Elizabeth felt her temper flare. “Mitkey is just ducky. His blood pressure is normal and I think he had steak for dinner last night. I don’t care what Kenneth Mitkey’s doing.”
“If you want to come out on top, you damn well need to care, Liz. Mitkey is your competition. Always has been, always will be. He was passed over for your job, and he wanted it. You need to have one eye on what you’re doing and one eye on what he’s doing, because you bet your ass that’s what he’s doing.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “He’s busy with the investment banking side.”
Nick took her hand. “Liz, I worry about you. You’re not one-on-one with clients anymore. You’re the linebacker facing the front four, head on.”
“I know. But it’s very possible I may know how to do this. Mitkey is scrambling. There’s talk of a restructuring; Saunders may have already started a work group to discuss it.”
Nick laughed. “I stand corrected; if Saunders has done that, Mitkey’s screwed. Those are nothing more than bitch sessions looking for ways to take a guy out. Listen, be specific when you talk to Saunders; never be vague with the boss. He needs to know where you’re coming from. Remember, kid, he could invite you out to a nice dinner like this on a Tuesday and fire you on Wednesday. Way it goes, babe. It’s a zero sum game, remember that.”
Suddenly anxiety gripped her; a common occurrence these days. She knew Nick cared for her and this was his way of showing it, like a husband who says I love you to his wife by building her a new set of kitchen cabinets. He needed to feel he was helping her, solving her problems. But he wasn’t, he was making her more nervous and she felt that no matter where she was, she never left the office.
“Now, isn’t it time we get to the most important point—us. I’m sorry we haven’t had any time lately. What have you been up to?”
She experienced another momentary guilty flashback about the night at Ian’s loft but immediately pushed it away. “I have to admit my indiscretion,” she said, avoiding his eyes. “I’ve been spending time with Kenneth Mitkey.”
He laughed and leaned over, giving her a kiss. “I’m pushing to wrap up this takeover by Labor Day. I have something special planned for the holiday.”
“I look forward to it,” she heard herself say, knowing there was a kernel of truth in there. He was steady, dependable, solid. He was the man she’d been searching for her whole life. She focused all her attention on him, giving him a smile. He is the right one.
Chapter 12
The next morning Elizabeth slowed her run to a walk, making her customary stop at Dunkin’ Donuts near Greeley Square. She picked up a bottle of water, lamenting it wasn’t coffee. She came out and ran straight into Ian.
He looked slightly tousled, a blue tee over jeans. Breathe, she ordered herself, you run the show.
He held up a white bag. “Good morning, love. Can I interest you in breakfast?”
“I just exercised.”
“Then you need to keep your strength up.”
In spite of herself, she smiled.
They sat at a table near the back of the square that served as an oasis, the miniature forest of trees encroaching around them, a protective barrier against the building traffic outside. The pace of the morning was slowly rising. It would reach a crescendo in another hour. They spent a few moments in comfortable silence, quietly munching on croissants and sipping coffee.
“It’s been a while since I experienced the European breakfast,” she said, picking out slices of ham and cheese from the waxy paper wrapping.
“When were you there?” he asked.
“I went to Paris when I was seventeen.” She concealed her fondness for the memory: three girls sharing an apartment, suitors calling up from the street late at night, everyone’s apartment windows open with shades up, revealing other young girls clad in their slips, readying for an evening out. It was an exquisite chaos of cafés and museums, and meals of bread, cheese, and wine that were more than enough; just as Hemingway described it.
“And did you find it as Hemingway said, a moveable feast?”
She started as Ian seemed to be reading her mind again, and sidestepped the question. “When did you first go to live in Paris?”
“In my late twenties.”
She nodded. What if we had been there at the same time? What if we had met then? We weren’t, we didn’t, she thought, shrugging it away. “Did you see the Mona Lisa?”
“Of course. Do you know why she’s smiling?”
“She’s in Paris.”
“Are you always out so early, in Greeley Square, near the Dunkin’ Donuts, where you didn’t buy all this food?” Elizabeth asked.
Ian smiled. “Early lesson.”
Elizabeth smirked. “Ah…private lessons, how quaint. How early, last night?”
Ian laughed. “My student is seven.”
Elizabeth grimaced. She felt foolish; now she looked foolish as well.
“Her parents are determined that she properly learn Impressionist painting techniques. She rather likes making a mess with paint.”
Now it was Elizabeth’s turn to laugh. She found his eyes on her, studying her intently, and she glanced away, feeling a rush of warmth flowing through her. She shifted the subject, hoping to quell the rising tide of her feelings. “Did you ever study other forms of painting?”
“There are no other forms of painting.”
“I beg to differ. Modern, cubist…”
Ian shook his head. “Absolutely awful. I hope there are no traditional artists in your family. They’ll be upset by your betrayal.”
Elizabeth thought of her mother, caught in her downward spiral, a cyclone of alcohol, pills, and lovers, unable to complete her work, crying to her daughter to finish it for her. How could she refuse to help her mother? When she was done, she expected her mother to be grateful, only to suffer abuse and accusations of how she enjoyed humiliating her. She almost winced at the memory of Lillian in the studio, entertaining her friends, downing her wine, saying she always knew her daughter would surpass her and how she would teach her daughter what it was to suffer for her art.
She thought of her tattered paintings on the floor of the studio; her eyes began to sting. She betrayed me, Elizabeth thought as William’s face flashed in and out her mind. I had nowhere else to turn.
“Lizzie,” she heard Ian say.
“You can’t always please someone else at your own expense,” she said shortly, tossing down the croissant. She had lost her appetite.
Her watch slipped down toward her wrist but even with the watch face turned away from her, she knew the hour was late. He encircled his fingers around it, gently sliding it back up her arm, his warm hand lingering against her skin.
“I have to go,” she said.
“Do you now?” he said, brushing a stray strand of hair back from her cheek and tucking it behind her ear, tracing his finger over the frame of her earlobe. He was leaning close to her. He smelled warm and she knew he would taste like coffee. Just once. She snapped herself back. No.
She got up, brushing stray crumbs away.
“Thank you for breakfast.”
“Perhaps we’ll meet again some time.”
“Perhaps.” She gave him a long look. There was a gate,