One by one she set up obstacles against the possibility of involvement with him; one by one they crumbled. He was a client and, as such, off limits romantically—yet he wasn’therclient, thereby lifting that professional restriction. He was a man of the world with, perhaps, a woman in every port—yet he was, by all indications, available and interested in Justine. He was a traveler by choice, off and away as he was right now—yet his home was New York, her own for the past eight years.
In the end one thing was crystal clear. Though the power he wielded over her senses threatened long-standing principles which had shaped her life, she could no more reject his suit, should he choose to pursue it, than she could deny the passion he had awakened within her. She was a woman. Never before had she realized that simple truth so clearly.
As the days passed and the rain-spattered streets of April dried beneath the warm May sun, she was mercifully busy. Her practice seemed to blossom in harmony with those other buds of spring—the lime-hued maples over-hanging Fifth Avenue, the pale pink dogwoods in Central Park, the red-knobbed geraniums in their streetside window boxes.
There were clients aplenty and their related court appearances. There were in-office conferences, on-location conferences, and conferences over lunch. There were lectures to plan, research, and deliver. And, there was a victory to celebrate.
“Congratulations, Justine!” exclaimed her friend and fellow law school graduate Sheila, hugging Justine warmly as she arrived, nearly breathless, at the Russian Tea Room for their monthly gastronomical adventure.
Tall and willowy Andrea joined in buoyantly, “We knew you could do it!”
“Another small step for womankind!” The last was from Liz, blond-haired, freckle-faced Liz, and was delivered with a clenched fist in the air, as the four young women settled down at their appointed table.
“That was quite an alimony award—based onback wages,no less!” Sheila bubbled. “The idea that a woman has a right to collect for services rendered over the years of marriage is brilliant—particularly in this case, where the husband was holding out on her all those years! Imagine—keeping his wife in the dark about a million dollars’ worth of investments—and splurging the profits behind her back! I’m green with envy at the ingenuity of your argument!”
Justine’s modesty brought a look of near guilt to her face. “Come on, Sheila. It was no more ingenious than some of those real estate contracts you’ve negotiated. Perhaps more dramatic—”
“What’sreallyamazing,” Liz interjected with obvious pleasure, “is that you’ve finally gone in for the dramatic at this late stage, Justine. When we were at Sarah Lawrence, you were the most conservative of the three of us!” She and Andrea laughed in easy conspiracy.
Justine had roomed with Liz and Andrea during her last two years of college; she had met Sheila at Columbia Law, where they had become close friends. The foursome met once a month to treat themselves to dinner at a preselected restaurant. Over the years they had sampled the exotic and the simple, the foreign and the American, the outstanding and the mediocre of New York’s myriad of offerings. Some, such as the Russian Tea Room, they returned to repeatedly.
“You’re right about that, Liz. Iwaspretty conservative,” Justine admitted with a smile. “As I recall, I studied all the time.Period.I must have been pret—ty bo—ring….” She drew the last words out in singsong fashion, evincing laughing agreement from the others.
It was Andrea, however innocently, who expressed the poignant truth. “Well, you’re certainly making up for it now!”
Indeed, shewasmaking up for lost time, if all her wayward thoughts were to be counted. For Sloane had become a fixture in those thoughts, the symbol of a sensual excitement she had never known before. She thought of him constantly.
When at work in her office, one eye was alert to any movement at the door, half-expecting him to magically pop up there. When at home, she looked to the phone—hoping, waiting, suffering with each false alarm. The spring-bright streets of New York took on an even gayer glow through the rose-colored glasses of her mind’s romanticism. And, at night—at home, alone, tossing in bed, restless and strangely unfulfilled—she thought of him, wishing him back, imagining his presence, fantasizing with abandon and delight.
Given the prolonged length of his absence, Justine might very well have begun to suspect the excitement to be all in her own imagination—had it not been for intermittent reminders Sloane himself sent. At the end of the first week there was a bright red tin Band-Aid box, filled to the top with jelly beans and wrapped around with a gay red-and-white checked ribbon. It had been delivered to the office and bore a note that was short but sweet as were its contents.
“Cravings are something else entirely. Remember, one a day … Sloane.”
… Keeps the doctor away, she thought grinning, following his line of thought easily. But cravings … yes, theywereanother matter entirely. And though she would certainly enjoy every one of the jelly beans he sent, her immediate craving was not for sweets!
Then there was the bottle of vintage Chablis just before the start of the second weekend. “To share with Susan, and Susanonly.My thoughts are with you. Sloane.” It was a lovely gesture, she mused, hugging the bottle to her. A sad substitute, however, for the real, live, tall and silver-haired man!
With no idea as to when he would return, Justine grew uneasy.Hadher interest been misplaced? Then came the rose. A single, brandy-tinted blossom, its shade matched her hair to perfection. “A breath of springtime. Mine will have to wait until I see you again. Sloane.”
Mercifully, the flower had been delivered to her apartment. It was Sunday, more than two weeks since she’d seen him last. Tears welled in her eyes at the thought—histhought—and she made no effort to contain their flow. Since Susan knew about Sloane, there was nothing to hide. At work, however, tears might have been a distinct problem. There were clients to control and colleagues to confront. There was an image of distinction and efficiency to uphold. And, of course, there were the sharp, sharp eyes of one John Doucette to dodge.
“He’s on the prowl, moving in, isn’t he, Justine?” At that moment, John’s blue eyes focused on the tin of jelly beans atop her desk.
“Hehappens to be a very respectful man—and knows when toleave a woman alone.” Her hint sailed right over the head of her persistent colleague, yet her smug smile was duly noted. From Justine’s point of view, it made no sense to continue to deny—either to herself or to others—the presence of a special kind of awareness between Sloane and herself. She volunteered no information, however, forcing John, in this case, to either ask his questions directly or draw his own conclusions.
“I checked in my little manual,” he began factually, “and discovered several interesting points.”
“What manual?” She looked up from her paperwork long enough to betray her interest.
“I was into hunting at one point there. Several of my friends and I used to spend weekends in season hunting upstate. The fox is an intriguing animal.”
Justine leaned back to listen with enjoyment to his latest. “Is that so?” she drawled comfortably.
“Uh-huh. For instance, he maintains territorial exclusivity; he claims an area as his own, then keeps all other foxes off the premises. However, he has been known to travel long distances in search of prey. Where did you say Sloane was?”
The aptness of John’s analogy brought a knowing grin to her lips. “I didn’t—but he is, I believe, in Arizona.”
“Yes, I would call that a long distance from here.”
