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Picking Up the Pieces
Barbara Gale


IF HE COULD HAVE ONE WISH, IT WOULD BE THAT HE WERE ANYWHERE ELSE…But he wasn't. And neither was she. For as Harry Bensen lived and breathed, supermodel Althea Almott–the very woman who had broken his heart many years ago–was now nursing him back to health! Harry didn't know whether to laugh or to cry….For complex personal and professional reasons, Althea had had to walk away from Harry. But she couldn't very well walk away from the world-famous photographer now. After all, he had practically collapsed on her…literally…and he was the only man to ever have left an imprint on her heart. But once he recuperated and news of her scandalous broken marriage hit the newsstands, he wouldn't want anything to do with her…or so she thought!









“Hold on, Harry. I can take care of myself.”


“Now that I think about it,” Harry said, suddenly suspicious, “what are you doing here all alone? Where are your bodyguards? Shouldn’t there be a limousine waiting for you, princess? Come to think of it, Allie, where is your husband?”

Althea winced at his use of her nickname, but Harry only laughed. “Sorry. Old habits die hard. All right, Madame Boylan, where is that ambassador husband of yours?”

“Daniel’s in Paris, if you must know,” she said over her shoulder as she hurried down the airport terminal, not wanting to admit the truth to Harry yet.

When they stood toe-to-toe, Althea could feel Harry’s soft breath on her hair. She marveled that the touch of his hand could still make her shiver, that he could so easily elicit a sensual response from her, that ten years apart made little difference…. “Leave me be, Harry. If the snow ruins my shoes, I can always buy another pair.”

“Ah, yes, now that’s my old Althea. Buy, buy, buy. Everything to be had for a price.”

“Not everything,” Althea growled. Not by a long shot, she thought…and soon enough Harry would learn just what she was talking about….


Dear Reader,

Get ready to counter the unpredictable weather outside with a lot of reading inside. And at Silhouette Special Edition we’re happy to start you off with Prescription: Love by Pamela Toth, the next in our MONTANA MAVERICKS: GOLD RUSH GROOMS continuity. When a visiting medical resident—a gorgeous California girl—winds up assigned to Thunder Canyon General Hospital, she thinks of it as a temporary detour—until she meets the town’s most eligible doctor! He soon has her thinking about settling down—permanently….

Crystal Green’s A Tycoon in Texas, the next in THE FORTUNES OF TEXAS: REUNION continuity, features a workaholic businesswoman whose concentration is suddenly shaken by her devastatingly handsome new boss. Reader favorite Marie Ferrarella begins a new miniseries, THE CAMEO—about a necklace with special romantic powers—with Because a Husband Is Forever, in which a talk show hostess is coerced into taking on a bodyguard. Only, she had no idea he’d take his job title literally! In Their Baby Miracle by Lilian Darcy, a couple who’d called it quits months ago is brought back together by the premature birth of their child. Patricia Kay’s You’ve Got Game, next in her miniseries THE HATHAWAYS OF MORGAN CREEK, gives us a couple who are constantly at each other’s throats in real life—but their online relationship is another story altogether. And in Picking Up the Pieces by Barbara Gale, a world-famous journalist and a former top model risk scandal by following their hearts instead of their heads….

Enjoy them all, and please come back next month for six sensational romances, all from Silhouette Special Edition!

All the best,

Gail Chasan

Senior Editor




Picking Up the Pieces

Barbara Gale





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To Gabrielle,

who travels with me to places unknown,

weaving a magical spell of words


Acknowledgments

To Jessica Faust, the best of agents; it’s that simple.




BARBARA GALE


is a native New Yorker. Married for over thirty years, she, her husband and their three children divide their time between Brooklyn and Hobart, New York. Ms. Gale has always been fascinated by the implications of outside factors, including race, on relationships. She knows that love is as powerful as romance readers believe it is.

She loves to hear from readers. Write to her at P.O. Box 150792, Brooklyn, New York 11215-0792 or visit her Web site at www.barbaragale.com.


Dear Reader

Picking Up the Pieces is the story of love lost, lost opportunities and second chances. It explores not only interracial romance and unwed motherhood, but the price one pays for personal happiness.

We all have hard choices to make as we grow; it is part of the life process. Ideally, they are our own decisions, but sometimes circumstance dictates otherwise. More often than not, it is a combination of the two. Every once in a while, though, we are allowed an opportunity to revisit the past and make some changes. Althea Almott once sacrificed her heart to the well-being of her family. Ten years later, she has a chance of stealing some happiness for herself, if she only has the courage.

Perhaps Althea’s story will provide some small comfort as you travel the road to your own destiny.

Much good fortune.









Contents


Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen




Prologue


If he could have one wish, it would be that he were anywhere else. But he wasn’t. And neither was she. As Harry watched Althea, wrapped in lush sable, push past the revolving doors of Kennedy Airport, memories rushed to the surface. Carefully he set them aside. She was married now to an ambassador. Still he was left with a breathless feeling. Or was it simply the churning motion of a certain pain that filled his gut whenever he saw her picture in a newspaper or heard a story about her on the radio? Or thought about her? It didn’t matter. He knew, he just knew he should run in the opposite direction, but there was no way to stop his foolish feet; they were going to follow her through those shiny brass doors no matter what his common sense told him. Old wounds and his curiosity were a deadly combination.

The huge arrivals terminal was unusually empty. Not many people traveled in January at this time of night. The postholiday letdown, he supposed. The terminal, bigger than a football field, maybe even three or four fields, seemed quieter than he’d ever heard it. A few passengers wandered around aimlessly, a handful of limo drivers held up cardboard signs to attract riders, and a listless cleaning crew droned on. There were more security personnel than anything else. And nobody was going anywhere, because New York City had just been hit with a major snowstorm.

So it was no trouble to trail her out to the concourse. She was standing by a taxi stand, a lone figure fighting the bitter night air, watching the snow fall, no doubt weighing its implication. The way she was searching for a cab, she couldn’t know the storm’s extent. Judging by her attire, it was likely that she hadn’t even known about the weather when she’d taken off. She probably didn’t know how lucky she was to have even landed. Just moments ago he’d heard that all incoming flights had been diverted to Boston. But perhaps the most amazing thing was to find himself running into her here in the middle of New York, when there had been so many other more likely venues over the years.

Shifting his duffel bag, he ran a hand through his unruly blond hair and adjusted his well-worn baseball hat. He would try for cool and hope she didn’t hear the tremor in his voice. He was thirty-five, after all, and didn’t need to sound like a schoolboy, even if he felt like one.

“Well, well, well, what have we here? Althea Almott in the flesh.” He watched her spin round, startled. Her look of chagrin made him smile.

“Ah, sweet Althea, is that sigh for me or in spite of me?” he asked, stifling his disappointment. He watched her turn away, her pointy chin high as she tugged her fur coat snugly round her elegant shoulders.

Althea’s brown skin might hide her blushes, but he couldn’t know how wildly her heart was beating, how she strove to conceal her shock at meeting him. “Do I know you? You don’t look familiar. You must be mistaking me for someone else.”

“It might be ten years, but I’d know you anywhere, sweetheart. You haven’t changed a bit. Not your face, nor your sweet disposition.” He grinned.

“Nor yours, Harry,” Althea returned, hiding behind a veil of contempt, her sharp eyes sharp taking in his shabby denim jacket and unkempt appearance. Looking tired and in desperate need of a haircut, still, he was as tall as she remembered, as blond and handsome—and just as annoying, judging by the taunt in his voice.

“You don’t approve of my sartorial splendor?” Harry mocked, following the drift of her eyes. If only she knew how ill he had been, how exhausted he was at that very moment, wondering how long his legs would last, perhaps she would be more forgiving. But then, they always had fought over the silliest things, and now, after ten years, here they were together two minutes and at each other’s throats again. Oh, well. Giving himself a mental shrug, Harry tried for philosophical. “You look great, Althea. Traveling alone?”

Althea shrugged. “And you?”

“As always,” he said with a lopsided smile.

“Always? You mean you never married?”

“Nope. Married to my career, maybe. So,” he said, switching gears abruptly, “are you looking for a cab? In case you haven’t guessed, every available snow-plow is busy clearing the runways. They won’t get to the streets for hours. I guess that makes me the man of the hour.”

“I can wait,” she said softly, watching the snow fall hard and furious. Althea knew Harry was speaking the truth, and with every snowflake, she felt her plans slip away. Now that she thought about it, the dark night was as menacing as the snow, and she supposed she was lucky to have landed on the tarmac in one piece.

“What a good idea,” Harry drawled. “I’ll join you. We can wait out the storm together.” He picked up her bag.

“Hold on, Harry. I can take care of that myself.” Spend four hours with the only man to ever leave an imprint on her heart? She didn’t think so! But the challenge in Harry’s overly bright eyes gave Althea pause. Turning back to the road, all she could see was the swirl of snow intent on burying the city. Where once she might have appreciated its pristine elegance, now she was simply annoyed. She couldn’t even make out the sidewalk. Ridiculous.

“Now that I think about it,” Harry asked, ignoring her comment, “what are you doing out here all alone? Where are your bodyguards? Shouldn’t there be a limousine waiting for you, princess? Come to think of it, Allie, where is your husband?”

She winced at his use of her nickname, but Harry only laughed. “Sorry. Old habits die hard. All right, Madame Boylan, where is that ambassador husband of yours?” he repeated, all trace of humor gone.

“Let’s have it, Allie. What are you doing state-side? I seem to have missed something, here. Why, pray tell, are you here on the wrong side of the Atlantic, Allie? An ambassador’s wife doesn’t just wake up one morning and grab a flight to New York, not even for the winter sales at Saks.”

“Daniel is in Paris, if you must know,” she said over her shoulder as she hurried back into the terminal, her long stride an elegant testimony to her modeling days. And that is all you must know, she vowed silently.

Harry frowned as he chased after her. “Damn it all, Althea, you know you shouldn’t run around unescorted. Does the ambassador know you’re here by yourself?”

One look at her face told him everything. He clasped his hand on her elbow and effectively trapped her. “Unless I’m mistaken,” he said, giving her legs a long glance, “those are custom-made shoes on your lovely feet. Given the weather, you don’t seem to have prepared very well for your trip. What’s going on, Allie?”

Standing toe-to-toe, Althea could feel Harry’s soft breath on her hair. She marveled that the touch of his hand could still make her shiver, that he could so quickly elicit a response from her, that ten years could make little difference. She tried to pull away but Harry’s grip was as firm as the glare in his eyes.

“Leave me alone, Harry. I know what I have on my feet,” she said crossly. “If I’d had time to listen to the weather report, I would be wearing boots. But I didn’t.”

No boots, no taxi, just Harry Bensen. Poetic justice, after her mad dash from Paris. Shrugging free of his hand, Althea stepped back and stared up at him proudly. “This is Kennedy Airport. A taxi will turn up eventually, so don’t waste your time on my behalf. I can take care of myself.”

“Nobody knows that better than I do,” Harry agreed crisply. “But those pretty shoes, it would be a pity to ruin them, don’t you think?”

“I can always buy another pair.”

“Ah, yes, now that’s my old Althea. Buy, buy, buy. Everything to be had for a price.”

“Not everything,” Althea snapped. “Oh, of all the airports in the world… Honestly, Harry, I wish I hadn’t met you.”

“Your good luck,” he snapped, “if only you knew.”

“Harry, why don’t you simply turn around and walk the other way?”

“And forget I ever saw you?” Harry snapped with an amused smile.

“Something like that.” Althea’s eyes were hopeful as she forced a plaintive smile to her lips.

“I thought so. Well, it’s too late, darling. Your ambassador husband would be furious—and rightly so—if I left you alone like this.”

“It doesn’t matter what my husband thinks,” Althea retorted. “I prefer to wait alone.”

“Wait for what?” Harry asked as he held open the terminal door. “Come on, let’s go get some coffee. I’m freezing.”

Althea’s anger was evident as she rushed past Harry, rudely brushing him aside. But Harry was unimpressed. Feeling the onset of a headache, a sure sign that his fever was rising, he wasn’t in the mood to argue. “Playing this one close to the breast, Allie?” Watching her flinch, he guessed that his remark hit home. “Ah, the rich and famous at play.”

“This is not a game. I do not play games.”

“Then times have changed,” he retorted, suddenly too tired to take her on. Too bad she didn’t understand the facts, or she would appreciate his foul mood. Four months photographing a South American rainforest would exhaust anyone, but one hour with Althea Almott would be just as exhausting. Maybe he should take her advice and move on, pretend he never saw her. The mysterious infection he was fighting that was turning his insides out would be a handicap in dealing with her. And the damned snow was rotten luck when he was weak as could be with no energy to fight the elements. He should have flown to Cancun the way the doctors suggested and slept on the beach until summer.

And the good news was that no reporter was around to take notes. He could just imagine the headlines: Ambassador’s Wife Snowbound with Lover.

Harry didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Just look how she sat, perched on the edge of the plastic chair, trying to hide behind those huge rhinestone sunglasses—at three o’clock in the morning, for Pete’s sake. As if any reporter worth his salt wasn’t going to spot the world’s most famous black model—or anybody, for that matter—wrapped in a fifty-thousand-dollar fur coat.

Ex-model, he corrected himself.

Wife, now, to the American ambassador to France. No longer the hillbilly country girl from Alabama he’d been so wild about a decade ago. Refashioned: buffed and polished till her smooth black skin glowed like a pearl; her long, slender neck dripped with diamonds; her clothes custom-fitted by Versace. Beyond his touch. She was royalty now; she dined with princes.

It was the sight of her fellow passengers scattered around the drafty building, trying to get comfortable in a place designed to keep them moving, that finally convinced Althea she really was stuck at the airport. Her frustration was clear. She removed her sunglasses to reward Harry with a long, hard stare. “Harry, your concern is commendable, but I didn’t ask for your help, and I surely don’t appreciate your lousy mood. Like I said before, why don’t you put down my bag and disappear?”

Her thick-lashed amber eyes may have made her famous, but flashing as they were, Harry was immune. “Althea, honey, I swear I would if I could, but my conscience would never let me sleep. There’s about two, maybe three more inches of snow due to come down before this storm is done, so like it or not, we’re stuck with each other. So, what’s it going to be? How would you like to play this out?” Harry gave her a long searching look.

He watched as she considered the question, her beautiful face a portrait of uncertainty as she scanned the terminal, looking for an alternative. In the end, he merely shrugged. “All right, Allie, a compromise. We hang out together, and I ask no questions. That way my conscience won’t bother me, and your privacy won’t be invaded.”

Flopping down beside her, he suddenly didn’t want any answers. He was too busy trying to deny the band of sweat that had broken out across his brow, trying to force down the bile rising in his throat, control the furious way his head was spinning. Christ, was he really going to embarrass himself right there in the terminal? Hell, there was no way he was going to make it home if this kept up. Why weren’t the damned pills working?

Althea…

But he couldn’t work words past his parched lips.

Althea…my head…I can’t breathe… Althea, stop swaying…

Althea…




Chapter One


The waiting room in Elmhurst Hospital was chilly and poorly lit, but Althea didn’t mind. She had her fur coat to warm her and hospital protocol to distract her. Waiting for an ambulance at the snowbound airport had been a major distraction of worry, too, but eventually it arrived to whisk them away. Then the paperwork, and all those questions for which she didn’t have answers. But as long as they were tending to Harry Bensen, wherever he was, having been swallowed up by the medical machine, she didn’t care what the admitting nurse wrote down.

How strange it had been to run into him. Of all people, didn’t one always say? Old lover, lost love. The set of his shoulders, the way he walked, the tilt of his head, the color of his hair. Had he honestly thought she could ever forget? A woman never forgot her first love. Never.

When finally she was allowed to see him, every inch of Harry’s torso was wired to various monitors, and an IV was dripping magical curatives into his arm. Although Althea was able to smile with some measure of relief, she couldn’t help noticing how frail he seemed, lying against the starched linen of the hospital bed, his lips white and chapped, the rest of him an alarming shade of yellow. Fighting an odd impulse to brush her lips across his brow, she instead allowed her fingers to skim his burning temple. Harry’s eyes fluttered at the featherlight touch.

“Hey soldier, how are you feeling?” she whispered.

Depleted by his illness, tremendously dehydrated, and dazed by the drugs dripping into his arm, Harry was grateful to feel a cool hand on his body. Barely able to open his eyes, his smile was tenuous as he fought the surge of happiness he felt when he saw who was standing by his bedside.

Althea leaned over him, her concern plain as she brushed his hair from his forehead. Obviously fighting, too, an ineffable sadness. “Oh, Harry, why didn’t you tell me how sick you were? No, don’t answer that,” she hushed him with a timid smile. “It was my fault, I had no idea, I should have noticed. Malaria. Who would have thought? You sure scared the heck out of me, back at the airport, collapsing like that without any warning.”

“Next time…I’ll send…a telegram.”

“I wish you would,” Althea admonished him tenderly, recalling her horror as Harry had slid to the cold ground, a ballet in slow motion. “Never mind. The doctors aren’t quite sure what you have but they’re pumping you up with antibiotics. Your blood count is high so they’re running a few tests, but they do promise you a full recovery. They said you have to take better care of yourself, though. No more trips to steamy climates, for one thing.”

“They…said so?”

“That and more, way more than I should know about your body,” she teased gently. “I think they assume I’m your wife.”

“You didn’t correct them?”

“The path of least resistance.” She thought he was smiling but couldn’t be sure, his lips were so cracked. It probably hurt to speak, it probably hurt for him to move anything, given his high fever.

“Hush now, I’ll do all the talking.” Gently she pressed a piece of ice to his parched mouth. With the lightest touch she bathed his face and hands with a wet washcloth, trying to cool him down. Eventually he seemed to be more comfortable. You poor guy, she thought, what on earth have you been doing to get to this point? I sure hope this is the worst you’re going to go through. But she knew that was wishful thinking; she hadn’t seen anyone this ill in ages.

Not wishing to disturb him, but unwilling to leave him alone, Althea sat by his side for an hour, until a nurse came to check on his IV. Although the nurse told her she could stay as long as she liked, Althea knew she still had to battle the snow and figured this was a good time to leave. Quietly she gathered her belongings.

“I think I’ll be getting home, now that he’s safely settled,” she whispered.

His head barely turning, Harry’s eyes flickered open when he heard the scrape of her chair.

“You’ll come back?” he begged hoarsely as he followed her with his eyes.

How could she refuse? Nodding, Althea pressed his hand gently, ignoring the wrench in her heart.

Once, long ago, when she’d had choices to make, Harry Bensen had been one of them. Leaving him behind had not been the high point of her life, and she would never fool herself that he forgave her. Looking down now at his ravaged body covered with wires, she knew all he wanted was a lifeline to the outside world. Glancing at the machines surrounding his bed, monitors attuned to his every heartbeat, an oxygen tank helping him to breathe, she could appreciate that. All right, then, she would give him what she could, and maybe—in the smallest way, of course—it would make up for what she had refused him in the past. Giving in to her impulse, she lowered her lips to kiss his brow and promised to return.



Dawn was breaking as Althea left the hospital. A path plowed by the maintenance crew enabled her to make her way to the express bus, the only vehicle big and heavy enough to dare the city streets after such a storm. Glittering with six inches of newly fallen snow, New York was a prism of beauty now that the sky had cleared, and as the bus lumbered into Manhattan, she was treated to the sight of a skyline that seemed just short of unearthly. Against the expanse of white snow that covered the buildings and floated on the river, a red-orange sun was creeping into the early-morning sky, painting the city with a Technicolor wand. For one brief moment, suspended as she was between her old life and new, Althea wondered if the sight was an omen. It pleased her to think it was.

The bus left her two blocks from her West Side co-op, but treading carefully, she managed to make her way home. It had been nearly a year since she had been back, but Broadway seemed the same. She dashed through the heavy brass doors of the lobby, hungry for its familiar warmth.

In the year she had been gone, its ornate vestibule remained unchanged. Heavy gold-framed mirrors still decorated the walls; the vestibule was still crowded with cabbage-rose sofas and fake greenery. Its familiarity was a comfort, and yet a strong sense of disquiet disturbed her as the doorman greeted her uncertainly. He was new and didn’t know who she was. He saw only a black woman rushing through the door, tracking snow into his immaculate lobby. Scrambling to his feet, he gave her a hesitant smile, but she noticed that, very tactfully, he blocked her path.

She watched as he assessed her. A black woman. That was mainly what he saw.

“Ma’am?”

Althea sent him a cool nod, his single word a question she refused to answer. Exhausted, her feet like icicles, and half sick with worry about Harry, she was not in a tolerant mood. Her eyes glacial slits, she could almost read his mind, as he tried to figure her out. Could she live there? She could be a visitor. Maybe a maid using the wrong entrance? No, not a maid, not wearing that fur coat. No, she was definitely not someone’s maid. She was too young and pretty, no, definitely not a maid. He stepped aside and let her pass. You never knew.

“I live here,” she said tersely as the elevator door closed on his red face.

Shaking with anger, Althea rode the elevator to her floor. The way the doorman had stopped her, stared at and assessed her had been humiliating. Having developed the technique of the cold stare to enormous success, she was not as vulnerable as she used to be, but the assessment was something that, although it happened from time to time, she could never get used to. It happened in stores, in restaurants, in so many countless places. When she stared back, she felt as if she was maintaining her dignity, but it didn’t make these confrontations any less painful, or the young man’s rudeness any less distressing.

Her distress was twofold. The forbidding silence of the apartment, after she found her keys and let herself in, felt symbolic of her life. She berated herself for being melodramatic, but the feeling would not leave. The silence of the future stretching out before her was a question mark that hovered in the air, not easily dismissed now that she was home. The faint, musty odor of disuse that greeted her, the hollow click of her heels on the cold tile floor were unnerving. She was glad to tug free of her ruined shoes and toss them in a corner, shrug off her coat and turn the thermostat to high.

Nothing had to be decided in a day, a week or even a month, she told herself, as she made her way from room to room, turning on the lights. The workaholic in her was making such unreasonable demands, she knew, as she switched on her bedroom light. Her favorite room, it was done up—unabashedly—in every shade of pink imaginable, lacy and feminine, hers alone. With its pale-pink quilt and featherbed, throw pillows scattered everywhere, a pile of books always at the ready on her night table. It was her safe haven. The custom-made makeup table with its fully lighted mirror made it her work space at the same time.

Plowing through one of the huge bedroom dressers, Althea searched for a favorite pair of cashmere socks she hoped were still buried beneath the pile of stockings. She might be meticulous with her public appearance, but when she was home alone, with no obligations to fill, makeup never touched her face, and it was sweatpants and socks, all the way.

Taking the opportunity to change and get comfortable, she wandered into her office and plugged in the phone machine. Calling the supermarket down the block, she asked them to send up some milk and butter, a piece of cheddar cheese, a loaf of sourdough bread and a few oranges—until she could get to the supermarket herself. She placed a Post-it note on the refrigerator to call Kennedy Airport in the morning and have them forward her luggage. In the chaos of Harry’s fainting spell she had left her luggage behind. A cursory look through the kitchen cupboards revealed a canister of English Breakfast tea. Tried and true, it would go well with a long soak in a hot bath, before she crawled into bed.

Thirty minutes later, surrounded by pale-pink marble and gleaming brass fixtures, the scent of bath oil heavy in the humid air, Althea sank low into the tub. She almost fell asleep, it was so heavenly to lose herself in the bubbles, but the mental notes kept piling up, and she finally gave in to them. No doubt it was a form of regaining control. After her ex-husband’s domineering ways, it would be a relief to begin making her own decisions again. She had abrogated so much to him, when they married.

Thus she made a mental note to call her mother, who was probably wondering where she was and not above calling Althea’s friends or, worse yet, her ex-husband. Safely tucked away in a pretty house twenty miles outside Birmingham, Alabama, Mrs. Almott still kept close tabs on her only child. The waters Althea traveled were muddy, as her mother was always quick to point out.

In a few days, when she was rested, it might be a good idea to call her old agency, too, and ask her long-time agent, Connie Niles, to start booking her some modeling assignments again. She and Connie had been together forever, since Althea first arrived in New York. Althea had signed with Connie for the simple reason that Connie could be trusted to look out for her interests—Connie was African-American, too. Having just opened her agency, Connie had been on the lookout for new faces. One look at Althea’s tall elegant frame, creamy black skin and slanted, golden eyes, and Connie had offered to take Althea all the way to the top with her, if she wanted to come along for the ride. It had taken two years, but things had turned out just as Connie promised. The Niles Model Agency was now one of the most respected agencies worldwide, and that was saying a great deal in an industry that was predicated on whimsy.

So, yes, she would call Connie. And she would call up some of her old friends, drop by some of her old haunts. A long look at her hands and she knew that a manicure was in order, too. She must find a decent gym to join, also. A gym, not a sports club. Her body was her meal ticket; these things must be seen to. She would begin her life anew, and maybe, just maybe, things would work out this time. And if the image of Harry Bensen flashed before her eyes to distract her, she was quick to tamp it down.

Unfortunately, he resurfaced in her dreams, reliving the moment at the airport, when, distracted by her arrival, her belongings, the snow, she looked up to see who called her name. When she discovered Harry standing there, so absolutely disheveled, his unruly blond hair brushing his shoulders, his incandescent-blue eyes shining with the pleasure of their meeting. When her heart had soared at the sight of his familiar, silly half smile. The all-too-brief moment when the years dropped away and they were young again and loved each other so much, the smallest smile a wordless poem.



The next time Althea visited Harry, she found him far more alert. Whatever they were pumping into his veins had begun to kick in. His blue eyes positively glittered as she kissed his cheek lightly.

“I see you’ve begun to eat,” she said, noting the food tray set aside.

“I guess. Just clear soup and Jell-O, though,” he grumbled, struggling to sit upright.

Althea wouldn’t allow it. “No way, Harry. You stay where you are, and I’ll sit here beside you. Let’s not have any unnecessary movement. Look, I’ve brought you tons of magazines and a crossword puzzle book.”

Harry’s lack of enthusiasm was pronounced.

“For when you’re feeling better,” she said quickly as she set them aside.

“You know…” He smiled, his eyes an impish twinkle. “When you’re close up, like this… That purple sweater looks great on you. And I like your gold braids, but what happened to your long, black curls? I liked them, too.”

“Perhaps the lovely lady likes to stay current with the latest styles.”

Startled by a deep voice, they turned to find a huge man standing in the doorway. Not particularly handsome, yet with a presence that was unmistakable, his dark skin fortold his African heritage. The wide smile that reached his twinkling brown eyes told of his good nature.

“Hello, Harry.”

Harry’s mouth curved into a sulk. “Leonel. It’s about time you showed. I was going to call your office, again.”

“I missed you, too, pal.” Smiling faintly, Leonel’s long stride made the trip to Harry’s bedside in five quick steps. “Here you go. A little something to cheer you up.”

Dropping a scrawny bunch of yellow carnations on Harry’s bed, Leonel turned the full force of his charming smile on Althea. “You look familiar,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Leonel Murray, Harry’s editor at Torregan Publishing.”

“And erstwhile friend,” Harry muttered, but they both politely ignored him.

“Hi, I’m Althea Almott, an old friend of Harry’s. I was at the airport when he collapsed.”

“Ah, yes, the model,” Leonel said with a snap of his fingers, “and Good Samaritan. A lucky thing for Harry that you were there. A real pleasure, Miss Almott, a real pleasure. And Harry’s right, by the way, that shade of lavender becomes you.”

“Why, thank you, Mr. Murray.”

“Leonel. Please, call me Leonel. And as for you, my invalid friend… ‘Erstwhile,’ is it?” He laughed. “Is that in the dictionary? It sounds more like an island in the Caribbean.”

“Yeah, well, you think the world begins and ends in the Caribbean.”

His laugh warm and rich, Leonel explained Harry’s remark to Althea’s puzzled look. “I was born in Antigua. I miss it, that’s what Harry means.”

Althea’s brow smoothed. “Oh, I’ve been to Antigua, it’s absolutely lovely. I don’t blame you for being homesick. The people, the weather, the flowers, the beaches, the food.”

“I can see you’ve been there.”

“Many times.”

“Me, too. I go back whenever I can. As a matter of fact, my parents still live there. I’ve asked them many times to come here, but they’ll never move. The idea of snow appalls them. They—”

“Excuse me?” Harry piped up feebly. “I hate to interrupt, but is anybody here to visit Harry Bensen, the patient in Room 826?”

“Ah, yes,” Leonel said with a wink to Althea as he turned to Harry. “Harry, old man, how are you? I got your message, and here I am, ready to spread cheer. How are you feeling?”

“Lousy,” Harry said, clearly in a sulk.

“Well, that’s good, that’s good,” said Leonel with a smile. “Why else would you be here? And, yes, I got your message. You have some film for me. Hiding the cannisters under your pillow, laddie?”

“They’re in that locker in my duffel bag. My God, what took you so long? They could have been stolen, for all you care.”

“Now, who would want to steal a hundred canisters of film?” Leonel asked, the metallic locker door jangling his words. “It’s not like they have any value except to you and Torregan Publishing.”

“Leonel, did the possibility of their being damaged never occur to you? My cameras are in there, too, and six thousand dollars worth of lenses. They could have been stolen. Take that stuff home with you, will you, for safekeeping?”

“No problem.” Carefully, Leonel removed Harry’s heavy duffle bag from the hospital locker and began to search through its contents. The camera and satchel of film were easily found. “Tell you what, Harry,” Leonel said, as he placed the bags by the bed, “how about I treat you to the film development? As a get-well present.”

“Tell you what, Leonel, you’re supposed to pay for the development. It’s in my contract.”

Althea watched as the two men traded bantering quips, obviously enjoying themselves. Something told her it was not the first time, either.

“Tell you what,” Leonel said as he shouldered the heavy satchel filled with Harry’s camera equipment and film when a nurse came to tell them visiting hours were over. “You take your medicine like a good little boy, and I’ll have the proofs ready for you in a few days.”

“Is that a promise? Seriously? I’m anxious to see what I have.”

“Me, too. I have a Pulitzer in mind for you.”

Tired as he was, Althea could tell that Harry was pleased by Leonel’s announcement. “A Pulitzer prize?” she marveled. “Is Harry that good?”

“Harry’s that good.” Leonel promised, suddenly serious, “and it’s about time the rest of the world knew it. He did some terrific stuff on volcanic activity two years ago at Mauna Loa, and I’m hoping that this next series is every bit as good, if not better. As long as I get the dedication, he can have the prize.”




Chapter Two


Althea must have had a hundred errands to run, but, desperate for distraction, she decided to treat herself to a trip to Soho, to check out the designer boutiques. February Fashion Week was approaching, and the store displays would change as a result. A business call, she told herself, to see how up-to-date New York was, in terms of fashion.

She hadn’t been to New York in over a year; Paris had spoiled her. Spending the morning skirting slush and piles of dirty snow, she browsed through the stores, fingering the latest silk imports, talking trade with the store owners and admiring their displays. She needn’t have worried, New York was still the fashion capital of the world. Wending her way to Prince Street, she was just about to enter the Prada flagship store when she heard a soft voice call her name, the southern drawl familiar to her ears.

“Althea Almott, as I live and breathe. It is you, isn’t it?”

Althea disliked autograph hounds, but she was never, ever rude to her fans. Pasting on a practiced smile, she turned around to find herself staring into the past.

Benicia Ericson had been a close childhood friend back in Alabama. Living on the same street, they had gone to the same schools, shopped at the same stores, attended the same birthday parties and shared their most intimate, girlish secrets. The pair had been inseparable. Things had only started changing when they were midway through high school and began fantasizing about their future. Althea dreamed of going to New York and searching out the bright lights. Less adventuresome, Benicia had felt threatened by her best friend’s plans to leave and when Althea left, it was on the heels of Benicia’s adolescent anger.

Ten years later, standing on Broadway, they eyed each other warily. Looking down at the tiny brown-skinned woman, Althea was hard put to recognize her old friend. A floppy, gray wool hat nearly hid Benicia’s entire face, but that familiar high-pitched laugh was a giveaway.

“Benicia Ericson! Of all people to meet in Soho.”

“Birmingham does seem a long way away,” Benicia agreed, as they shared an awkward embrace.

“Two thousand miles and two hundred years. How are you, Benicia?”

“Oh, I’m fine, thanks. But I don’t have to ask how you’re doing.”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Althea said quickly. “My goodness, though, what on earth are you doing in New York?”

“I live here.”

Althea was surprised. “No! How come I don’t know that?”

“Maybe because we don’t eat in the same restaurants?” Benicia teased, then turned serious. “And maybe because I never called you. You’re such a big star, I just couldn’t bring myself to…impose.”

A little embarrassed, Althea shook her head. “Well, it’s good to see you, Benicia. Do you ever get back home? To Alabama, I mean.”

“I haven’t been back in years,” Benicia admitted. “But I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”

“Me, neither, I’m sorry to say. My mom still lives there, though, a few miles outside the city. And yours?”

“Oh, she’s still there, holding down the fort. I left soon after you did and never went back, either. And I never will.”

“Something in the water?” Althea grinned.

“Something,” Benicia said, smiling back. “Do you ever seriously consider returning?”

“Sure I do. Lately, I think about it a lot.”

“Not me, girlfriend. But I’ve thought about you. Sometimes, thinking about you was the only thing that kept me going. I’d read about you in the paper and think, Why, I know that girl, and if she can do it…You know the sort of thing, silly stuff, but it gave me hope. My friend the world-class model, practically a movie star. Oh, my, yes, I gave you lots of thought. I still do, every time I see a magazine with your face on the cover, wearing that famous ruby-red lipstick.”

“I’m paid to wear that lipstick, you know.”

“I figured as much. So, what have you been up to? I haven’t seen your picture lately. Oh, wait, I remember. You hooked up with the good-looking brother from Long Island, that Boylan ambassador fellow, if I remember correctly. Married yourself a real live prince, straight out of Cinderella, and went to live in Europe somewhere.”

Althea’s amber eyes held a faint glint of humor. “Paris, actually.”

“Paris,” Benicia sighed. “Imagine that, your whole life has been one big fairy tale, hasn’t it? Just like you said it would be. It just goes to show, a small-town girl really can make good in this nasty old world.”

“Oh, Benicia, fairy tales don’t always end happily. My husband and I—our divorce was finalized a few weeks ago. It just hasn’t hit the papers yet.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

“Oh, my, I’m so sorry, Althea.”

“It’s all right, Benicia.” Althea blinked. “How could you know? You would have soon enough, in any case. It will be in all the papers soon.”

“Is that why you’re here in New York?”

“Actually, I only just got back a few days ago.”

“And you run into me and my big mouth. Like I said, I’m really, really sorry.”

“Don’t be. Things happen.”

“Too true,” Benicia said thoughtfully. “Say, listen, I was just window shopping, stalling for time. I have a free hour before I have to go to a meeting. Do you have time for a cup of coffee, catch up on old times? Unless—” Benicia hesitated “—you’re busy. You’re probably busy.”

“I’m not too busy for an old friend,” Althea said firmly. “And a cup of tea sounds perfect.”

The two women made their way a few blocks over to Houston Street, laughing over silly memories that began immediately to surface. Althea talked her friend into having lunch at a small Ethiopian restaurant that served an excellent tea, and tiny glasses of Tej, Ethiopia’s popular honey wine. It wasn’t long before the years fell away and they grew comfortable with each other, although Benicia was careful to stay away from the subject of her friend’s divorce.

“So, tell me,” Benicia asked, as the Tej began to warm them, “you were always talking about going to New York to become a model. Was it worth it?”

“Well, it wasn’t like I was any sort of scholar back in Birmingham, just another pretty girl with a good body and interesting eyes. But my mom lives in a real nice house now with an honest-to-goodness white picket fence and a garden, which is all she ever wanted. So, yes, it was worth it. Of course, it wasn’t without its difficulties. But, hey, that’s a conversation for another day. Let’s talk about you. You look terrific, you know. The same, but different.”

She meant it, too. Benicia looked great. The glossy black curls Althea remembered from their childhood were now worn in a tight cap, her brow was a delicate thin arch over her big, olive-black eyes, and the flirty, long gold earrings she favored set off her graceful neck.

“I do try to take care of myself,” Benicia grimaced with good humor.

“So, are you going to tell me how you landed in New York, considering how angry you were when I left.”

“Considering?” Benicia repeated as their waiter arrived with two steaming bowls of Chicken Wat stew. “Oh, this smells so good.”

“I thought you would like it. It’s my favorite.”

“I can see why,” Benicia said as she picked up her spoon. “But do you mean to say that you don’t follow the Birmingham gossip?” she asked, returning to her thread of thought. “Your momma never told you?”

“Like I said, my mother doesn’t live in the old neighborhood anymore. But now you’ve got my curiosity up, what don’t I know?”

Neatly putting aside her spoon, Benicia rummaged about in the huge tote bag at her feet until she found her wallet. Opening it carefully, she drew out a slender folio of photographs and handed it to Althea. “His name is James. He’s nine years old and he is the most important thing in my life. He is my life.”

“Oh, Benicia, he’s adorable. I didn’t know you were married.”

Benicia’s eyes grew slanted. “I never said I was married.”

“But—”

“The brother had plans,” Benicia said coolly as she quickly retrieved her son’s pictures and stuffed them back in her bag. “Unfortunately, they didn’t include fatherhood. So, it seems we’re both single women, aren’t we?”

Althea fiddled with her silverware, unsure what to say.

Observing her friend’s discomfort, a flash of amusement flitted across Benicia’s round face. “Althea Almott, if I didn’t know better, I’d believe you were blushing. The Alabama in a girl never quite disappears, does it?”

Althea was surprised by Benicia’s observation. No matter how hard she tried to leave the South behind, Alabama did live just below the sophisticated surface she had worked so hard to acquire—a multilayered conservatism that kept her slightly off balance.

“Oh, Althea, I’m only teasing you,” Benicia said, patting her friend’s hand gently. “I don’t complain about being a single mom. I’ve had a long time to figure things out. You don’t remember what a stubborn kid I was, always having to learn things the hard way.”

Confused, Althea sent her a curious look. “How do you mean?”

“I got pregnant,” Benicia said bluntly. “Soon after you left.” For one brief moment, her soft voice was wistful. “I had plans, but then real life had a way of intruding.”

“Oh, there’s truth to that, all right,” Althea agreed sadly. “But what happened to James’s dad?”

“A really good question, for which I have a really dumb answer. I made it easy for him. I let him go. Nobody had to do me any favors! I knew how to take care of myself. Mistake number one was letting him have his way. Mistake number two was letting him get away.”

“Do you ever see him?”

Benicia shook her head. “I wanted him to stay, and I think he did, too. Lordy, that man swore up and down the Mississippi that it wasn’t me. But I was pregnant…. I think he panicked, but how could I blame him? He was only a kid himself, gone before I even started showing. The oldest story in the world, isn’t it?” Benicia said with a sad sigh. “Oh, well, all that’s history, now. But something told me to have this baby, which I did. All by myself.”

“All by yourself?” Althea repeated with a frown. “Your family didn’t help? Where was your mother?”

“Come on, Althea, you remember my momma. When she found out I was pregnant, she beat the living daylights out of me, then she kicked me out of the house. Nowadays, things are different, but back then…” She raised her wineglass, an ironic smile on her face. “To small towns.”

“And to James,” Althea added quickly.

“Thank you.” Benicia nodded as they clicked glasses. “To the future president of the United States.” She laughed. “This week, anyway. If he runs true to form, he’ll want to be a brain surgeon by next week. But, hey, enough of me. What about you, the big star and all?”

“A small star in a firmament of thousands.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. You are so famous, I can’t help but tell everyone I know you. And they always know who I’m talking about.”

“Well, that’s sweet, but I’ve been away awhile. I don’t know how long you shine in that firmament.”

“The public’s memory isn’t that short. You should know. So, where do you go from here?”

“I have some decisions to make. But right now I have to call it a day,” she said, pushing back her chair. “I left about four tons of mail sitting on my dining room table waiting to be sorted, not to mention three hundred phone calls I have to make.”

“Getting back into the routine?” Benicia laughed.

“It will take a few weeks,” Althea said. “Will I see you again? Will you call me, if you have a chance? We can’t not see each other another ten years. And I would like to meet James.”

“I’ll call,” Benicia said vaguely.

Althea got into a cab, wondering if she would. She rode back home, her head filled with thoughts of Alabama, memories she usually preferred not to examine suddenly clamoring for attention…

Her mother leaving every night at nine to work the night shift at a local factory so she could be around Althea during the day; standing in line every other Monday, rain or shine, waiting with her mother for their food stamps; Tuesdays, free cheese distribution at the welfare center; Thursdays, the day stale bread was distributed by a nearby package outlet, and if Althea had been really good that week, if she had passed all her tests in school, her mother gave her fifty cents to buy a box of stale cupcakes.

All her mother’s hard work scrimping, Althea thought bitterly, and the most they had ever had to show for it? An ugly shack with four unpainted walls that barely supported a tin roof. The day Althea handed her mother the keys to a little red brick house, they had stood together on the porch and cried. They didn’t need words to know how far they had come, how long the walk had been. Her mother’s first steps into her new home had been Althea’s proudest moment.

Had it been worth it?

Yes, she thought, thinking back to Benicia’s question as she entered her apartment thirty minutes later. Throwing her keys in the blue Depression-glass bowl that sat on a gleaming refectory table, hanging her fur coat in the huge cedar closet, putting the tea to boil on her Viking stove. Yes, she thought, as she looked out at the view over the brawniest city in the world—and she a part of it—yes, it had been worth it.




Chapter Three


Althea left the Niles Model Agency shell-shocked. Numb with disappointment, she stumbled twice in the snow, she was so distraught. Suddenly the sun wasn’t so bright, the city’s hoary skyscrapers seemed as gray as her prospects. If she hadn’t been afraid to rash her cheeks with salty tears, she would have cried.

The only thing that saved her from a complete breakdown was the sight of Harry Bensen when she arrived at Elmhurst Hospital, soon after the disastrous interview with her old employer. When she walked into his hospital room, her arms filled with flowers, he was sitting up, dozing against some pillows.

“Harry?” she whispered. Slowly he opened his eyes. They were still glassy, but he did seem more alert. Hollowed as they were, they could not hide the beautiful curve of his smile or the deep cleft of his chin when he saw who had arrived.

“Althea? I know you said you would stop by,” he whispered, “but I just assumed you were being polite.”

Carefully Althea set the flowers on the window-sill. “Harry Bensen,” she said lightly as she shrugged off her coat. “Weak as can be, mouthy as ever.” Coming on top of her disastrous visit to the Niles Model Agency, Althea was hurt by his seeming rejection and resolved to make this a quick visit.

Harry’s lips stretched into a lopsided grin, and his voice grew stronger as he spoke. “And you. Still as beautiful as ever. And look, yellow roses, in the middle of winter. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I’m grateful to you, coming all the way from Manhattan to see me.”

“My pleasure.” She had to admit he looked very appealing lying there in the hospital camouflage that did very little to conceal the hard planes of his body. Whatever disease he was harboring had not affected his appeal. Throwing her coat across the back of a chair, Althea gingerly approached the edge of the bed. “You’re looking much better, Mr. Bensen.”

“I feel better, even if it has been a long couple of days.”

“I’ll just bet. Tell me, how long were you sick before you collapsed? You must have been ill on the plane. Didn’t you realize?”

“Oh, I knew what was happening, but I tried to fight it. I was on a shoot in northwest Brazil when I took sick, about thirty miles outside of Manaus. That’s a small town on the Amazon River. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get there?”

“What, no subway?” Althea asked, her eyes wide with mischief.

“It must not have been running,” Harry drawled. “Anyhow, there I was, in the middle of nowhere, boiling my water like a good boy, and I’d had all my shots, and I was careful what I ate…. I guess my resistance was low. I started getting headaches…then chills…. The initial attack wasn’t too bad, I thought I had malaria at first, but the doctors in Manaus assured me it was just a garden-variety virus. I had a bout with malaria years ago and once you’ve had malaria, you’re susceptible to its reoccurrence. I was prepared for it, too. Malaria, that is. I had my meds in my backpack and plenty of aspirin. Let’s just say the quinine wasn’t working as fast as it should. Turns out it wasn’t working because whatever I have, it’s not malaria, thank God.”

“But when you knew you were getting worse, don’t you think you should have left Brazil?”

“Hey, I was in the middle of some really interesting work. I’m trying to get a handle on the rainforest decimation in that area. It’s going to be a real scandal when the word gets out, let me tell you, and with a book coming out—well, it’s supposed to come out this spring—my photographs are going to be the centerpiece. It was way important to finish the job and I had so little left to do. Like I said, it’s not the easiest thing in the world to fly back and forth to South America. We won’t even talk about the cost of the plane fare. To be honest, though, I barely made it back to Manaus. From there, I was lucky enough to grab a boat up the Amazon to Macapa. I only left Manaus in the first place because my hands were shaking so much I could hardly hold my camera steady.”

“Harry, how unwise.”

“Yeah, I know. I spent a week in Macapa General Hospital, but when I got the chance to jump a military transport back to the States, I took it. I had just landed—flown twenty-two hours, nonstop—when I ran into you.”

“But you have your pictures,” Althea said with a sad shake of her head.

“I have my pictures,” Harry agreed, “that’s the important thing. You know I hate to say it, Allie, I know I’m the one who’s sick, but you’re looking a little off yourself. Is anything wrong? You never did tell me why you were back in the States.”

So much for spending two hours in front of her mirror, Althea thought. She affected innocence, but Harry wasn’t fooled.

“Come on, Allie, I won’t give away your secrets. You always had a certain look when you were upset. Watching you frown, I remembered.” The worry in her eyes was more than apparent, it lived in a tiny crease above her brow.

“I have no secrets.”

Suddenly overcome by an explosive cough, Harry didn’t challenge her. Frightened, Althea held a glass to his lips and he managed to take a few sips before collapsing back on his bed. “It’s okay… I’m okay. Thanks. They’re not sure, they took X-rays, I may have a touch of pneumonia.”

“A touch of pneumonia,” Althea gasped. “Next time, I’ll bring cough drops instead of flowers. Do you want me to call a nurse?”

“No, don’t, please, don’t. I’m medicated to the gills, and they’re so busy, as it is. Tell me about yourself, instead,” Harry insisted as he lay back and closed his eyes. “That will distract me.”

Althea hesitated, unsure what to do. Harry was white as a ghost from the coughing spell. Smoothing his sheets back into order, she gave in gracefully. Privately, she decided that if he had another coughing fit, she would not ask his permission to ring for a nurse.

“Sometimes,” she said with a shake of her head, “I think I should save the paparazzi some legwork and send out bulletins, the way my life is scrutinized by the tabloids.”

“I’ve noticed,” Harry said with a small smile, opening his eyes a crack.

“Oh, not you, too?” she wailed in mock horror.

“I can’t help it. Your face stares back at me from every magazine rack, across every cash register, in every supermarket in this country. Whenever I buy a quart of milk I get an update on your life.”

“You just can’t help reading those tabloids, hmm, even knowing that most of what they print isn’t true?”

“Not me!” Harry protested, but the smile on his lips belied his promise. “Don’t worry, I don’t believe half of it. Mostly, I just look at the pictures, I don’t buy them.”

“No one does.”

Harry’s sudden bark of laughter was a welcome surprise. “Yeah, well… Of course, it’s been a long time since I bought a quart of milk. So, let’s see, what’s it been, eight, ten years since we’ve laid eyes on each other? Or is it that I just read about you so much that I feel like I’ve seen you more often?”

“Who can say? I don’t keep track of those kinds of things.”

“Is that what I was, a kind of thing?” Harry spoke so casually, Althea missed the probing glint in his eyes.

“An hour or so with an old friend, shall we leave it at that?”

“That would be nice, Allie, Auld Lang Syne and all that, if I didn’t know that sentiment was not your strong point.”

Althea was taken aback. “Harry, how can you say something like that?” But she knew what he meant. They were not old friends, he was not the guy that got away, he was the one who had been shown the door. She started to rise, but Harry quickly reached for her hand.

“Please, don’t go. That was rude of me and I apologize. I swear not to say another nasty word.”

Althea hesitated, of two minds whether to stay. “All right, I’ll chalk it up to your fever—but only this once,” she warned.

“Scout’s honor, Allie, I’ll be nice. Come on, bring me up-to-date. Why the sad look?”

Althea wasn’t sure she wanted to explain, but her down-turned mouth spoke volumes. “Do you remember Connie Niles?”

Unpleasant memories darkened his eyes. “Quite well. She was no fan of mine, and if I remember correctly, the feeling was mutual. Connie had a real attitude about my dating you, which she never bothered to hide. I used to think she disapproved of my skin color—or the lack, therein.”

“Connie was looking out for my interests. She never approved of interracial dating. She used to say that white men dated black women for—”

“For?”

Heat stole to her face. “I’m embarrassed to say.”

“Say it.”

“Um, I think the expression is ‘brown sugar’….”

Harry was appalled. “And you believed her?”

“Oh, like that was unheard of?” she retorted impatiently. “In any case, I was young, and everything Connie said was the gospel.”

“Everything Connie Niles said was vulgar!”

“Look, Harry, can we not go into this? I was seventeen when I arrived in New York, an ignorant, backwoods country girl from the deep South, her drawl as distinct as the stars in her eyes, and you know that better than anyone. I thank God every day that Connie Niles saw something in me, or it would have been straight back to Alabama for me. Connie was more than my savior, she was my mentor and my best friend, a sister to me, in those early years.”

“And what was I?” Harry growled. “Your sugar daddy?”

“The most daddy I ever knew. He left before I was born, and that’s something that’s never going to happen to me again. So excuse me for picking my icons carefully.”

“Lots of kids don’t have fathers,” Harry said, his glare harsh and accusing. “How come I’ve never heard this stuff before? Why didn’t you mention this when we were living together?”

Angry, Althea didn’t answer. She’d been through all this with Harry before, he just didn’t want to admit it. Leaving him had been first and foremost a career decision. Refusing to be baited, she gazed out the window instead, staring absently down at the parking lot where tiny specks of humanity skittered about. She could feel Harry’s eyes, feel him waiting for an answer she really didn’t have—not anything he’d like to hear, in any case. She had done the unforgivable by asking him to leave, and she wasn’t under any illusions that his resentment had faded, even after a decade. When she turned back to him, her face was carefully neutral. Besides, why would she argue with him when he was sick? “Like I said, can we not go there?”

Her retreat annoyed Harry, but he backed off. He would have preferred a battle to her apparent withdrawal, but he didn’t have the strength to go there. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s all a long time ago. So, how has life treated you? Did you ever have any children? I don’t recall reading that you did, but I’ve been away a lot. I might have missed a paper or two.” He grinned.

“Children? No, of course not.” Althea laughed quietly, surprised at the question.

“‘Of course not’?”

“There was never any time.”

Her flip tone told Harry that she wasn’t telling him the whole story, but he wisely changed the direction of the conversation. “Okay, go on, tell me what happened between you and Connie Niles today.”

“There’s not much to tell. Connie wasn’t very enthusiastic about my asking for work, that’s all. As a matter of fact, she turned me down.”

Harry was incredulous. “She turned you down? Why? Is the industry in trouble?”

“I’m the one in trouble,” Althea said softly, her eyes suddenly bleak.



It was worse than bad, it had been humiliating. Her initial reception that morning at the Niles Model Agency had been effusive. Everyone had greeted her warmly, careful to hide their surprise at her unexpected appearance. Not careful enough, though. It was easy to read the questions in their eyes, although they were too polite to ask her anything directly. Fortunately, Connie Niles had ushered Althea into her private office before any embarrassing questions could be posed, and listened carefully while Althea explained.

“I want to come back to work.”

Connie had always been a good listener, nothing fazed her. “These men,” she clucked sympathetically.

“No, Connie!” Althea had interrupted her quickly. “This is not Daniel’s fault, nor mine. Things just didn’t work out. It will be in all the papers in a few days, when he announces our split, but, please, don’t blame him. It was an amicable divorce, I want to be very clear about that. To you most of all, because you’ve been like a sister to me, and I want you to know how things stand. But don’t assign blame where there is none. Like I said, things just didn’t work out.”

Connie shrugged. “Fine, I won’t ask any more questions. Do you have enough money to tide you over?”

“Money is not an issue.”

“No, I didn’t think so.” Never one to mince words, Connie was frank. “Look here, Althea, Ambassador Daniel Boylan is a very popular man—not to mention powerful. And his hailing from New York doesn’t help.”

“Isn’t there anything I can do?”

Connie shrugged her thin shoulders. “You’re going to get some mighty bad press—quite dreadful, I would imagine. I can practically write it for you in all its glorious vulgarity. Black Beauty Abandons Ambassador. It has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?”

“That bad?” Althea sighed.

Connie was emphatic. “You’ll make the front pages, for sure, child. But not to worry. It will all die a natural death as soon as the next scandal breaks. There’s always another story waiting around the corner. You know that. But until then, darling, until you and Daniel are not the story, there’s no work for you here in the Big Apple,” she said brusquely. “And all that free publicity! What a waste! Too bad, Althea, but you’re a bit of a liability now.”

Her cheeks burning, Althea had suffered Connie’s blunt words. “So you think it’s going to be that bad?”

“Well, let me ask you this, sweetie. How do you feel about Los Angeles?”



“And that was that!” Althea said, as she finished describing the nightmare interview, her eyes flashing. “You would think my name in the papers would please Connie but it seems that Ambassador Daniel Boylan’s black shadow hovers over me like a shroud. His stature in the African-American community cannot be ‘besmirched’—Connie’s word. At least, that’s how the agency expects I’m going to be painted when the press gets wind of the story. And because Connie herself is active in the African-American community, she is not going to make waves.”

Harry lay there, shaken, unsure what to say. “Divorced? Wow, that’s the one thing I never would have guessed. Ah, jeez, Allie, I’m sorry, I really am.”

Althea closed her eyes against the sympathy in Harry’s voice. “Thanks, but don’t be. It was a mutual decision. My first alimony check is already deposited in my bank account and Daniel will continue to make deposits so long as ‘I don’t cause any scandal.’ Real diplomatic of an ambassador, don’t you think? The size of the check is his insurance—and it’s substantial, to say the least. Not that he can’t afford it. Even given that he has the power of his family and the authority of his position to rise above a scandal, he wants to be absolutely certain there won’t be any. And that, my friend, is why Connie Niles is not about to risk the wrath of the Boylan family by hiring me.”

“They would come after you?”

“With all six barrels blasting.” Althea laughed bitterly. “Not that they would find anything. My life is so boring it would please a nun. But the answer is yes, they would come after me. All his life, Daniel has been groomed for big things, and now that he has become a power broker, they aren’t going to let anything or anyone spoil it, certainly not an ex-wife. They would look until they found something. Daniel would never know, of course, but a discreet word was dropped in my ear by the family’s attorney the day I signed the divorce papers. ‘Rumors, my dear, so easily begun, almost impossible to set right….’ Don’t I know it.”

“My God. There’s a nasty setup, if ever I heard one. But the Althea Almott I used to know was a pretty tough lady. I can’t imagine you taking this lying down. Are you really so worried? The press adores you, if those nasty tabloids I never read are any indication. It’s you who can’t do anything wrong, not Daniel Boylan.”

Althea was thoughtful. Her amber eyes, carefully shielded by her long lashes, refused to meet his. “I handled things all wrong.”

Some things, in any case. Guilt by omission. Only, she would not share that part of her story. But from day one Daniel believed she had trapped him into marriage with the oldest trick in the book—a pregnancy. As if she’d needed to lower herself to that level. It had been the press that had started the rumor, and once begun, it could not be stopped. She had been used to rumors. Models, actors, anyone in the limelight, it was all the same, rumors were always a threat, Daniel should have known that from his own experience. Unfortunately, he seemed not to have thought things out, had mistaken her amusement for confirmation and, diplomat that he was, had never bothered to ask her outright if she was pregnant. Loving him, she had not bothered to deny it. When their marriage was quickly arranged by the Boylan family, she had sat back and let it happen. Okay, a big mistake, but her only one. She had gone along with the marriage because she thought he loved her. He hadn’t. It was over the moment he realized that she wasn’t pregnant. Courtesy stopped him from requesting a divorce, but his distaste for the situation became untenable. She stayed until she could no longer bear it. Learning that Daniel had not loved her was a wound that would take a long time to heal.




Chapter Four


Harry found himself at cross-purposes. He still harbored enormous anger at Althea for leaving him in the first place, but as she sat by his bedside day after day, making small talk, reading aloud to him, keeping his spirits up, his defenses began to weaken. Since she was now divorced, he didn’t have to feel guilty spending time with her. He just wasn’t sure he wanted to.

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t had his heart broken in this lifetime. He’d had two serious—very serious—relationships since Althea, just not serious enough to make a commitment. As a matter of fact, he had met someone right after they broke up, a sweet little thing from Colombia, where he had hidden after their breakup. He still smiled when he recalled the delightful nights they spent on the beach, until her father got wind of their “friendship.” In fact, he had been willing to walk down the aisle with her, but she had balked at leaving South America. They were still in negotiations when Harry was felled by his first bout of malaria and headed back to the States. He traveled home alone and didn’t worry about returning. She didn’t seem to expect him back. In retrospect, he knew he was lucky, that it had been a rebound situation.

Then, three years ago, while doing the college lecture circuit, he had hooked up with a rich college kid from Boston. A one-night stand that turned into a yearlong affair and ended in a fiasco. It seemed she’d forgotten to mention a boyfriend on a European tour.

Now, as he lay in his hospital bed, his body might ache, he could barely keep his food down, and if he sat up too quickly, he was dizzy, but he knew he wasn’t entirely miserable. When Althea sat beside him, he was beguiled. She brought books and read quietly, while he drifted in and out of sleep. Another day she surprised him with a radio—he loathed television and refused to rent one. From that day forward, he was able to keep up with the news. She listened patiently when he disparaged the lousy hospital food, and showed up with fresh bread and clear soups. (When the nurses noticed the delicious smells, Althea arranged to have Chinese take-out delivered to their station.) They discussed her career, and his, the interesting turns they had taken professionally, the places they’d been, the people they had met.

But Harry’s favorite thing was to watch how Althea’s eyes blazed when he teased her, and he did so every opportunity he got. He liked to watch her tamp down her exasperation when he tried her patience with the silliest demands. He also liked to catch her out, catch her staring when she thought he was sleeping. At such moments he wondered what she was thinking, but he never dared to ask. Other times he pretended to sleep because then she would sit beside him and stroke his brow.

“You seem so rough around the edges,” she said one day, while she was combing back his freshly washed hair.

“No evidence of a leavening feminine hand?” he said, his voice ironic.

“Your clothes at the airport… You could use a haircut,” she admitted.

“Tell me the truth,” he said, sharing her smile, “do you ever have a bad day? Last fall I saw you on the cover of Ebony, and I remember wishing I had taken the picture, you looked so beautiful. Then I saw the inside layout, you and your husband hanging out at the embassy—you know, one of those a-day-in-the-life sort of articles—and I was glad I hadn’t. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against the ambassador—I don’t even know him, just what I read in the papers—I was just glad I hadn’t been there, that’s all. All that connubial bliss would have made me, um, queasy.”

“Well, let that be a lesson,” Althea said with a short laugh, “not to believe everything you read.” But before he could question her curious remark, she smoothly changed the subject. “Hey, I’m not the only one who’s famous. Have I said how many times I’ve run across your byline? Harry Bensen Sweeps Himalayas. Harry Uncovers Hidden Ruins of Hammurabi. Bensen Photographs Yangtze River. You’re as much an explorer as photographer. I went to one of your exhibits, you know, the one you had in Paris last fall.”

“I wish I’d known. On second thought, I’m glad I didn’t,” Harry decided. “I would have been nervous wondering what you thought of my work.”

“Fame can be a burden,” she said with a stilted laugh.

Harry was doubtful. “Are you so burdened, Althea? Too pretty, too rich, too many houses?”

Althea looked down at Harry’s hands, long, pale fingers sprinkled with blond hair, handsome hands that had given her body its first lesson in love. But the choices they’d made, that she had made the decade before, were still being played out. If she had regrets, and she had terrible regrets, she would keep them to herself. “Let me be, Harry,” she said quietly. “Don’t ask me any questions, and I won’t ask you mine.”

They never got personal again, and they never talked about their past together. Harry would have—it was always a word away from his lips—but Althea’s message was clear, and he sensed that one wrong word and she might be out the door, a gamble he didn’t want to take.

And he would have touched her—oh, countless times he would have liked to reach out—but his hand always stilled. He would not make the same mistake twice. Her ex-husband, Daniel, was nothing, a year out of Althea’s life, a mistake. But wasn’t he, too? That’s what Harry kept telling himself, the long hours he lay in his hospital bed, up to the very moment he was informed that he could leave the hospital four days later. Very nearly what Althea told herself, too, as she prowled her apartment that long week, so it was not surprising that their needs would blend.




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