The Lover From an Icy Sea (2 page)

He walked into the park and headed in the direction of The Mall and Poets’ Walk.

Just as Kit was entering the park seventeen blocks further north, limo, driver and woman arrived at midtown from an earlier errand.

“
Thank you, Ron. I’ll see you again this evening at the usual time.”

Ron reached up to tip his imaginary cap. The gesture was automatic with or without a cap, which she’d long ago given him the option of wearing—or not—as he saw fit. The woman collected her coat tightly against her, then flung a purse-strap over her shoulder as she made her way from limo to the front door of one of Manhattan’s more modest mid-town skyscrapers several blocks west of Grand Central Terminal. She was about to enter the building through revolving doors when two suits simultaneously opened adjacent doors to let her pass. She gave them a token nod and swept through, then continued straight on to the elevator. When she arrived, the elevator doors opened almost as if by remote control. She entered and pushed the button for the top floor.

Seconds later, the same doors opened again to another pair of glass doors fifteen feet across the foyer. She pushed one open and walked through.

“
Good morning, Daneka.”

Daneka nodded and smiled. “Morning, Susan.” The receptionist handed her a small stack of phone messages—something of an anachronism in this day and time, but Daneka had insisted upon it when she’d taken the position. No voicemail, no cell phones, no beepers. She liked to do things face-to-face—occasionally by telephone when face-to-face wasn’t an option or it didn’t matter. But with the telephone, she couldn’t see what she needed to know; she could only hear what the other party wanted her to hear. Daneka liked to engage all of her senses with people when they mattered in any way to her well-being—which was to say, she liked to understand the other party’s motives. She understood that people only seldom revealed their true motives in language—perhaps because she was an expert at concealing her own. But her real talent lay in being able to decipher others’ motives within seconds if she could just see their bodies talk. Once she had her read of them, she could control them and bend their motives to serve her own.

It was rare that something didn’t become immediately clear to her, or that she didn’t get what she wanted. Her position at work certainly allowed her to expect obedience, though she never commanded it. By virtue of her wealth and status in the neighborhood, she could count on others’ respect, though it was not in her nature to cajole or coerce. She simply won. She won obedience from the one, obeisance from the other—even from perfect strangers—because she knew how to watch, how to listen, how to interpret, how to bend. Quite simply, she knew what made people tick. And she applied her knowledge with the skill of an expert watchmaker, first in tinkering with—then in winding—their clocks.

“
Morning, Kay,” she announced with a well-manicured smile the moment she entered the reception area to her office and saw her Personal Assistant.

“
Morning, Daneka.” Kay returned an equally well-polished smile.

Daneka walked to her office on the other side of a pair of heavy oak doors leading off from the far corner of the reception area, then to the coat closet to hang up her coat, then to her desk. She glanced at a single portrait mounted in an antique walnut frame sitting on the desk, opened her calendar, picked up the phone and dialed a number by heart. Two brief rings later, the other end picked up.

“
Hello, darling. Yes, I just arrived.” Daneka’s speech was precise, slow. Then, following a pause during which she stared again at the picture—“As we agreed, I’ll bring dinner at seven”—followed by another, longer pause. “Okay. I love you, too. Play well.” She hung up the phone and studied her calendar: first meeting in five minutes. Easy enough—just a pro forma approval.

When Kit arrived at The Mall, he noted that the light was exceptional. In an hour, it would be too late—too much glare. But now, the light and shadows were still soft—perfect for what he had in mind, and he liked perfect. He dropped the legs on his tripod and inserted a roll of film before mounting his camera, then stepped back to study the vista.

This, for Kit, was play. He liked bodies and faces, but they were work—unless he was shooting with a telephoto lens, the subject entirely unaware and unselfconscious. Babies and toddlers were sometimes fun, even good. Models had to be good. They had to deal with the camera—if not as friend or lover—then at least as provider.

The camera, itself, was entirely indifferent—however much people liked to insist otherwise. Kit knew better. He knew it was largely the work of the photographer, only sometimes shared by the subject. When both were working well together, he might turn an entire roll into a bonanza.

Efficiency: he liked it in his work; he didn’t care about it while at play. And today, at least for the next sixty minutes, was playtime.

Daneka looked up when she heard a soft rap on her office door and smiled at Robert as he walked in, file in hand. She came out from behind her desk; greeted him with a firm handshake; led him by the elbow to a worktable where he could spread out photos and text.

She liked physical contact, knew that most other people liked it too, and consequently used it whenever she could—first to put people at ease, then to allow them to open up.

As their brief meeting came to a close, and after she’d given the approval she’d known she would give even before Robert came to her with the lay-out, Daneka invited him to lunch.

Chapter 3

Robert, her Art Director, was not by nature a nervous type. His work was excellent; his attitude towards peers, subordinates and Daneka, beyond reproach. But a boss’s invitation to lunch could always be read in a variety of ways.

Daneka noted his consternation and gently laughed to put him at ease. “No, Robert, nothing like that. I simply thought we could have lunch. We haven’t in a long time, you know. And the truth is, I need your advice on something. My treat, your brains—fair enough? Or have you already got a better date?”

Daneka could be coy when it served her purposes. She knew that no subordinate would turn down an opportunity to get social with the boss, much less the further opportunity to provide advice at that same boss’s invitation. Coyness, as a tool, had served her well over the years—and so, she’d mastered it. When a woman was in every respect as charismatic as Daneka, that woman could afford to be whimsically coy.

“
Deal! And no. No better date. No dates at all, as a matter of fact. What time works for you?”

“
Shall we say one o’clock?”

“
Perfect. See you then,” Robert said as he turned and walked out.

Daneka walked back to her desk, then sat down to think through how best to deal with the next meeting. This one represented a series of problems—or at least a problem and a series of possible consequences—and she needed to think through ramifications and solutions before her eleven-fifteen arrived.

When Robert knocked again at Daneka’s office door promptly at one o’clock, it was empty. He wondered for a moment whether she’d forgotten about their lunch date, but decided to wait and see if perhaps she’d merely stepped out.

He walked to the far end of her office and looked around. With floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides, Daneka’s space occupied the corner of the building. Her windows looked down immediately out over Times Square to the west, over billboards and miscellaneous buildings—and eventually the Empire State Building—to the south. Not so long before, she could also have seen the tops of the World Trade Center towers half an island distant. Now, the tallest structure in sight was once again the Empire State building.

Just as Robert was contemplating this change in the cityscape, he heard the toilet flush in Daneka’s private bathroom and realized where she was. He felt awkward and embarrassed at being this close to his boss at a private moment—even if there was a wall separating them—and quickly returned to the front door, eager to give the impression he’d just arrived.

An instant later, Daneka opened the bathroom door and walked out. She grabbed her coat and purse, then Robert’s arm.

“
What little den of iniquity are you taking me to today?” she asked, fluttering her eyelashes.

Robert blushed, as she knew he would. He was such an easy read—a truly uncomplicated character. Also, a solid family man with a wife as demure in presence and voice as Daneka was commanding.

“
I hadn’t really considered. I’m sorry. I thought maybe you had something in mind.”

“
I did and do. Oysters. I’m in the mood for romance and oysters. Sweep me off my feet and onto a plate of oysters, Leander. Sprinkle me with diced onions and a bit of citrus. Then shower me with vinaigrette—but just don’t lose your way.” They both laughed as they walked onto the elevator, even if Robert had no idea what she was referring to. Within a matter of seconds, they were out of the building.

At the Oyster Bar & Grill under Grand Central Terminal, Daneka let Robert play host. He dealt with the Maître d’, led her to the table by her elbow, let her first enter the banquette and seat herself. He ordered for both of them—as if this were a first date and she were looking for instruction. When their oysters came—hers, Maine Blue Point; his, Long Island—she moved them on from small talk.

“
Robert, I need a photographer. Very discreet. Very quiet. Someone who can do the job—probably a couple of hours at most—and who I can count on to deliver. Soup to nuts, and without any grief in between.”

“
I guess using a staff photographer is out of the question?”

“
I’m afraid so for this particular shoot.”

“
Well, I can consult my Rolodex,” he said. And then, jokingly, “Or you could buy a copy of the
Village Voice
. Photographers come in all shapes, sizes and persuasions in the
Voice
.”

Daneka snickered. She hadn’t looked at the
Voice
in almost twenty years—not because she had anything against it; on the contrary.
The Village Voice
and
The Nation
had once been her regular reading material. Twenty years earlier, she would’ve considered the magazine of which she was presently the Managing Editor to be irrelevant. But then she’d finished college, J-school, a stint as intern at Mother Jones, and had decided she might like to own some furniture. The desire for a few creature comforts—not to mention her own raw talent—had brought her to where she was now.

“
Okay. Let me know what you come up with. I’ll take it from there.”

“
Will do.”

They continued lunch, talked about Robert’s family, talked about work, then adjourned to walk back to the office. On the way up the stairs from the great hall at Grand Central, Daneka stopped in at Hudson News and bought a copy of the
Voice
. Robert smiled conspiratorially; she winked back.

They separated at the elevator. She walked to her office, stopping briefly to inquire whether Kay had had a pleasant lunch. It turned out that yes, Kay had had a very pleasant lunch with her fiancé. From the way Kay held her hand in front of her mouth while answering, Daneka suspected she had probably also had a glass or two of something marginally at odds with company policy. Daneka chuckled inwardly at Kay’s tiny indiscretion. The brief memory of a lunchtime indiscretion or two of her own—when she’d been Kay’s age and on lunch break from a dead end job—flashed through her mind.

Daneka walked through the door into her office, took off her coat and flung it over the back of the couch. She laid the
Voice
out on her desk, leafed through the first few pages out of curiosity to see what had become of it in the intervening twenty years, then immediately turned to the classifieds. She found a listing for photographers just under Personals, couldn’t resist scanning some of the ads and giggling quietly to herself. Her eyes fell upon one announcement in particular, and her giggle promptly turned to grit. She read it word by acrid word, and a scowl formed at the corners of her mouth. In revulsion, she hastily turned the page back to the listings for photographers, and her eyes scanned down the page. Nothing jumped out at her, however, until she read one listing from a photographer who appeared to specialize in portraits and landscapes. Curious, she thought, to find an ad for a landscape photographer in the
Village Voice
, especially on the flip side of some of the more exotic personal ads she’d just seen. Either he didn’t know his market, or he must think that
Voice
readers in Litchfield County might actually go in for some gardening when not otherwise engaged in grunge.

She dialed the number listed at the bottom of the ad. After three rings, she got a machine; left a message; hung up. She then put the paper away, decided to see what Robert might be able to propose, and turned her attention to the messages Kay had left for her.

*  *  *

Kit walked through the door of his studio.

With the shoot in Central Park behind him, he’d decided to walk back to the office along the Avenue of the Americas and stop in at a diner for lunch. He knew he had a shoot scheduled for mid-afternoon and that he might first have to prep a bit. He now checked his computer screen—sure enough, the shoot was scheduled to start in half an hour. Something for Vogue. Lingerie. ‘Could be interesting, he thought to himself. But ‘interesting’ in this case didn’t apply to the lingerie or to the model. ‘Interesting’ applied to the lighting schemes he’d already begun to devise.