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