Voice of the Heart (96 page)

Nick picked up the photograph, stared at the angelic face, the smouldering brown eyes, the cascading mane of blonde hair. Yes, she was a beauty, and yes, she could be sweet. She was also one helluva spitfire most of the time. A strange mixture, he mused, cool Yankee independence plus Puritan toughness and rigidity mingling with hot Latin blood and passionate emotions. A young woman of volatile mood swings. Then he thought: Admit it, Nicholas Latimer, you’re unhappy with her. So goddamned rock-bottom unhappy everything is being tainted.

Replacing the picture, he pushed himself to his feet, went
to the window, looked down into the backyard, his face dismal. The snow was days old and dirty, streaked with the city’s grime, and the single tree, skeletal against the grey, illuminated Manhattan sky, seemed bereft. That makes two of us, Tree, he said inwardly. His shoulders drooped, indicating his dejection and spiralling misery. He tried to guide his thoughts in another direction, but they persisted in dwelling on Carlotta. He had wanted to marry her and she had wanted to marry him. Unfortunately, they had never been able to make their desire for wedded bliss coincide. They were always out of sync. And still unmarried. Because of Victor, lots of pressure was being exerted on them both these days. Two sets of doting, and enormously rich, grandparents were appalled at the way their grandson was being raised.

‘It’s your loose—to put it succinctly—life style, Nick, my boy,’ his father had told him last week. ‘Please, for the child’s sake, your mother’s sake, marry Carlotta. You must, Nicky, to protect yourself and the boy. Venezuela is a long way off. Who knows about their laws? A little child could disappear for ever behind walls constructed of that immense Méndez wealth and power. Don Alejandro would be a potent enemy. I’d never rest in my grave if this were still unresolved when I die.’ He had told his father not to talk about dying, but his father was eighty-five, and although it was unspoken between them, they knew time was creeping up.

Nick grimaced. He had promised to give marriage serious thought; ask Carlotta to do the same. Yet he was not sure he could make their union legal. Her incessant social life, which she tried to foist on him, her constant demands on his time, her temperamental outbursts, and her irrational jealousy were terrible stumbling blocks in their relationship. And all invested the house with disharmony, a disharmony that was assuredly detrimental to the child, not to mention his own teetering peace of mind.

He supposed he could not blame her entirely. Living with a writer like himself, who tended to be hermetic and
dedicated to his craft and distracted half the time, could hardly be an exciting existence for a beautiful, fun-loving, vivacious young woman who was twenty-nine. With her natural attributes, plus the asset of being the only daughter of a multi-millionaire who worshipped her, there was no question in his mind that she would easily, and speedily, find another man. Possibly a husband.

If he had any balls at all he would exit smartly, without a backward glance. How could he? There was his beloved child. His son. Maybe he should take his father’s advice and marry Carlotta without further procrastination. To protect himself and his son’s future. He groaned. He had been skirting the issue for months, and with an unexpected glimmer of insight he now understood why. He was facing the truth finally. It was Carlotta who was affecting his writing. He was letting her do so. This sudden and unpalatable knowledge shook him. He ran his hand through his hair. How in God’s name was he going to unravel this mess and ensure everyone involved came out of it unscathed?

The intercom buzzed, harsh and strident in the dim and silent room. He lifted the receiver. ‘Sure, Pearl, I’ll be right down.’

Sudden perceptions, whilst illuminating the mind, can also cause depression when the intrinsic truths they reveal are troubling or unacceptable. And Nicholas Latimer was suffering from such a malaise of the spirits, when, after dinner, he sat in the living room drinking a second cup of coffee.

He did not like his realities.
On the other hand, he was aware that his aversion to them would not make them go away. And they presented one dilemma which, at this moment, seemed to him to be insoluble: he had to bring order to his chaotic personal life whilst continuing to write. Yet it was not humanly possible to do both at once and succeed at either.

In a sense, the truth had crept up on Nick stealthily, had unexpectedly struck him harshly in the face when he had least expected it, and he was only just beginning to recover from the blow. Slowly, it was dawning on him that his work must take priority; therefore, he would have to put his personal problems on one side, in order to dedicate himself to finishing the novel. Past experience had taught him this was not always easy. The slightest disruption or pressure impinged on his concentration, cluttered his head when he needed absolute clarity of thought. Also, Nick’s tendency to worry excessively had increased, rather than lessened, with the years, and worry was destructive to his creativity.

Turning all this over in his mind yet again, coldly and objectively assessing, he resolved to make a supreme effort to isolate himself from the household, Carlotta in particular, so that he could continue with the novel in an atmosphere of calmness. If necessary, he would acquiesce to the trip to
Venezuela, providing she went alone, without their child; or perhaps he ought to go away himself. Where would he go? Che Sarà Sarà was one place he had always found conducive to work and he had written well there in the past. But Victor was coming to New York shortly, on one of his infrequent business trips, was planning to stay for a month at least. So there was hardly any point in going out to the ranch, or going anywhere for that matter. He had no intention of missing Vic’s visit, or forgoing the time they had planned to spend together. Victor Mason was the one constant in his life, and after almost thirty years of friendship they were as close as they had ever been, if not closer.

I’ll just have to stay put and cope, Nick decided. He rose, went to throw another log on the fire. As he straightened up he noticed that the Taurelle above the mantelpiece was crooked, and he moved the frame slightly to the right. Stepping back, his head on one side, he eyed it carefully, and, satisfied it was level, he returned to the chair.

Nick’s gaze lingered on the painting, a modern Impressionist work by one of his favourite contemporary artists. It was of a lovely young girl standing in a sea of flowers in the middle of a sun-drenched garden, her nudity discreetly, and partially, hidden by the blossoms and foliage. With its subtle coloration, and its extraordinary play of trembling light on the girl and the pastoral scene, it was reminiscent of a latter-day Renoir. He had fallen in love with the Taurelle the minute he had seen it, and its airy pastel colours and the sunny mood it depicted were perfect in the living room.

Nick had decorated this in a
mélange
of cream, white and sandy tones, highlighted with touches of apricot and the palest of greens and blues. The ripe wood tones of the antiques, which he had purchased over the years on trips to England, added balance to the light colours and enhanced the traditional setting. It was very much
his
room, expressed his taste for quality, comfort and elegance, and everyone who
entered it remarked on the beauty and tranquillity which prevailed.

Dragging his eyes away from the painting, he lifted the Georgian silver coffee pot but immediately put it down. Impatiently, he leapt up, filled with the restlessness which had become so paramount in him lately, and on the spur of the moment he decided to go out. A long walk would further clear his head, he reasoned, and he was certainly not in the right frame of mind to do any work at this hour.

Hurrying downstairs, he took his camel-coloured cashmere overcoat and scarf from the hall closet and stuck his head around the kitchen door. Pearl, and Miss Jessica, the marvellous Scottish woman who was his son’s nanny, were engrossed in a pile of cook books, chatting about recipes. He told them he was going out for an hour and left the house.

Nick swung up Madison Avenue, and by the time he reached the Carlyle Hotel, only two blocks from his home, he was already regretting his decision. The weather had turned colder and there was a stinging icy wind. This buffeted him forward, tore at his hair, whipped his face and made his eyes water. He ducked under the awning of the hotel and peered at his watch. Flagging down the first cab he saw, he leapt in, gave the driver the address of Elaine’s on Second Avenue, and sat back, shoving his hands in his pockets to keep them warm.

When he pushed through the door of Elaine’s five minutes later, Nick was relieved to see the bar was not as jammed as usual, and after throwing his coat on a hook, he slid onto a stool. He ordered a Remy Martin and lit a cigarette. Elaine spotted him, waved, and sailed forward to greet him, welcoming him with her usual warmth and friendliness. He joked with her for a few minutes, until she was called away to deal with some restaurant problems. The cognac was smooth and it warmed him, tasted just fine with his cigarette. He was suddenly glad, after all, that he had ventured out, come here. He was beginning to relax, the tension easing out of him, and
he was enjoying the noise and bustle of the place, the sense of life, of people, which it gave him.

He cupped his hands around the brandy balloon, stared down at it, musing. He had long ago ceased to crave happiness… who the hell was happy in this goddamn world? Anyway, as Colette had once written, happiness was a matter of changing troubles. Nonetheless, he had hoped that by now he might have snared contentment at the very least. Even this eluded him. Jesus, in a few months he would be celebrating his fifty-second birthday. What had happened to time? It had slid through his fingers, taking so much with it… the romantic idealism of his youth, so many dreams, so many hopes… leaving behind the ashes of shattered verities and disillusionment and despair and an intangible sorrow in his soul. Yes, the years had passed in the twinkling of a star, disappeared before he had had a chance to—

‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t Nicholas Latimer. The one and only Nicky.’

He swung his head swiftly, found himself staring into the bright and beaming face of Estelle Morgan. Slipping off the stool, he grasped the outstretched hand, leaned forward to kiss the proffered cheek. ‘Hello, Estelle,’ he said. ‘How’ve you been? And where’ve you been hiding yourself?’

‘I’m terrific, and I’ve been around and about, pushing the old pen, as usual,’ she said, gazing up at him with her usual adoration, which had not waned with the years. ‘You’re certainly looking pretty good. As handsome and as charming as ever, dear Nicky.’

Nicky grinned. ‘What’s it been? Two years?’

‘That’s right. I haven’t seen you since I did the interview with you for
Now
. I’m still with the magazine. I just adored your last book, and knowing you, I bet you’re in the middle of a new one.’

‘Sure I am. Coming into the home stretch. Say, Estelle, can I get you a drink?’

‘No thanks. I can only chat for a minute. I’m having
dinner with a bunch of chums over there.’ She nodded in the direction of a table just beyond the bar.

Nick glanced at the group, saw a few familiar faces he could not name, plus a well-known actor, a controversial French film director and a Broadway press agent he vaguely knew. Nick inclined his head to the press agent, turned back to Estelle. ‘Too bad. Not even a quick one?’

‘No, thanks anyway.’ She drew closer, touched his arm tentatively. ‘It’s funny I should run into you tonight. I’ve been trying to reach you all day.’

Nick pricked up his ears, threw her a sharp look. ‘Have you been calling the house, by any chance?’ he asked, realizing suddenly that she was probably the culprit, the mysterious female who had so riled Carlotta earlier.

‘Yes. Several times.’

‘You should have left your name,’ he chastised, trying to keep his voice mild. He felt like throttling her for the trouble she had caused.

‘I was running around all day, kept ’phoning you from the outside,’ Estelle explained. ‘So there was no point in leaving my name. You wouldn’t have been able to reach me.’

‘I see. Did you want to speak to me about something important?’ he asked curiously, his expression quizzical.

‘Sort of… I have a message for you… from an old friend.’

‘And who might that be?’

‘Katharine.’

The name floated between them, suspended in the air, and for a moment Nick was unable to reply. He had felt his body stiffen at the mention of that name, was fully aware of Estelle’s beady eyes watching him closely. Finally, he echoed, ‘
Katharine.
’

‘Yes. Tempest.’

‘I know which Katharine you mean,’ he snapped sharply and he laughed a little too loudly. Attempting to clamp down on the considerable agitation he was feeling, he forced more
laughter, shook his head. ‘You’ve got to be kidding, Estelle. A message from
her
. For
me
!’

‘I don’t know why you look and sound so surprised. You
were
the great love of her life, Nicky.’

He was silent. His heart skipped a couple of beats, and he thought:
After all these years
. He said quietly, ‘What’s the message, Estelle?’

‘Katharine wants to see you, Nicky. She’s going to be in New York in about ten days.’

Nicholas Latimer was struck dumb. This was the most staggering news he had heard in a long time, and he also found it hard to believe. His blondish brows lifted in amazement. ‘Come off it, Estelle. If this is a joke, it’s a bad one. She’d hardly want to see me. You know damn well we parted company in the worst possible circumstances. I haven’t set eyes on her, or heard a peep out of her, since then. Jesus, it’s at least ten, no, twelve years.’

‘I wouldn’t joke about a thing like this, knowing how you felt about her, how you felt about each other,’ Estelle protested. Quickly she lowered her voice, ‘She
does
want a meeting. Honestly. Whenever it’s convenient.’

‘
Why?
I wonder why she wants to see me?’ Nick’s enormous bafflement was evident as he lifted his drink, took a sip. He placed the glass on the bar, pinned his eyes on Estelle intently. ‘Did she give you a reason?’