello, Charity.”

She looked up at the sound of his voice and for an instant, she thought her eyes were deceiving her again, that the tall, incredibly handsome man in the black tuxedo couldn’t be Call. But his shoulders were so very wide, his hair exactly the same rich shade of brown, and his eyes were the bluest she had ever seen.

“Call …”

“May I have this dance?” He didn’t wait for her to accept, just settled a hand at her waist, guided her out on the dance floor, and eased her into his arms. Her fingers trembled as he enclosed them in his and his hand rested on her back.

Call swept her into the rhythm of the waltz, his movements surprisingly graceful, guiding her as if they had danced together a thousand times. Charity didn’t speak and neither did he, but his eyes remained on her face and she thought that he had never look at her exactly that way. She could smell the piney fragrance of his cologne, feel the texture of his coat beneath her fingers. Her heart was beating too fast, her hopes rising, and she was so afraid.

Why was he there? Was it simply coincidence? Some sort of business that had brought him to New York and this particular affair?

The dance came to an end far too quickly and he led her to the edge of the dance floor. “What … what are you doing here?”

He looked into her face, his gaze still unnervingly intense. “I came for a couple of different reasons.” He started to continue on but Deirdre walked up just then.

If Charity ever wished her friend would vanish into thin air it was in that moment. Instead, Deirdre took a long, appreciative look at Call, gave Charity a conspiratorial glance, and smiled.

“I don’t think we’ve met. My name is Deirdre Steinberg.”

Charity cast her a look, hoping she would get the message. “Deirdre, this is McCall Hawkins. I believe I may have mentioned him.”

Deirdre’s eyes seemed to pop right out of her head. “Yes … yes, I believe you did.” She turned a less certain smile on Call. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too,” he said, but his glance strayed to the door leading out to the terrace and Charity thought maybe he wanted to go somewhere private as badly as she did.

“I think I see someone I need to talk to,” Deirdre said diplomatically. “I’ll see you later, Charity. It was nice meeting you, Call.”

“You, too,” Call said.

Charity remained silent, not trusting herself to speak. She was afraid she would throw herself into his arms and tell him how much she loved him, afraid she’d make a complete and utter fool of herself.