What Men Want Page 10

  I was tempted to get a seat somewhere far off in the distance and just watch the two of them the way I would observe a silent movie to see what I could deduce from their body language. Were he and Reilly old friends? Had Slaid just gotten here and immediately cozied up to him? Had he met Reilly through someone in the film office? I had never seen Slaid in action and I wanted to study him, get a feel for his technique. Most of all I wanted to know how in hell he’d found out that Reilly was down here.

  But I lacked the restraint to sit back and observe them until they finally noticed me. I couldn’t resist the urge to surprise them. With the stealth of a cat, I crept up behind their backs.

  “Well, well, well,” I said, patting Slaid and Jack on their backs at the same time. Reilly turned and Slaid spun around, nearly toppling off the bar stool.

  “Hello, sweetheart,” he said, quickly regaining his composure. At that moment, I regretted my impulsive behavior and began to sweat. Would Slaid introduce me? Would he tell Reilly who I was? To his credit, he seemed to intuit my situation.

  “This is Jenny, an old pal from New York,” Slaid said. “Sweet-looking, isn’t she?”

  I wanted to spit.

  “We’ve met,” Reilly said, also playing it close to the vest.

  Reilly looked at me. “I guess you’re stuck here,” he said in a slightly superior way. I nodded and turned back to Slaid.

  “How did you get here? Did you swim?”

  “I hopped the last flight down,” he said, obviously delighted that he had managed to slip in before things buttoned down.

  “So,” I said, wide-eyed, “what brings you here?”

  “A piece on storm chasing,” Slaid said, pretending to gaze up at the sky.

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “Naw, Jack’s an old acquaintance,” he said. “He agreed to be interviewed.”

  “Really? Can’t wait to read your story.” I looked at Jack. “You sure that you want to talk to this guy?”

  Slaid gave me a dirty look. “I heard that there’s a sale in the boutique,” he said. “Aren’t you girls always excited about shopping for pretty, new clothes?”

  “Why, yes, thanks,” I said, smiling warmly. “I didn’t know about the sale—and while I’m there I’ll see if they have any jockstraps for you. Are you still a small?” Reilly threw back his head and laughed.

  Slaid looked at me and then at Reilly. “I wouldn’t have anything to do with this woman if I were you,” he said lazily. “You won’t need a jockstrap when she gets finished with you.”

  Reilly whistled. “This is far better than the cabaret act next door,” he said. “So how do you guys know each other?”

  “We met for about five minutes, in the lingerie department of Bloomingdale’s,” Slaid said. “She wears these amazing thong panties in all these hot colors.”

  I smiled at Slaid and resisted the impulse to slap him. To make matters worse, I could feel my face turning purple. But then a higher power intervened so that Slaid and Reilly couldn’t see the color of my face, or even my thong panties if I turned around and mooned them, which I felt like doing, because at that very moment there was blackness. The storm had caused the island to lose power. All around us, it was pitch-black. The only illumination came from tiny flickers of candlelight on the cocktail tables.

  “Blackout,” someone yelled, and people seemed to be scurrying around frantically to find their way. The bartenders and waiters snapped into action, lighting more candles and reaching for hurricane lamps to pass out. This was nothing unusual for them.

  “I guess the only thing to do is turn in for the night,” I said. “Don’t lose your way in the dark.”

  I blew a kiss at Reilly and Slaid and then with the help of the flashlight on my key chain that I bought after New York had a summer blackout, I fumbled my way around to the staircase and carefully felt my way along the corridor until I found my room. I thought about the storm, and the sudden appearance of Slaid. If I didn’t know better, I would have assumed that one of Reilly’s screenwriters had a hand in plotting this story. The only hitch was it might not come out exactly the way Reilly wanted it to.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sometimes it feels as though half of my social life is conducted on the phone because everyone has such hectic schedules and can’t find the time to actually get together. One of my very favorite New Yorker cartoons, in fact, shows a man in his office on the phone, saying something to the effect: “The sixteenth isn’t good for you? How about never, is never good for you?”

  Ellen and I don’t actually see each other more than about once a month, but we talk almost every day. Her day starts at the gym. She goes when it’s still dark, whatever time that is, then she’s in the studio at about the time I’m heading for the shower. But evenings, before she goes to sleep—about the time that I’m unwinding from work—we try to talk and catch up.

  “I didn’t wake you, did I?” I said from my hotel room in St. Croix.

  She yawned. “I just got off the phone with Moose. Did you know that his real name is Larry?”

  “No wonder he prefers Moose.”

  “Exactly,” Ellen said. “Anyway, he invited me to visit him, but I don’t know.”

  “What a great escape,” I said. “Why are you nervous?”

  “He seems pretty intense,” she said. “I don’t know how it’ll work out, not to mention the sleeping arrangements.”

  “You can always stay at the Lake Placid Lodge,” I said. It was a posh Adirondack-style resort with great food and rooms furnished with whimsical Adirondack furniture made by local artists. But what I remembered most wasn’t the expansive lake view or the posh decor. It was the enormous fireplace just off the dining room, where I found an elegant silver basket that contained all the makings of s’mores.

  If you’ve never been a camper, you may have never heard of them. Think melted toasted marshmallows heaped onto chunks of milk-chocolate bars so that the chocolate softens before you sandwich it between graham crackers. How did it get the name s’mores? Because you have one and you want Some More.

  But Ellen wasn’t thinking about those kinds of desserts.

  “The Lake Placid Lodge wasn’t what he had in mind,” she said.

  “Have you been seeing much of him?” Unfortunately, since I had to go out of town, Chris never got the concert tickets and the four of us never had a chance to go out together again.

  “I saw him a couple of other times,” Ellen said.

  “And?”

  “We got along well,” she said.

  “And?”

  “The answer to your next question is no, but we might have if it wasn’t a workday and I didn’t have to get up at five….”

  “So why are you unsure of whether to go?”

  “I have too much on my plate every day, to get sidetracked now.” She paused. “And he lives such a different life,” she said with the emphasis on life.

  “You’re afraid.”

  “Of what?” she said indignantly.

  I didn’t answer.

  “Okay, maybe,” she peeped.

  Ellen was engaged years before. At the last minute, after all the plans for the wedding at the Plaza Hotel were in place, and the flowers were ordered, along with her Vera Wang gown, good old Eric pulled out. Rumor had it that he was conflicted all along and ran back to his old girlfriend, who, it turned out, later married someone else. One of the gossip columns picked up on it, making it all that much more excruciating for Ellen to bear. All of us pride ourselves on being astute judges of character, until someone comes along and acts inexplicably, totally blowing our confidence.

  “You can’t walk away from life because one relationship went sour,” I said softly. She didn’t say anything so I brought up Reilly and then Slaid.

  “Slaid?”

  “The one and only,” I said.

  “How the hell did he get there with that storm?”

  “God sent a plane,” I said. “Anyway, he’s here, and the first thing
I saw was him hunkering down with Jack Reilly.”

  “Why do I remember some gossip item about Reilly?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can’t remember. Something, maybe ‘Page Six’ in the Post.”

  “I think I may go back to the bar and look for Reilly,” I said.

  I was in my bathrobe, but I got dressed again. The rain was still pelting the windows and it felt as though the entire building was swaying under the force of the wind. I grabbed my flashlight and slipped into my sandals. I would have been better off barefoot, but whatever.

  I didn’t get too far. There was a strange noise at my door. Was someone trying to get in? I was probably imagining it. Maybe someone was just making his way along the corridor and grabbed my doorknob to steady himself. But then I heard the sound of an electronic key card being slipped into the lock. And then again. Then the doorknob was being turned impatiently even though the lock hadn’t opened. I looked around frantically, running to grab the heavy leather-bound book with hotel information off the desk. I held it over my head, ready to use it as a murder weapon.

  Would Reilly have the nerve to try to get into my room? What an incredibly sleazy thing to do. Then again maybe it was someone trying to break in, taking advantage of the blackout. Whenever there was chaos, there were lootings, robberies. I positioned myself then yanked the door open so that at least I had the advantage of surprise. I slammed down the book.

  “UGG…”

  A body fell at my feet.

  “Christ, what the hell are you trying to do?” said a male voice.

  I peered at the shadowy form on the floor. “Slaid?” What are you doing?”

  “I thought I was trying to get into my goddamn room. I didn’t realize I had to carry an assault weapon to protect myself,” he said, getting to his feet.

  “What’s your room number?” I said, not believing him. “409.”

  I pointed to the door opposite mine. “That’s you,” I said, annoyed. “I’m 408.”

  “So I made a mistake. It’s pitch-black. You didn’t have to act like a pit bull,” he said as he stood up.

  We stood there staring at each other, and then started to laugh. He shook his head.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “really…I thought you were Reilly.”

  “Reilly? He wouldn’t have broken in, he would have had a duplicate key.”

  “You’re probably right.” I stood there for another minute. “Well, good night,” I said, starting to close the door.

  “Wait,” he said, rubbing his shoulder where I had slammed it. “I think I need a drink, or at least something to eat. Do you want to join me?” He smirked. “I’ll even let you pay.”

  I stared at him for a minute. “Sure,” I said, feeling guilty.

  We left the room and followed the corridor until we reached the staircase and slowly made our way down. I knew that there wouldn’t be any food at the bar, so I led the way to the coffee shop, where a waitress was cleaning up by candlelight. She made it fairly clear that she would have preferred that we hadn’t shown up. Still, she offered us salad and hard-boiled eggs that had been in the refrigerator that was slowly warming and lit the candle in the hurricane lamp that was between us.

  “I can’t remember the last time I left New York for a story,” Slaid said, continuing to rub the spot where I had swatted him. I pulled his shirt to the side and saw that the spot was already turning purple. I took a piece of ice from my drink and wrapped it in a napkin, handing it to him. He took it and held it over the spot, obviously wincing from the pain.

  “Neither can I.”

  “You’re writing a story?” he said, laughing as though he was high on something.

  “Yes,” I said, starting to laugh too. “If I ever get out of this place.”

  “It’s so surreal. We’re on one of the most gorgeous islands in the Caribbean and it gets hit by a tropical storm and then I almost get beaten to death.” He shook his head. “Who would have thunk it? Still,” he said, pushing his plate back from the table. “I’m not leaving this place until I have a tan, I mean it. The hell with the story. Even if that means tying up Jenny George so that she doesn’t scoop me.”

  “It’s so ridiculous,” I said, “isn’t it? I mean, what’s the big deal if your story runs first or mine does?”

  “I know,” he said, nodding in complete agreement. “We get so caught up in the newspaper-competition bullshit. I mean, who really cares?” We talked about his first days on the paper and lessons that he’d learned from a more senior writer.

  “I actually asked him if he ever made up a quote,” Slaid said, obviously amused by how naive he was when he started out. “He looked at me aghast. ‘Make up a quote? Are you kidding? You NEVER, EVER do that…that’s awful.’ He looked down, paused for a minute then looked back at me sternly. ‘You make up a whole person.’”

  I told him about the time that I wrote a freelance travel article and picked up a quote directly from a government-issued press release, something I later learned a more experienced reporter would never do. My editor—who didn’t know where I got the quote—asked me to ask the source another question. I tried to reach him, to no avail. Why? He had died years before. Needless to say, I quickly substituted a quote from a live person and learned only to quote people I had actually spoken to.

  We sat there for an hour, maybe more, until the waitress started mopping the floor under our feet, and the restaurant was scented with Lestoil.

  “Uh, I think she wants us to leave,” I said.

  “Guess so,” he laughed.

  He walked me back to my room and when we got to the door, the flashlight’s batteries went dead. It was starting to feel like a reenactment of RENT.

  “Good night,” he said, squeezing my hand.

  “Good luck with your story,” I said.

  “Yes, the story,” he said. “Right, I kind of forgot about that.”

  I let myself back in the room and then waited until I heard his door close. I sat on the edge of the bed and started to undress. Then, suddenly, the lamp next to my bed went on. The power was back. I looked at my watch. It was almost 4:00 a.m. I opened my door slowly and made my way back to the business office for a last look.

  The world was remade when I woke up at eleven o’clock. An arresting blue sky had taken the place of darkness, rain and shrieking wind. I forgot where I was for a moment and then things came into focus. The airport had probably opened hours ago. Instinctively, I called the main desk and asked for Slaid’s room. I didn’t know what his schedule was, but if he was leaving today, maybe we could fly out together. I hated to fly alone, at least his company would make the time go faster. She paused for a moment.

  “He checked out,” the receptionist said.

  “Checked out? Do you know when?”

  There was silence for a minute. “It looks like five forty-five,” she said.

  I called the airport and found out that not only had flights resumed hours earlier, but they were now all booked, except for an 8:00 p.m. flight.

  “You should be happy that we have a seat left,” the agent told me. “People were lining up this morning to get the first flight out.”

  The hell with it, I wouldn’t call him. He obviously stayed up all night to make sure he got on the plane. He didn’t waste time thinking about me though. As the minutes ticked by, it occurred to me that he’d probably planned the whole thing so that I’d go to sleep late and miss the morning plane. Maybe he’d even dropped something in my drink. I wouldn’t put it past him. There I was, stuck in St. Croix while he was deep at work at his office.

  After brooding for most of the afternoon, I couldn’t keep my hands off the phone any longer and tried to take a few deep calming breaths before I bared my fangs.

  “I guess you got yourself a really quick tan,” I said, calling his office number.

  “Mmm, I have sensitive skin.”

  “We get so caught up in the newspaper-competition bullshit,” I said mockingly, repe
ating his words from the night before. “I mean, who really cares?”

  “You’re getting a little carried away, Jen. It wasn’t like—”

  “Wasn’t like what? You could have called bright and early to let me know that the airport was open and planes were taking off. But no, you were nice enough to let me sleep in.”

  “Look, I would have—”

  “Warren, go screw yourself,” I said, slamming down the phone, surprised by the sudden surge of anger in my gut. If he was any kind of friend, he would have made sure that I was up too. If it wasn’t for his late-night visit, I would have been up bright and early. I couldn’t remember the last time I slept until eleven. But with the storm, and my exhaustion… And in keeping with his slimy character, he slipped out on the first flight so that he was guaranteed to scoop me.

  To distract myself, I called Chris. I knew he would be at the office, but I hoped I wouldn’t be catching him at a bad time.

  “Hey,” he said. “Where are you?”

  I explained about the flight and the storm.

  “Glad you’re okay. I didn’t even know about the storm.” That was typical Chris—he rarely kept up with the news, let alone the weather. Why pay attention when your job was to reinvent reality?

  “I’ll see you at the apartment later. I’ve got to run to a meeting.”

  Sometimes reaching someone you need to talk to who’s too busy to talk is worse than getting their voice mail. They may not mean it, but it sends a signal that they’ve got more important things to do than stop and talk to you. I should be the last one to feel that way considering that I bark at anyone who calls me on deadline. Still, I was particularly sensitive now when it came to Chris. I hung up the phone and headed out to walk on the beach.