my
silence."
"No reminiscences," she said. "I called
merely to explain. It looks as if we're going to find ourselves together at
times. I wanted to clear the air."
"Your husband and my wife seem to be becoming real
buddies. She's been raving about his brainpower." He shrugged. "I
found him a little too encyclopedic."
She ignored the reference. Eliot's superior airs could be
grating.
"He's quite taken with your wife's skills. That's a
compliment. He is quite a taskmaster," Carol said.
"From the time she spends with him, it would seem so.
At her hourly rate that's okay with me," Ken said.
"Apparently it will be a long project," Carol
said. "With Eliot, work doesn't stop at the office door. There's also this
social component. And since we might be seeing more of each other ... as
couples ... I wanted to be sure that you understood, well ... why all those
strange historical facts."
"I know why," Ken said. "You made them
up."
"Embellished. I embellished."
The waitress brought their coffee, giving them a chance to
assess each other further. His good looks had matured well. His hair, speckled
lightly with gray, was thinning in front. His eyes seemed set deeper into his
face than she had remembered. And the eyes themselves? She recognized the young
man in them, the eyes of the man that had for one brief, glorious moment turned
her inside out. The memory brought a charge down the center of her.
"I was afraid you might give it away," she
admitted.
"Descendant of a French marquis, your father killed in
Vietnam. You put a lot of imagination into that one."
"And you certainly did find a way to expose me. The
wall idea was very creative."
"It was nasty and I apologize."
"It frightened me. But you saw that."
"And retreated. I guess I was just resentful. You not
even acknowledging me, as if I had never existed."
"I guess I sensed that, hence this explanation."
Ken sipped his coffee.
"Does Eliot believe all that?"
"Implicitly."
"Your age?"
She nodded.
"I'd believe that," Ken said, studying her.
"Is the other true? About being ... in that Australian ballet
company?"
"No. More little make-believe. I'm afraid I bombed out
as a dancer."
"I'm sorry," he said, his eyes evading hers.
"It was once everything. My whole world. God, I tried.
After my scholarship was over, I was simply dropped. Oh, I tried other schools,
other companies. I think my lack of success after all those sacrifices broke my
parents." She shrugged and stamped down a welling of tears. "I did do
six months with a musical theater road company." She forced a smile.
"Mostly I taught. Remember the old saying 'If you can't do it, teach
it'?"
"Well, you look none the worse for wear," Ken
muttered. "You seem to be doing quite well with Mr. Butterfield."
"Proves there's life after failure, Ken. I found a way
to get through the long night in a very comfortable, tranquil way. I just got
tired of being poor. You probably think it's a kind of exile and it is, a
golden exile, and I don't want anything to screw it up."
"It certainly is a lot clearer than it was the other
night."
"In some ways I had to re-create myself. Make me
marketable for Eliot to have wanted me. Sure, it's a pack of lies, Ken. All of
it. Harmless lies. Although I do teach kids ballet. I'm everything he expects
and I'm true to that creation. Too late now to confess all. Eliot thinks of me
as that person I concocted out of whole cloth."
She hadn't meant to bare her soul, only explain. But she
felt better for the telling.
"We do what we have to," Ken said. "Maggie
tells me Eliot's loaded, that you live in this big place on Fifth Avenue. All
looks great from here."
"It's a lot more comfortable life than I had,"
she whispered. "Following a dying dream without money is not very
edifying."
"Well, I guess, then, you have cleared the air,"
Ken said. Then, suddenly, he reached out and covered her hand with his. It
surprised her that she did not remove it. "Believe me, I appreciate it.
Once we never did
silence."
"No reminiscences," she said. "I called
merely to explain. It looks as if we're going to find ourselves together at
times. I wanted to clear the air."
"Your husband and my wife seem to be becoming real
buddies. She's been raving about his brainpower." He shrugged. "I
found him a little too encyclopedic."
She ignored the reference. Eliot's superior airs could be
grating.
"He's quite taken with your wife's skills. That's a
compliment. He is quite a taskmaster," Carol said.
"From the time she spends with him, it would seem so.
At her hourly rate that's okay with me," Ken said.
"Apparently it will be a long project," Carol
said. "With Eliot, work doesn't stop at the office door. There's also this
social component. And since we might be seeing more of each other ... as
couples ... I wanted to be sure that you understood, well ... why all those
strange historical facts."
"I know why," Ken said. "You made them
up."
"Embellished. I embellished."
The waitress brought their coffee, giving them a chance to
assess each other further. His good looks had matured well. His hair, speckled
lightly with gray, was thinning in front. His eyes seemed set deeper into his
face than she had remembered. And the eyes themselves? She recognized the young
man in them, the eyes of the man that had for one brief, glorious moment turned
her inside out. The memory brought a charge down the center of her.
"I was afraid you might give it away," she
admitted.
"Descendant of a French marquis, your father killed in
Vietnam. You put a lot of imagination into that one."
"And you certainly did find a way to expose me. The
wall idea was very creative."
"It was nasty and I apologize."
"It frightened me. But you saw that."
"And retreated. I guess I was just resentful. You not
even acknowledging me, as if I had never existed."
"I guess I sensed that, hence this explanation."
Ken sipped his coffee.
"Does Eliot believe all that?"
"Implicitly."
"Your age?"
She nodded.
"I'd believe that," Ken said, studying her.
"Is the other true? About being ... in that Australian ballet
company?"
"No. More little make-believe. I'm afraid I bombed out
as a dancer."
"I'm sorry," he said, his eyes evading hers.
"It was once everything. My whole world. God, I tried.
After my scholarship was over, I was simply dropped. Oh, I tried other schools,
other companies. I think my lack of success after all those sacrifices broke my
parents." She shrugged and stamped down a welling of tears. "I did do
six months with a musical theater road company." She forced a smile.
"Mostly I taught. Remember the old saying 'If you can't do it, teach
it'?"
"Well, you look none the worse for wear," Ken
muttered. "You seem to be doing quite well with Mr. Butterfield."
"Proves there's life after failure, Ken. I found a way
to get through the long night in a very comfortable, tranquil way. I just got
tired of being poor. You probably think it's a kind of exile and it is, a
golden exile, and I don't want anything to screw it up."
"It certainly is a lot clearer than it was the other
night."
"In some ways I had to re-create myself. Make me
marketable for Eliot to have wanted me. Sure, it's a pack of lies, Ken. All of
it. Harmless lies. Although I do teach kids ballet. I'm everything he expects
and I'm true to that creation. Too late now to confess all. Eliot thinks of me
as that person I concocted out of whole cloth."
She hadn't meant to bare her soul, only explain. But she
felt better for the telling.
"We do what we have to," Ken said. "Maggie
tells me Eliot's loaded, that you live in this big place on Fifth Avenue. All
looks great from here."
"It's a lot more comfortable life than I had,"
she whispered. "Following a dying dream without money is not very
edifying."
"Well, I guess, then, you have cleared the air,"
Ken said. Then, suddenly, he reached out and covered her hand with his. It
surprised her that she did not remove it. "Believe me, I appreciate it.
Once we never did
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