and solitary and didn’t include nightclubs and fancy dinners, or invitations from handsome men like Finn.
“All right, just one drink,” she agreed. And Annabel’s was packed when they walked in. It was as busy and festive as he promised. They sat in the bar, had two glasses of champagne each, and he danced with her before they left and then drove her back to Claridge’s. It had been a terrific evening, for both of them. He loved talking to her, and she enjoyed his company too.
“After a night like this, I wonder what I’m doing, living in solitude outside Dublin. You make me want to move back here,” Finn said as they got back to her hotel. He turned off the engine, and turned to look at her. “I think I realized tonight that I miss London. I don’t spend enough time here. But if I did, you wouldn’t be here, so it wouldn’t be any fun anyway.” She laughed at what he said. There was a boyish side to him that appealed to her, and a sophisticated side that dazzled her a little. It was a heady combination. And he felt the same way about her. He liked her gentleness, intelligence, and subtle but nonetheless lively sense of humor. He’d had a terrific time, better than he had in years, or so he said. He was also charming, so she didn’t know if he was telling the truth, but it didn’t really matter. They had obviously both enjoyed it.
“I had a wonderful time, Finn. Thank you. You didn’t have to do all that,” she said graciously.
“It was great for me too. I wish you weren’t leaving tomorrow,” he said sadly.
“So do I,” she confessed. “I always forget how much I like London.” The night life there had always been great, and she loved the museums, which she hadn’t had enough time to visit at all on this trip.
“Could I talk you into staying for another day?” he asked her, looking hopeful, and she hesitated, but shook her head.
“I shouldn’t. I really ought to get back, and I have to edit your pictures. They’re working on a pretty tight deadline.”
“Duty calls. I hate that,” he said, looking disappointed. “I’ll call you the next time I come to New York,” he promised. “I don’t know when, but I will, sooner or later.”
“I won’t be able to give you a night as nice as this.”
“There are some good places in New York too. I have my favorite haunts.” She was sure he did. And in Dublin too. And probably everywhere he went. Finn didn’t seem to be the sort of man to sit around at home at night, except when he was writing. “Thank you for having dinner with me tonight, Hope,” he thanked her politely as they got out of the car. It was freezing cold, and he walked her into the lobby as she held her coat tightly around her in the icy wind. “I’ll be in touch,” he promised, as she thanked him again. “Have a safe trip back.”
“Enjoy your holidays with Michael,” she said warmly, smiling up at him.
“He’ll only be here for a few days, and then he’ll be off skiing with his friends. I only get about five minutes with him these days. It’s of the age. I’m damn near obsolete.”
“Enjoy whatever time you get,” she said wisely, and he kissed her cheek.
“Take care of yourself, Hope. I had a wonderful day.”
“Thank you, Finn. So did I. I’ll send you the proofs of the pictures as soon as I can.” He thanked her and waved, as she walked into the lobby alone, with her head down, thinking. She had had such a nice time, far more than she’d expected. And as she got in the elevator and rode up to her floor, she was genuinely sorry to be leaving the next day. After London, it was going to seem very dull now to go up to the Cape for Christmas.
Chapter 4
It was snowing again when Hope got back to New York. The next morning she looked out her window at six inches of snow blanketing Prince Street, and decided not to drive to Cape Cod. Being in London had reminded her of how much fun it could be in the city, and when everyone else went shopping that afternoon, the day before Christmas Eve, Hope went to the Metropolitan Museum, to see a new medieval exhibit there, and then walked back down to SoHo through the still-falling snow, which by then had been called a blizzard.
The city was almost shut down. There was no traffic on the streets, cabs were impossible to find, and only a few hardy souls like her were walking home, trudging through the snow. Offices had closed early, and schools were already on vacation. Her cheeks were red and her eyes tearing, and her hands were tingling from the cold when she got back to her loft, and put the kettle on for tea. It had been an invigorating walk, and a delightful afternoon. And she had just sat down with a steaming cup of tea when Mark Webber called her from home. His office was closed till New Year’s. There were no assignments likely to come up between Christmas and New Year.
“So how was it?” he asked, curious about O’Neill.
“He was great. Interesting, smart, easy to shoot, terrific looking. He was everything you’d expect him to be, and nothing like his books, which are always so complicated and dark. I haven’t started editing the shots yet, but we got some great ones.”
“Did he try to rape you?” Mark asked, only half-joking.
“No. He took me for a very civilized dinner at Harry’s Bar, and to Annabel’s afterward for a drink. He treated me like a visiting dignitary and great-aunt.”
“Hardly. Going to the most fashionable restaurant and nightclub in London is not exactly what you do with a great-aunt.”
“He was very proper,” Hope reassured him, “and wonderful to talk to. He’s a man of many interests. I almost wish I’d shot him in Dublin, it sounds like he’s more in his element there, but I’m fairly certain we got the shots his publisher wanted. Maybe more than they need. He’s cooperative and very pleasant to work with.” She didn’t add that he looked like a movie star, which he did. “His London house is the size of a postage stamp, which was a bitch with the equipment, but we managed. The one outside Dublin sounds like Buckingham Palace. I’d have liked to see it.”
“Well, thanks for doing it on such short notice. His publisher is damn lucky. What are you doing over the holiday, Hope? Are you still going to the Cape?” It seemed unlikely in the blizzard, and unwise. He hoped not.
She smiled as she looked out the window, at the continuing swirls of snow. There were nearly two feet of it on the ground now, and it was still coming, while the wind blew it into towering drifts. They had promised three feet by morning. “Not in this weather,” she said, smiling. “Even I’m not that crazy, although it would be pretty once I got there.” Most of the roads had been closed by that afternoon, and getting there would have been a nightmare. “I’ll stay here.” Finn had given her his latest book to read, she had some photographs she wanted to sort through for a gallery in San Francisco that wanted to give her a show, and she had Finn’s shoot to edit.
“Call if you get lonely,” he said kindly, but knew she wouldn’t. Hope was very independent, and had led a solitary, quiet life for several years. But he at least wanted her to know that someone cared about her. He worried about her at times, although he knew she was good at keeping busy. She was just as likely to be taking photographs on the streets of Harlem on Christmas Eve, as shooting in a coffee shop for truckers on Tenth Avenue at four in the morning. It was what she did, and how she loved spending her time. Mark admired her for it, and the work that resulted from it had made her famous.
“I’ll be fine,” she reassured him, and sounded as though she meant it.
After they hung up, she lit candles, turned off the lights, and sat looking at the snow falling outside, through her big windows without curtains. She loved the light, and had never bothered to put up shades. The streetlamps lit up the room along with the candles, and she was lying on the couch, observing the winter scene, when the phone rang again. She couldn’t imagine who it would be, on the night before Christmas Eve. Her phone only rang during business hours, and it was always about work. When she picked it up, the voice was unfamiliar to her.
“Hope?”
“Yes.” She waited to hear who it was.
“It’s Finn. I called to make sure you got back okay. I hear there’s a blizzard in New York.” His voice sounded warm and friendly, and the call was a pleasant surprise.
“There is,” she confirmed about the blizzard. “I walked from the Metropolitan Museum all the way downtown to SoHo. I loved it.”
“You’re a hardy soul,” he said, laughing. His voice was deep and smooth in her ears. “You’d do well on the hills where my house is, outside Dublin. You can walk for miles, from village to village. I often do, but not in a blizzard in New York. I tried to call my publisher today, and they were closed.”
“Everyone is, for the holidays by now anyway, even without the snow.”
