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Claire rolled her eyes. “Sensitive is not the adjective I would have chosen.”
“But then words are not your line of work, are they?” Jason shifted his weight and put his arm over the back of the seat. His hand casually rested on Claire’s shoulder. She hunched forward and hugged her bag.
“And what makes it even more incredible, Jason, is you’re clearly amazingly handsome and famous,” Trish said.
Jason nudged Claire. “See, someone recognizes my better qualities.” She hunched farther forward.
“But I’m not sure people are going to believe we’re an item.” From the emotional high of a second ago, Trish dipped to the depths of the Marianas Trench. “I mean the wedding’s this Saturday. And we’ve only just met. Besides, it’s not as if we have anything in common. I mean, I wouldn’t know a hockey bat from a baseball bat.”
Claire rolled her eyes. “It’s a stick, Trish, a hockey stick.” She would have said something further along those lines, but she saw that her friend truly looked despondent, only reinforcing Claire’s long-standing belief that it never paid to fall in love. “Listen, sweetie, don’t worry about the sports stuff. Didn’t you ever hear of the theory that opposites attract? You can just say you met over this story, which is perfectly true. And there was this instantaneous spark. This spontaneous combustion.”
Trish sniffed. “Spontaneous combustion?”
“This violent, passionate bolt of desire, which struck like lightning.”
“Oh, that spontaneous combustion.” Trish waved her hand dismissively and replaced her sunglasses. “Don’t be ridiculous. That kind of thing never happens. I’m surprised that a cynic like you, Claire, would even mention something as silly as that. People just don’t suddenly get all weak in the knees by some sudden onslaught of passion.”
Claire stared at Jason. She saw him work his jaw. She immediately thought of their fleeting kiss. Her stomach contracted violently. “I suppose you’re right,” she said softly, still looking at his lips.
“Still, people will believe anything, won’t they?” Trish sounded as if she was trying to convince herself. “And seeing as we could say it was this sudden thing, we could also say afterward that it broke up just as quickly—one of those sputtering flame things. So, will you do it?” She turned and rested a hand on Jason’s sleeve.
Jason looked at Claire’s lips.
“Jason?” Trish asked.
“Hmm?”
“Will you do it? Will you be my fiancé?”
He stared at Claire’s mouth as he spoke. “There’s still six weeks to the start of the season. And when you put it that way, how can I refuse.”
THREE HOURS LATER, ensconced in the children’s ward of an Upper East Side hospital and research institute, Claire had just about run out of film.
That wasn’t the only thing to run out of steam. After going through several tapes and lobbing out questions that seemed to touch on everything from his first-grade teacher—Mrs. Greenberg, she wore a hairnet and orthopedic shoes—to the latest rumors about his hot-and-heavy affair with a Swedish cover girl—“We’re just good friends,” Claire heard him say over the whir of her camera—Trish packed up her recorder, her cell phone and her handheld organizer, and had Elaine arrange for a car to take her back to the office.
Someone else had yet to wilt, though. Jason was enthusiastically chatting away and signing autographs in the children’s clinic. Despite the ever-present barrage of tubes and drips, the mood was pure upbeat, with Jason trading high-fives with most of the kids.
Claire circled a hospital bed as Jason joked with one boy about the cap he was wearing. “Hey,” he called over to Claire, “don’t take his picture unless he promises to get rid of that Rangers cap. It’s Blades or nothing around here.” Jason dug into a bag and pulled out a cap. “Now that’s more like it.”
The smiling boy, his head billiard-ball smooth, laughed as he doffed the Blades souvenir. “Hey, Jason, you fall for my trick every time. I must have four Blades caps from you already.” The youngster adjusted the bill just right.
Jason held up a warning finger. “And that’s going to be the last. At least for today.” He pulled down the bill as Claire snapped another picture. “I’m all out of caps. Did everybody get one, Larry?” He looked to the doctor who was accompanying them.
“I think you’ve hit everyone, at least once, Jason.” As the rest of the medical team, Larry—Dr. Lawrence Shepherd, head of pediatric oncology—wore bright colors instead of the usual white uniform. He had a silly-looking frog hanging off his stethoscope. It seemed to suit the middle-aged physician with the gimlet smile. “We’ll see you back here in two weeks anyway, right?”
Jason nodded. “Got enough for the scrapbook, Claire?” He got up off the bed, looking bone-weary but deep-down satisfied.
“You’re a fraud, Jason Doyle,” Claire said as she packed up. “Vernon churns out the usual publicity drivel about the swinging star-athlete making the requisite charity appearances, and here it actually looks like you enjoy it. Next you’ll tell me you’ve been coming here off-the-record for five years.”
“I’d say it’s more like fifteen,” Larry said as he walked them to the elevators. He pushed up his horn-rimmed glasses and looked at Jason.
“It’s the food. I just can’t get enough of it.”
“Just bring the Stanley Cup to New York this coming season,” Larry said. “I’ve got a twenty-dollar bet riding on it with the president of the hospital board.”
“And here I thought I was appreciated for just being me.” They walked companionably to the elevators, with Jason inquiring about how Larry’s children had liked sleep-away camp. Without too much prompting, Larry opened his wallet.
“That’s some catch.” Claire leaned over to take a look at the snapshot. A boy of around ten with board shorts and a baseball cap turned backward was proudly holding a fish. A fishing pole stood at attention in the other hand.
“Largemouth bass. Must have been two pounds.” Larry grinned before carefully packing up his wallet.
“Paging Dr. Shepherd. Dr. Lawrence Shepherd.”
Larry looked up. “Never a dull moment.” He held open the elevator, letting Claire and Jason enter without him. “Remember what I said.” He looked at Jason.
“I know, the twenty dollars.”
“That, and my usual invitation. It’s always good any time you want.”
The doors closed. Jason leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. She let the day’s first moment of silence embrace them before finally asking, “How come you know Larry? You’re not from the city, right?”
“Nope, I’m one of St. Johnsbury, Vermont’s finest. Larry was my college roommate’s doctor. I never forgot what he did for Danny. Larry has a gift.”
“I wouldn’t say you’re completely untalented. How many people can play hockey the way you do?”
Jason opened his eyes. “Did a goal ever save anyone’s life?” He paused. “But enough humility on my part. Instead, let’s turn to a far more intriguing subject—Claire Marsden.” Whatever weariness or bitterness he may have felt was quickly masked.
“Trust me, it’s just your run-of-the-mill, globe-trotting photojournalist stuff. Not a very interesting topic.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Let’s start with this.” Jason playfully tugged Claire’s streak of gray hair. “I’ve been dying to know. It’s real, yeah?”
“It’s real, yeah. Do you know many thirty-year-old women who purposely put gray in their hair?”
Jason toyed with the dramatic lock. “I like it. It’s different. It’s you.”
“Actually, it’s more my father. He had the same streak. Turned gray around seventeen, eighteen, just like me. And that’s what I inherited—besides seven hundred and forty-five dollars, a Leica in impeccable working order, and a good set of camera lenses.”
“I’d say from your talent, you inherited a whole lot more.” He toyed with her hair a bit longer. “And what did you inherit from your mother?”
Claire rescued her hair from his fingering and tucked it behind her ear. “If you met my mother, you wouldn’t even bother to ask the question. Let’s just say we’re the yin and yang of mother-daughter relationships.” The elevator doors opened at the hospital lobby. “Our eighteen months of living together were as baffling to her as they were to me. To her great consternation, I just never learned essential life lessons, like how to coordinate my handbag with my shoes.”
Jason studied her work boots and canvas camera bag that doubled as a catch-all purse. “I noticed. It’s one of your more charming qualities. I hadn’t thought of it before, but I may add that to my requirements for a future wife. Let’s see, where does that put you? Four in total?”
Claire swung open the wide glass door and walked outside. She waited under the canopy on the sidewalk. She looked around as he joined her. “I don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish with all this future wife rigmarole, but it’s starting to get a little stale.”
Jason zipped up his jacket. “Rigmarole. I like that. Whoever said words weren’t your strength?”
Claire spun around. The man could try the patience of Mother Teresa. “All right, I’m just going to ignore whatever’s going on.”
“But why?”
“Well, for one thing, do I need to remind you that you’re supposed to have fallen madly in love with Trish and are engaged to her?”
“That’s pretend.”
“Nevertheless.” Claire pulled out the schedule from her back pocket and unfolded it. “Let’s see. Tomorrow appears to be a full day. Eight o’clock tomorrow morning we hit your gym.” She folded the paper back up. “A little workout’s in store.”
Jason wetted his lips, letting the tip of his tongue rest in the corner of his mouth. Never had a gesture of thoughtfulness been so X-rated.
“Hey, Jason, I don’t know which gets more stares—you, or that damn bike of yours.” The hospital doorman tossed him the keys. Jason’s motorcycle had mysteriously rematerialized in front of the hospital.
“Thanks, Nick,” he replied, then turned to Claire. “Can I give you a lift? I need both hands to steer, you know.”
“Even without your hands, you’re not to be trusted. I think I’ll take my chances on the street.” She took a few backward steps.
“Tomorrow.” Jason nodded. “I’ll be ready, Claire Marsden. Oh, which reminds me. Before, when you were explaining why you were going to ignore me, you said ‘for one thing.’ What I want to know is, what’s the other reason?”
4
CLAIRE WAS READY.
But Trish wasn’t. Neither was Elaine. Maybe they couldn’t deal with putting on eyeliner and lipstick before sunrise two days in a row.
A certain member of the male population didn’t seem to have those worries. Jason was there waiting, tapping his foot as he leaned against the check-in area in the Plaza’s lobby. A giant arrangement of Asiatic lilies and birds-of-paradise, which was perched on the marble counter, quivered in time to his strict tattoo.
And talk about the opposite of all dressed up with nowhere to go. Under his leather bomber jacket, he wore a ratty sweatshirt and sweatpants. On his feet, an old pair of sneakers held together with duct tape. There wasn’t a logo in sight.
It was a sponsor’s nightmare. And from the looks of the female clerks on duty, every woman’s fantasy.
How could a man who’d just rolled out of bed and into yesterday’s laundry possibly generate that much raw sex appeal? Claire wondered. Thoughts of his just rolling out of bed lingered in her imagination. She set her jaw and marched forward. Simply do your job, she told herself. No weak knees today.
Jason spotted her instantly and pushed himself away from the desk with his elbows. Claire stopped two feet in front of him and performed an obvious once-over. “Don’t overdress on my account,” she said in greeting him.
Jason leaned over and picked up a canvas backpack. “I figured I’d change into my formal wear for when we go house hunting.”
“Always important to impress the co-op boards.” After Jason’s morning workout, Claire was supposed to capture his search for the perfect abode in his new hometown. She couldn’t wait to see what marvel of mirrored glass and steel he would choose for himself. Her image of bachelor jocks living alone fit with some slick, Donald Trump skyscraper on the Upper East Side.
“Vernon not joining us?” She let the doorman hail a taxi out front.
“No, he has to hold some Romanian gymnast’s hand today. I’ve been upstaged by an eighty-pound tumbler.” He didn’t look stricken. “What about Trish? Still too early for her nail polish to dry?”
“Don’t be so hard on Trish.” Claire defended her friend, even though there might be a grain of truth in Jason’s crack. “She may get a little carried away at times—”
“Trust me. No man would ever complain about a woman getting carried away. At anytime.”
Claire frowned and was about to snap back a retort when she caught herself. Jason had this unerring way of getting her goat. She had always considered herself fairly immune to “male speech.” After years of living in close quarters with war correspondents and soldiers, she had developed a tough skin when it came to many things—constant innuendos being only one of them.
But conversations with Jason seemed to leave her as vulnerable as a schoolmarm. Why did he always seem to know which button to push? She must be getting soft in her old age. These days, after all, she was in the habit of sleeping on clean sheets—Pratese, Trish had informed her—and having a cleaning lady to do her wash—never had her T-shirts been so cuddly soft and April-fresh smelling.
That was it! It was all that fabric softener. It was affecting her brain as well as her nasal passages.
Satisfied that she had a petrochemical explanation for her softening response system, Claire squared her shoulders with a renewed sense of self-confidence and replied with her customary glibness. “I must remember that insight the next time the Secretary General of the United Nations asks me for my opinion on global warming. In the meantime, I’d like to discuss some of Patti’s other admirable traits.”
“Patti?” A taxi pulled up, and Jason gave the address.
“Sorry, Trish. Trish used to be known as Patti back in high school, but she decided to change it.”
“Before or after sleeping with the sports editor?”
Claire turned to him in the back seat of the taxi. “As surprising as this may be to you, the change was not part of some post-coital response. ‘Oh, now that I am a woman, I think I’ll change my name to Trish.’”
Jason leaned back in his seat and gave her a wide-eyed stare. “That is hard to believe.”
Claire stared back, taking in his look of mock amazement. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
He tilted his head. “Very much so. Aren’t you?”
Claire smiled thoughtfully. “I guess I am, too.” And she was. Despite her earlier misgivings, she found herself amused, maybe relaxed. No, not relaxed. “Anyway, to make a long explanation short—Trish used to be known as Patti because her name is really Patricia. But then she thought that sounded too Gidget-ish.”
He leaned forward. “I realize that’s supposed to make it all crystal-clear, but who or what is a Gidget?”
“Never mind. That’s not important. What is important is that Trish took me under her wing when I first showed up in Leeds Springs. I had never lived in America, never heard of the suburban high school scene. I was so out, I didn’t even know there was such a thing as an ‘in’ crowd. And Trish immediately made me part of the newspaper crowd, made me feel accepted. And her generosity didn’t end there. Later, when I’d be between assignments and back in the States, she always let me crash at her place, even kept a trunk with all my stuff. I’m there now as a matter of fact.”
“She seems like quite a friend.”
“The best. It’s on account of her that I’m shooting this job.” She turned to face Jason. The taxi turned sharply at the corner.
“I’d say it was probably talent that got you the job. It’s probably just as much to Trish’s benefit, if not more, that you’re shooting the pictures.” He looked deadly serious.
Claire scoffed. “Come off it. We all know that in this world, talent only gets you so far. Well, maybe not in your world, but in mine, anyway. It’s who you know that counts. If I can help out Trish, great. But bottom line, she’s the one who hired me.”
“Were you always this cynical?”
“You can call it cynical if you want. I prefer to think of it as realistic. In any case, it’s important to me that Trish doesn’t get hurt with this whole wedding business. Very important.” Claire studied her hands. She realized she’d been folding and unfolding them on top of her camera case.
“Claire?” he asked softly. “Claire?” he asked again. She looked up. “I understand your loyalty, and I applaud it. Heck, you’re talking to someone who plays on a team as a profession. But I want you to get one thing straight.” He paused.
Relieved to see that the taxi had stopped, Claire leaned against the door, ready to get out.
Jason put a hand on her arm. His voice was low, barely above a whisper. “I will make sure that everything goes okay for Trish at the wedding. But get one thing clear, crystal-clear.” He tightened his grip on her arm. Claire looked at the hand on her jacket sleeve, then at his face. There wasn’t a grin in sight. And just when she would have preferred him to tease her in some good-natured, tasteless way, he said, in a deadly serious tone, “I’m not doing this because it’s important to Trish. I’m doing it because it’s important to you.” And then he let go of her arm.
CLAIRE SWUNG open the door, climbed out, and adjusted the awkward load of her camera bag. She gulped for air, any air, to counter the sudden attack of hyperventilation that had seized her. And she was having a hard time blaming it on laundry products.
Jason Doyle is an assignment, she told herself firmly. And he’s the means to helping out a good friend. Period. What she needed now in her life was the safety of simplicity. No complications. No risks. Just uninterrupted nights of sleep, regular meals and a paycheck every two weeks.
What she didn’t need was Jason Doyle messing with her brain, and messing with the rest of her insides. And right now she was definitely having a mind-body experience, one that wasn’t leading to a greater state of bliss. No amount of self-help gurus, green tea or lavender bath salts was going to provide an antidote, either. What she needed had to be far more potent—one-hundred-percent caffeine.
She turned back and watched as Jason paid the driver. He slung his backpack over his shoulder. His jacket rose to expose his hipbones, jutting against the low-slung, soft fabric of his sweatpants. She gulped and turned away quickly. “I desperately need coffee,” she gasped. She was going to need it intravenously if his pants slipped any lower.
