to. Absorbed in their separate quiet reflections, they almost didn’t notice the smartly dressed blond woman in her late thirties and the teen-aged boy who stood with her outside the Sherry-Netherland Hotel, waiting as the doorman hailed a taxi.
The woman crinkled her eyes with mild curiosity as Jeff and Pamela walked past. Something about the expression suddenly registered in his busy mind.
'Judy?' he said tentatively, stopping beneath the hotel’s awning.
The woman stepped back a pace. 'I’m afraid I don’t recall—no, wait,' she said, 'You were at Emory, weren’t you? Emory University, in Atlanta?'
'Yes,' Jeff said softly, 'I was. We were there together.'
'You know, I thought you looked familiar just now. I could have sworn…' She blushed, just the way she always had. Perhaps she’d suddenly remembered a night in the backseat of the old Chevy, or on a bench outside Harris Hall before curfew; but Jeff could see she was having trouble coming up with his name, and he spoke quickly to spare her the embarrassment.
'I’m Jeff Winston,' he said. 'We used to go to the movies now and then, or out for a beer at Moe’s and Joe’s.'
'Well, of course, Jeff, I remember you. How have you been?'
'Fine. Just fine. Pamela, this is … someone I used to know in college. Judy Gordon. Judy, my friend Pamela Phillips.'
Judy’s eyes widened, and for a moment she almost looked eighteen again. 'The movie director?'
'Producer,' Pamela said, smiling pleasantly. She knew exactly who Judy was and how much this woman had meant to Jeff, in another replay.
'My goodness, isn’t that something? Sean, how about that?' Judy asked the gangly young boy who stood beside her. 'This is an old schoolmate of mine, Jeff Winston, and his friend here is Pamela Phillips, the movie producer. This is my son, Sean.'
'I’m so pleased to meet you, Miss Phillips,' the boy said with unexpected enthusiasm. 'I just want to say … well, to tell you how much Starsea meant to me. That movie changed my life.'
'You know, he’s not joking.' Judy beamed. 'He was twelve years old when he first saw it, and he must have gone back to see it a dozen times. After that, all he could talk about was dolphins, and how to communicate with them. It wasn’t just a passing interest, either. Sean’s going to college in the fall, to the University of California at San Diego, and he’s going to major in—You tell them, honey.'
'Marine biology. With a double minor in linguistics and computer science. I hope to work with Dr. Lilly someday, on interspecies communication. And if I ever do, I’ll have you to thank for it, Miss Phillips. You don’t know how much that means to me, but, well, maybe you do. I hope so.'
A tall man with graying temples came out of the hotel, followed by a bellman wheeling a cart of luggage. Judy introduced her husband to Jeff and Pamela, explained that the family was just ending a vacation in New York. Did Jeff or Pamela ever get down to Atlanta? If they did, be sure to stop by; the name was Christiansen now, here’s the address and phone number. What was the new movie going to be called? They’d be sure to look for it and tell all their friends.
The cab pulled away, and Jeff and Pamela locked arms, held firmly to each other. They smiled as they walked on up Fifth Avenue to the Pierre, but in their eyes was a recognition of mutual sorrow, for all the worlds they once had known and now would know no more.
Jeff poured himself another glass of Montecillo, watched the lowering sun highlight the steep, rocky coastline to the west. Below the slope where the villa perched, and past another hill green with almond groves and olive trees, he could see the fishing boats returning to the red-roofed village of Puerto de Andraitx. A shift in the still-warm October breeze suddenly brought the scent of the Mediterranean through the open window, and it mingled with the robust aroma of simmering paella from the kitchen behind him.
'More wine?' he called.
Pamela leaned through the kitchen doorway, a large wooden spoon in one hand. She shook her head. 'Cook stays sober,' she said. 'At least until dinner’s on the table.'
'Sure you don’t want some help?'
'Mmm … you could slice some pimientos, if you want to. Everything else is just about ready.'
Jeff ambled into the kitchen, began cutting the sweet red peppers into thin strips. Pamela dipped her spoon into the shallow iron pan, held out a taste of the paella for him to sample. He sipped the rich red broth, chewed a tender bite of calamari.
'Too much saffron in the rice?' she asked.
'Perfect as is.'
She smiled with satisfaction, motioned for him to get the plates.
He did, though it was difficult for them both to maneuver in the cramped kitchen. The little hillside house was a 'villa' in rental agents' terms only; it was much smaller and plainer than the grandiose appellation implied. But then, Pamela had taken the temporary residence with one simple purpose in mind. Jeff tried to think about that as little as possible, but it was hard to ignore.
She saw the look in his eyes, touched her fingertips lightly to his cheek. 'Come on,' she said, 'time to eat.'
He held the plates as she ladled up the steaming paella, then topped the rich seafood stew with green peas and the pimiento strips he’d cut. They took their dinner back to the table by the window in the front room. Pamela lit candles and put on a Laurindo Almeida tape, 'Concierto de Aranjuez,' as Jeff poured them each a fresh glass of wine. They ate in silence, watching the lights come on in the fishing village far below.
When they were finished, Jeff cleared the dishes while Pamela set out a platter of manchego cheese with sliced melon. He picked halfheartedly at the dessert, sipped from a snifter of Soberano brandy, and tried again, unsuccessfully, to avoid thinking about why they were here on Majorca.
'I’ll be leaving in the morning,' he said at last. 'No need to drive me; I can get a boat back to Palma, take a cab to the airport.'
She reached across the table, took his hand. 'You know I wish you would stay.'
'I know. I just don’t want to … put you through it.'
Pamela squeezed his hand. 'I could deal with it. I could be there for you, be with you … And yet, if it were going to be me first, I wouldn’t want you to see it happen. So I understand how you feel. I respect that.'
He cleared his throat, glanced around the earth-hued room. In the dim glow of the candlelight, he couldn’t help but reflect, it seemed exactly what it was: a place for dying. The very place where she had died, a quarter of a century ago, and would die again not two weeks hence, soon after his own heart had once more failed.
'Where will you go?' she asked softly.
'Montgomery Creek, I suppose. I think you have the right idea about choosing an isolated place to … let it happen. A special place.'
She smiled, a warm, open smile of tenderness and recollected joy. 'Remember that day I first showed up at your cabin? God, I was so scared.'
'Scared?' Jeff said, smiling now himself. 'Of what?'
'Of you, I guess. What you might say to me, how you’d react. You’d been so angry at me the last time I saw you, in Los Angeles; I thought you still might be.'
He put both hands on hers. 'It wasn’t so much that I was angry at you; I was just concerned about the possible consequences of what you were doing.'
'I know that now. But at the time … When you came into my office at Starsea, out of the blue, I didn’t know how the hell to react. I don’t think I even realized quite how lonely, how desperate, I’d become. I just assumed, by then, that I’d never meet anyone else like me, not even anyone who would believe what I’d been through, let alone someone who’d shared the experience. You’d withdrawn to the land, to your mountains and your crops … while I’d put up emotional barriers of a different sort:
