She put the picture back onto the table and wondered if Eric was here. She herself had asked him to come. Although they were no longer seeing each other, it seemed pointless that there should be any animosity between them. Celina, in fact, still loved Eric. If he hadn’t pressed so hard for marriage, there wouldn’t have been a separation.
She wondered why he was in such a hurry. At twenty-nine, she was too young to marry-let alone to have the children Eric wanted. But she would have them and if Eric could learn to be patient, Celina would have them with him. Until that day, Celina planned on living her life-and she'd do it single, whether Eric Parker liked it or not.
From across the room, the bathroom door opened and Jack Douglas, freshly showered and wearing George’s dinner jacket, stepped into the bedroom. Celina thought how handsome he looked. His sandy hair more tousled than groomed, Jack Douglas had an appealingly athletic build. She guessed him to be somewhere in his early thirties.
He smoothed his hands down the front of the jacket. “What do you think?” he asked.
“Very sophisticated,” Celina said. “You clean up well. Now let’s go down and find my father. I’m sure he wants to talk to you.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Leana Redman moved through the crowd and was amused by how the crowd parted for her.
There were faces she recognized and most of them were either stoned on whatever drug was circulating, or had been lifted so many times, a strange, permanent smile was on their lips.
She nodded at a man who made million-dollar-deals during the day and was rumored to frequent sex clubs during the night. She passed a countess who gave hundreds of thousands of dollars to a teenage delinquency fund, and yet was known to steal repeatedly from Bloomingdale’s and Saks. To her right was a sheik who loved his many wives-and how their clothes fit his plump body. And to her left, she heard a woman saying, “Brenda? Getting married? That’s absurd. Let me tell you something about Brenda. She’s so butch, she rolls her own tampons.”
Leana looked at the woman who said this and wanted to tell her friends that she might as well be talking about herself. It seemed to her that there was more corruption, drug abuse and twisted social values in Fifth Avenue Society than in any other New York social class.
Across the lobby she could see Harold Baines, Redman International’s VP for International Affairs, speaking at a dimly lit corner table with his wife, Helen. Leana smiled. Finally, someone she not only knew, but adored.
Harold had been with Redman International ever since she could remember and they always had been close. When she was a child and made one of her rare visits to her father’s old headquarters on Madison, Harold made it a point to spend time with her while everyone else paid attention to Celina-the daughter who showed promise. Leana would always love him for it.
She started in their direction. The crowd shifted and she saw Harold push back his chair, stand and kiss Helen on the forehead. The lighting above him accented the deep lines on his face, the dark circles beneath his eyes, suggesting an age well past sixty. And yet Harold Baines was fifty-one years old.
Leana waved to him but Harold didn’t notice and he stepped into a nearby washroom. He seemed thinner, older than when she saw him last and Leana noticed he was carrying himself as if the very act of moving required the coordinating of muscles he didn’t have the strength to control. When the door swung shut behind him, she wondered if something was wrong with him. Was he sick? She was about to walk over and ask Helen when Michael Archer appeared in the crowd. He approached her-and held out a hand. “Dance?” he asked.
The band was playing “I’ll Be Seeing You.” As they danced with the other couples on the dance floor, Leana looked up at Michael and decided to ask a question that was certain to catch him off guard. “So, tell me,” she said. “Why did you really spend $100,000 to come here?”
The question took Michael by surprise. “I thought I already explained that,” he said carefully. “I wanted to help your mother raise money this evening for HIV.”
“Bullshit.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re going to have to do better than that,” Leana said. “That’s an explanation my mother would believe, not me.”
Michael felt a start, but stilled it. She couldn’t know why he was really here. That was impossible. Still, he was wary. She seemed to be looking straight through him. “A lot of my time is spent with the creative community,” he said. “Some of my friends have the disease, which no longer gets any attention in the press. It’s great what your mother’s doing. She’ll put HIV back on the front page.”
Leana studied his face. “All right,” she said. “I’ll buy that. But you’re here for some other reason. No one gives $100,000 to charity without having some other motivation than mere kindness. Kindness went belly up in the ‘40s.” She looked around her. “Is there somebody here you wanted to meet? A producer, perhaps? A publisher?”
His arm tightened around her waist. “I’ve got those covered,” he said.
“Then why are you really here?”
“Why do I have to be here for any particular reason? Can’t I just be a nice guy?”
“No one is nice anymore, Mr. Archer. Look around you. See that man over there, the one with the cigar? Next to him is his wife, who knows that lit cigar goes other places. Now, what’s the reason?”
He saw the humor in her eyes and he softened. This is a game to her, he thought. She knows I’m lying and is just having fun with it. Relax. “All right,” he said. “I’ll tell you-but on one condition.”
“Name it.”
“You have to tell me something you’re not proud of. Quid pro quo. Deal?”
“Deal. Now, what is it?”
“I don’t like giving money to the government,” he said, the idea still fresh. “When I learned your mother was raising money this evening for children with HIV, I saw a chance to write off a hundred grand from my taxes. Better to help children than to hand it over to adults who behave like children, wouldn’t you say?”
Leana nodded. “Now, that I believe.” She accidentally brushed up against the woman dancing behind her. Both turned and smiled their apologies.
“Your turn,” Michael said.
“I don’t think you can handle it.”
“Try me.”
Her eyes challenged his. “I’m an addict. I don’t use anymore, but I’m still an addict-that’s the label they give you when you leave rehab. Always and forever an addict. And, my, how I used to love cocaine. Still do, really, but I just can’t use it or things tend to…collapse.”
Suddenly, his game of quid pro quo had lost its appeal. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That was none of my business.”
“Oh, everyone knows,” Leana said. “It’s just another way I’ve been an embarrassment to my family.” She touched his cheek with the back of her hand. “Don’t look so glum, chum. It happened while I was at school in Switzerland. I haven’t been near the stuff in years.”
As they danced, Michael wondered again why his father sent him here tonight. Why was it so important that he meet Leana Redman?
A hand descended onto his shoulder. Michael turned and saw Harold Baines. “May I?” Harold asked.
Michael reluctantly handed Leana over.
“It was nice meeting you,” he said.
Leana smiled. “And you. Maybe you can dip me inappropriately later? Center of the dance floor? Thirty minutes?”
“What do you mean by inappropriately?” he asked.
“It means I’m not wearing any underwear. It means a long, slow dip for the tabloids.”
Michael held up his hands and backed away. “Okay,” he said. “Thirty minutes. But think about the repercussions in the meantime.” He was surprised to find that he liked her.
As Leana watched him leave the dance floor and move into the crowd, she found herself wishing they hadn’t
