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“At the Hyatt.”
“Ever been to Indiana? We’ve lots of wonders to see.” And he had eased her past talking about who he might look like—or indeed, who he might be.
They talked of hotels, Indiana, California, people, and she introduced him to several people as Tris. Two asked if they knew him. Was he a publicist? He looked familiar somehow. He replied, “Well, if you’ve ever been to Indiana there are a good many of us around, and we tend to have the family look. My mother was a Fell, and her family were Davie and Hughs. And there are some...” But oddly enough by then the questioner had lost interest.
At the buffet, he crossed glances with Jamie and gave him a bland, vague look of a stranger. Jamie coughed then choked quite hard, and he had to be slapped on the back.
Tris said to Amabel, “He’s probably drunk. Most reporters drink too much. Do you?”
“He isn’t a reporter—in fact he’s Sean Morant’s publicist. No woman drinks too much if she’s as opposed to men as I am.”
“Now why would you be opposed to men?” he inquired in great surprise.
“Basically... Well, that word says it all. Men are very basic.”
Tris snagged them each another drink from a passing tray—carried, of course, by a waiter—and he handed one to Amabel before he lifted his as he said, “Here’s to the good old days, when men were men and women were barefoot and pregnant.”
She refrained from sipping the drink and cautioned, “I can see we need to talk about women’s rights. I do believe you’ve been somewhat out of touch? And that’s especially bad for a news—”
But then a sly and droll woman’s voice interrupted, “You still here, Mab? I thought you had left.”
“Not yet.” And Tris was delighted to see Mab blush faintly. “I’m still here.”
And the woman eyed Tris as she replied in very slow, drawling tones, “So I see.”
Amabel ignored that and didn’t introduce Tris but asked him, “Has our sunshine staggered your physical balance and given you a cold? You’re a little hoarse.”
Tris replied quite easily, “All hog callers are hoarse.” And with some pleasure in his own ready tongue, he added, “Pigs are deaf.”
“You’ve said you were never a farmer, and since you’re new to the newspaper business, what did you do before? I have such a strange feeling I know you. Have I seen you somewhere?”
“Interesting you say that. It’s the oddest thing, but women often say that to me. Maybe it’s our past lives, my Viking ancestors raiding villages and carrying off women, and there’s now a basic, genetic fear of me.” He smiled. “Are you afraid of me?”
And that strange shiver shimmered inside her from her core to her nipples. She glanced aside and decided it wasn’t Tris; it was the damp cloth on her chest. She asked, “Have you been in porno flicks?”
“Do you watch them?”
“No, of course not.” He puzzled her and she was a tad impatient as she went on. “But you seem reluctant to tell me what you did before you began work on a newspaper.”
“The Journal Gazette,” he supplied the name as if to her inquiry.
She accepted that. “Before you began to work for the Journal Gazette, what did you do?”
“Is this an interview?” His eyes glinted. He was enjoying himself.
“No, of course not.”
“I’m perfectly willing, you know. This is your great opportunity.” He gave her a wicked smile. “If there are any questions at all, I’ll answer them truthfully. Fire away.”
“What did you do before you began reporting for the Journal Gazette?” She pretended to get out a pad and poised an invisible pencil as she looked up, elaborately attentive.
“I am only just associated with the Journal. I have yet to turn in my first article.” All true.
“And...what did you do before that?”
“A multitude of things, nothing with any future. I’ve been the background for Vogue fashion models a couple of times.” That was true. “I’ve helped do a Public Broadcast conservation tape.” That was true. “And I’m a poet.” He wrote lyrics.
“Make me a poem.”
“Uh, there once was a woman named Mab, who with men would flirt just a tad, but when it came to brass tack, she would just turn her back, and leave the men weeping and mad.”
She laughed. “Limericks are easy.”
“Poems take longer. Anything worthwhile takes longer. Like friendship.” He watched her. “Snap judgments are generally a disaster. I’m a good man.” That, too, was true.
She sobered. “Did I give the impression I thought you otherwise? I don’t know you well enough to make such a decision.”
“Very true.” His face was serious.
“And do you think I am really as heartless as your limerick?”
He smiled. “I’ll find out.”
“We were speaking of women’s rights,” she began. “After all this time, in our struggle, and with you being in the newspaper business, it seems incredible you can be so out of touch.” She was amused by his rash stance.
He didn’t bend. He replied, “You’ll be glad it’s over. It was nonsense. Thank God you all have come to your senses!”
“God is on our side,” she countered.
“If you tell that old, old joke about God being a woman, you’re going to make me cranky.”
They looked at each other, and although they smiled, amused by their chatter, their bodies moved almost as if they were squaring off for some kind of combat. He understood it, but she wasn’t really aware of more than the feeling. Both felt the strong attraction between them and each had a very good reason to be wary of the other.
She was cautious with men so that around her there was a solid wall of protective reserve, but while she felt he was a male threat, she saw the humor and attractiveness of this Tris Roald.
He had a very unfair advantage in knowing her identity when she didn’t know who he was; but he had the greater reason for his calculation. He intended to teach her a lesson. He excused himself, saying he had to make a phone call—and it was with a satisfaction, of hunter for prey, when he saw she was still there waiting for him when he returned.
They didn’t see anyone else in that crowd, as they sipped the wine and nibbled from the elaborate buffet. Mab only spoke to others who spoke to her. No one spoke to Tris, for no one knew him.
The two laughed and talked. She teased him, saying she was one of three non-Indian “natives” living in Los Angeles, everyone else was immigrant. Then she added the truth, telling him in actual Los Angeles, her family really went back only two hundred years. “My great-grandfather jumped ship on the way back to Boston. Ezekiel was a misfit, from the stern and rockbound coast of Massachusetts, who apparently wasn’t spoken about as kin by that branch of the family until after World War I!
“Ezekiel very boldly stole a Chinese girl from the ship’s hold. And he lived with the girl here in the sun of southern California. They had fourteen children, all of whom lived. He was a shrewd Yankee trader and he did excessively well.”
Tris nodded, watching her face. “Our families have much in common. Adventure, independence and trade.”
She agreed as she said, “And apparently a love for the written word. That grandfather had also stolen the captain’s pocket Bible, and his two-volume set of the works of Shakespeare. A family story tells to what lengths Ezekiel went, in order to eventually trace down the captain, to return the carefully kept books. Charming. Very sentimental.”
With his steady eyes on Amabel, Tris commented, “Another thing we have in common—honor. Our good names. Ezekiel had to clear his books of his theft. Did he also pay for the Chinese girl he stole? He did marry her?”
She thought Tris looked rather stern. He had a hard chin. She would hate to cross him. But there was that strange quivering deep inside her. And now even the surface of her skin seemed to feel him.
She blinked back into focus and replied readily enough. “According to the family Bible, they married soon after the seventh child was born. The family never mentioned the delay in Ezekiel’s marriage. I discovered the fact one rainy day, in browsing through the names and dates, and called my mother’s attention to it.
“She said preachers weren’t always available for the niceties and, on occasion, emotions could get entirely out of hand—and these weren’t those days and I should behave myself! To remember Ezekiel’s stolen wife.”
Amabel smiled a little before she continued, “I used to wonder about Ezekiel’s wife. She probably didn’t have any idea what in the world was going on when he snatched her and jumped ship. Then to be in a strange land, with a great bear of a bearded man whose voice rumbled sounds she couldn’t comprehend. Did she want to be with him? He was obviously friendly...fourteen children! But what about her?”
With no hesitation, Tris explained it all. “In olden days most captive women were chosen by the men, and women adjust well to captivity.” He slowly licked his lower lip as he glanced down her still-damp body.
“Spoken like a Viking.” She shook her head chidingly. “Why are you brown-eyed and dark-haired? And not even six feet tall? You must lack a whole portion of an inch!” She smiled sassily.
“We ranged far and wide, and differences have always intrigued men.” He reminded her, “Ezekiel chose a Chinese girl.”
“You think he gave her much thought?”
“A man that bold wouldn’t just take what was handy. It would be his choice. Any man who would—borrow—such reading material would be a sensitive, romantic, loving man.”
“How nice of you to soothe my worry about My Ling.”
“That was her name?”
“We aren’t sure. He always called her that and spelled it M Y. Her name could very well have just been Ling. And it was the possessiveness of a thief which made him call her his.”
“I like Ezekiel.”
“Men would. He forced his own life to be as he chose it. And dragged that little Chinese girl along. He was a formidable man from the stories handed down. But women shiver a little over being stolen. Women are very vulnerable. Men have directed our lives for all time. We are just getting to the place where we have a toehold in guiding our own fates.”
He dismissed her words. “It’s only natural for men to control women. My dad used to remember about the olden days when men had it all. I never thought things would get back to normal in my lifetime.”
She watched the wicked, golden glints of humor that betrayed him, and she smothered a smile in turn. “I’m going to run for an office in NOW.”
“Now? This year? Here in L.A.?”
“In the National Organization for Women.”
He gasped with some flair. “National? It’s spread that far? That sounds serious!”
She shook her head and sighed, gustily patient. “I believe we need to talk.”
He smiled. “Anytime. I’ll be glad to instruct you on the woman’s place in the overall scheme of world affairs. And yours in particular. I have a car, may I take you home?”
“Now what is the great-granddaughter of a captive Chinese girl supposed to reply to a descendant of a Viking under such circumstances?” She laughed as if it was cocktail chatter.
He replied easily, “Chance is a great determining factor in our lives. Each thing that happens nudges people into actions they wouldn’t have taken. Like my being here. It’s exactly the reason Simon Quint named his magazine Adam’s Roots.”
“You believe in fate?”
“You can call it fate, or kismet, or destiny or revenge.”
“I can’t believe you read horoscopes.”
“My life is self-determined. I do as I choose. I follow the paths I want to follow. May I take you home? I must leave now.”
“That’s a rash offer in this area. I could live fifty miles cross town. But you’re lucky—you don’t have to back down from your offer. I live just west of here in the Canyons.” She gave the address.
He said, “I’m staying at a house in that area. I believe you’re just on my way. Let’s go.” His smile was rather strange, and it did give her some pause, but she shrugged it off and they left.
As they walked from the room, he removed his tie and put it in his suit pocket. Then, using both hands, he ruffled his hair before he unbuttoned his shirt several buttons. He took off his suit jacket, unbuttoned and folded up his shirtsleeves, and slung the jacket over his shoulder very casually.
The photographer was there just outside the entrance to the hotel, and the pair looked up blankly as the pictures were snapped.
Amabel asked Tris, “Why us?”
“They may know who you are.”
“I’m not newsworthy,” she scoffed.
“Your article created quite a stir. You’re probably doomed to a life as a camera-dodging celebrity.”
“Don’t be silly,” she replied easily.
“It happens to the best of us.”
Three
With perfectly ordinary courtesy, Tris drove her home. Their conversation was pleasant. He drove well. Her body watched his. She had never been so intensely aware of a man as being male to her female.
Almost shyly she asked him in for coffee. He declined with a fairly standard semblance of regret. He saw her to her door, said goodbye and left her standing there, rather pensively, as he drove away.
She was disappointed. She went inside the little house, which perched recklessly overlooking the gully below, and she prowled through her few rooms wondering why she would be just a little irritated with Tris Roald for being smart enough not to prolong the day’s visit.
He was wiser than she. Anything can be overdone. Much longer and they might find themselves wearing on one another.
But she really hadn’t had enough of him, and she felt a puzzling lack or vacuum with him not there. She didn’t encourage her brain to examine any reason for that feeling.
It would have been nice if they’d sat on her small terrace, looking out over the gully as they watched the sun setting on beyond the hills.
The problem was, he hadn’t mentioned the possibility of seeing her again. What if he went back to Indiana and never gave her another thought? And she remembered the misguided photographer who had taken their picture. She wondered who it was. She would like to have had a copy of it.
* * *
It was Wally who brought the advance copy of US magazine into Amabel’s office within the week. On the cover was the picture of Sean Morant and Amabel Clayton exiting what was obviously a hotel.
Their pose was the requisite one. He was on the left, casually dressed, his hair designer mussed, his face to the camera and his eyes blank. Next to him, on the right, was Amabel, her damp dress soft on her nice bosom, her face equally blank as she looked at the camera.
The tag line read, “Who’s next? It’s Amabel Clayton!”
At first glance, she thought it was a trick perpetrated by the staff there in L.A. on the order of a Harvard Lampoon. So it took a little while for her to realize it was an actual cover and one that was going to be on the stands for everyone to see.
