fun, and a relief from some of the pressures in my life. That's all it is, Edward. Don't worry, no one's going to run off with the piggy bank."
"That isn't my only concern."
"I'm glad to hear it." Why did she suddenly want to hurt him? What was the point of that? But he was appealing to her, tempting her, like an overzealous agent for a resort she had hated, who insisted on luring her back. And there was no way she would go.
He didn't mention the article again until they were waiting for a cab outside the restaurant. This had been one of the rare times they had discussed her business matters in public.
"You're going to do it?" "What?"
"The interview Simpson discussed with you." "I don't know. I want to give it some thought." "Give it a lot of thought. Weigh in your mind how much it means to you, and how high a price you're willing to pay for doing it. You might not have to pay that price, or you might well have to. But at least be prepared, know the chances you're taking."
"Is it such a terrible chance, Edward?" Her eyes were gentle again as she looked up at him.
"I don't know, Kezia. I really don't know. But somehow, I suspect that no matter what I say, you'll do it anyway. Or maybe I can only make matters worse."
"No. But I may have to do it." Not for Simpson. For herself.
"That's what I thought"
Chapter 7
The plane landed in Chicago at five to the afternoon, with less than an hour to spare before Lucas Johns' speech. Simpson had arranged the loan of a friend's apartment on Lake Shore Drive. The friend, an elderly widow whose husband had been a classmate of Simpson's, was wintering La Portugal.
Now, as the cab circled the rim of the lake, Kezia began to feel a mounting excitement. She had finally chosen. Taken a first step. But what if it turned out to be more than she could handle? It was one thing to work over her typewriter and call herself K. S. Miller, and quite another to pull it off eye to eye. Of course, Mark didn't know who she was either. But that was different. His farthest horizon was his easel, and even if he knew, he wouldn't really care. It would make him laugh, but it wouldn't matter. Lucas Johns might be different He might try to use her notoriety to his advantage.
She tried to shrug off her fears as the cab pulled up in front of the address Simpson had given her. The borrowed apartment was on the nineteenth floor of a substantial-looking building across from the lake.
The parquet floors in the foyer echoed beneath her feet. Above her head was an elaborate crystal chandelier. And the ghostly form of a grand piano stood silent beneath a dust sheet at the foot of the stairs. There was a long mirrored hall which led to the living room beyond. More dust sheets, two more chandeliers, the pink marble of a Louis XV mantel on the fireplace glowing softly from the light in the hall.
The furniture beneath the sheets looked massive, and she wandered curiously from room to room. A spiral staircase led to another floor, and upstairs in the master bedroom she drew back the curtains and pulled up the creamy silk shades. The lake stretched before her, bathed in the glow of sunset, sailboats veering lazily toward home. It would have been fun to go for a walk and watch the lake for a while, but she had other things on her mind. Lucas Johns, and what sort of man he might prove to be.
She had read his book, and was surprised that she liked the sound of him. She had been prepared to dislike him, if only because the interview had become such a major issue between her and Simpson, and Edward. But the issue was herself, and she forgot the rest as she read the book. He had a pleasant way with words, a powerful way of expressing himself, and there were hints of humor throughout the book, and a refusal to take himself seriously, despite his passion for his subject. The style was oddly inconsistent with his history, though, and it was difficult to believe that a man who had spent most of his youth in juvenile halls
"That isn't my only concern."
"I'm glad to hear it." Why did she suddenly want to hurt him? What was the point of that? But he was appealing to her, tempting her, like an overzealous agent for a resort she had hated, who insisted on luring her back. And there was no way she would go.
He didn't mention the article again until they were waiting for a cab outside the restaurant. This had been one of the rare times they had discussed her business matters in public.
"You're going to do it?" "What?"
"The interview Simpson discussed with you." "I don't know. I want to give it some thought." "Give it a lot of thought. Weigh in your mind how much it means to you, and how high a price you're willing to pay for doing it. You might not have to pay that price, or you might well have to. But at least be prepared, know the chances you're taking."
"Is it such a terrible chance, Edward?" Her eyes were gentle again as she looked up at him.
"I don't know, Kezia. I really don't know. But somehow, I suspect that no matter what I say, you'll do it anyway. Or maybe I can only make matters worse."
"No. But I may have to do it." Not for Simpson. For herself.
"That's what I thought"
Chapter 7
The plane landed in Chicago at five to the afternoon, with less than an hour to spare before Lucas Johns' speech. Simpson had arranged the loan of a friend's apartment on Lake Shore Drive. The friend, an elderly widow whose husband had been a classmate of Simpson's, was wintering La Portugal.
Now, as the cab circled the rim of the lake, Kezia began to feel a mounting excitement. She had finally chosen. Taken a first step. But what if it turned out to be more than she could handle? It was one thing to work over her typewriter and call herself K. S. Miller, and quite another to pull it off eye to eye. Of course, Mark didn't know who she was either. But that was different. His farthest horizon was his easel, and even if he knew, he wouldn't really care. It would make him laugh, but it wouldn't matter. Lucas Johns might be different He might try to use her notoriety to his advantage.
She tried to shrug off her fears as the cab pulled up in front of the address Simpson had given her. The borrowed apartment was on the nineteenth floor of a substantial-looking building across from the lake.
The parquet floors in the foyer echoed beneath her feet. Above her head was an elaborate crystal chandelier. And the ghostly form of a grand piano stood silent beneath a dust sheet at the foot of the stairs. There was a long mirrored hall which led to the living room beyond. More dust sheets, two more chandeliers, the pink marble of a Louis XV mantel on the fireplace glowing softly from the light in the hall.
The furniture beneath the sheets looked massive, and she wandered curiously from room to room. A spiral staircase led to another floor, and upstairs in the master bedroom she drew back the curtains and pulled up the creamy silk shades. The lake stretched before her, bathed in the glow of sunset, sailboats veering lazily toward home. It would have been fun to go for a walk and watch the lake for a while, but she had other things on her mind. Lucas Johns, and what sort of man he might prove to be.
She had read his book, and was surprised that she liked the sound of him. She had been prepared to dislike him, if only because the interview had become such a major issue between her and Simpson, and Edward. But the issue was herself, and she forgot the rest as she read the book. He had a pleasant way with words, a powerful way of expressing himself, and there were hints of humor throughout the book, and a refusal to take himself seriously, despite his passion for his subject. The style was oddly inconsistent with his history, though, and it was difficult to believe that a man who had spent most of his youth in juvenile halls
Similar Books
