“I’m not sure that’s true, and if it is you might well find that sooner or later the price you will have to pay is your soul, or your career.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.”

“Not dramatic. Honest. And concerned.”

“Well, don’t be ‘concerned,’ not in that area. You know what I have to do, what’s expected of me. You don’t change hundreds of years of tradition in a few short years at a typewriter. Besides, lots of writers work under pseudonyms.”

“Yes, but they don’t live under pseudonyms. And I disagree with you about changing traditions. You’re right on one score, you don’t change traditions in a few years. You change them suddenly, brutally, with a bloody revolution.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“Or ‘civilized,’ is that it? No, you’re right, it’s not civilized. Revolution never is, and change is never comfortable. I’m beginning to think you ought to read Johns’ book for your own sake. In your own way, you’ve been in prison for almost thirty years.” His voice softened as he looked into her eyes. “Kezia, is that how you want to live? At the expense of your happiness?”

“It isn’t a question of that. And sometimes there’s no choice.” She looked away from him, partly annoyed, partly hurt.

“But that’s precisely what we’re discussing. And there is always a choice.” Or didn’t she see that? “Are you going to live your life for an absurd ‘duty,’ to please your trustee ten years after you come of age? Are you going to cater to parents who have been dead for twenty years? How can you possibly expect that of yourself? Why? Because they died? That’s not your fault for God’s sake, and times have changed; you’ve changed. Or is this what that young man you’re engaged to expects of you? If that’s the case, perhaps the time will come when you’ll have to choose between him and your work, and maybe you’d best face that now.”

What man? Whit? How ridiculous. And why was Simpson bringing all of this up now? He had never mentioned any of this before. Why now? “If you mean Whitney Hay-worth, I’m not engaged to him, and never will be. He could never cost me anything except a very dull evening. So you’re worrying for naught on that score.”

“I’m glad to hear it. But then what is it, Kezia? Why the double life?” She sighed deeply and looked down at her hands folded in her lap.

“Because somewhere along the way they convince you that if you drop the Holy Grail for even one instant, or put it aside for a day, the entire world will collapse, and it will all be your fault.”

“Well, I’ll tell you a well-hidden secret, it won’t. The world will not end. Your parents will not haunt you; your trustee won’t even commit suicide. Live for yourself, Kezia. You really have to. How long can you live a lie?”

“Is a pseudonym a lie?” It was a weak defense, and she knew it.

“No, but the way you handle it is. You use your pseudonyms to keep two lives totally estranged from each other. Two sides of you. One is duty and the other is love. You’re like a married woman with a lover, prepared to give up neither. I think that’s an awesome burden to carry. And an unnecessary one.” He looked at his watch and shook his head with a small smile. “And now, I apologize. I’ve railed at you for almost an hour. But these are things I’ve wanted to discuss with you for a very long time. Do what you want on the Johns article, but give a little thought to what we’ve said. I think it’s important.”

“I suspect you’re right.” She was suddenly exhausted. The morning had drained her. It was like watching her whole life pass before her eyes. And how insignificant it looked in review. Simpson was right. She didn’t know what she’d do about the Johns piece, and that wasn’t the point The point went a great deal deeper than that. “I’ll read the Johns book tonight.”

“Do that, and call me tomorow. I can hold the magazine off till then. And will you forgive me for preaching?”

She smiled at him, a warmer smile. “Only if you’ll let me thank you. You didn’t say anything I wanted to hear, but I think I needed to hear it. I’ve been thinking along those lines myself lately, and this morning arguing with you was like arguing with myself. Sweet schizophrenia.”

“Nothing as exotic as that. And you’re not unique; others have fought the same battle before you. One of them should have written a book on how to survive it.”

“You mean others have survived it?” She laughed over a last sip of her tea.

“Very nicely in fact.”

“And then what did they do? Run off with the elevator man to prove their point?”

“Some. The stupid ones. The others find better solutions.”

She tried not to think of her mother.

“Like Lucas Johns?” She didn’t know why, but it had just slipped out. The idea was absurd. Almost funny.

“Hardly. I wasn’t suggesting that you marry him, my dear. Only interview him. No wonder you made such a fuss.” Jack Simpson knew the real reasons for the fuss. She was afraid. And in his own way, he had tried to calm her fears. Only one interview … once. It could change so much for her—broaden her horizons, bring her out in the open, make her a writer. If only all went well. It was only because he knew the chances of her being “found out” were so unlikely that he’d even encouraged it. She would hide forever if she got burned on this one, and he knew it. Neither of them could afford that. He had thought it all over with great care, before suggesting the article to her.

“You know, you made a great deal of sense today, Jack. I must admit, lately the ‘mystery’ has been wearing thin. It loses its charm after a while.” And what he had said had been true. She was like a married woman with a lover. She had just never thought of it that way…. Edward, Whit, the parties, the committees; and then Mark and SoHo and picnics on magical islands; and separate from all that her work. Nothing fit. It was all separate and hidden, and had long since begun to tear her apart. To what and to whom did she owe her first allegiance? To herself, of course, but it was so easy to forget that. Until someone reminded her, as Jack Simpson had just done. “Will you tolerate a hug, kind sir?”

“Not tolerate—appreciate, my dear. I would thoroughly enjoy it.” She gave him a brief squeeze and a smile as she prepared to leave.

“It’s a damn shame you didn’t make that speech ten years ago. It’s almost a little late now.”

“At twenty-nine? Don’t be foolish. Now go away, and read that book, and call me tomorrow morning.” She left him with a last wave of a brown-kid-gloved hand, and a flurry of long suede coat.

The book jacket in her hand looked unimpressive as she perused it in the elevator. There was no photograph of Lucas Johns on the back, only a brief biography which told her less about him than Simpson had. It was odd, though; from what she had heard that morning, she already had a clear picture of the man. She anticipated something mean in his face, was sure he was short, stocky, hard, and perhaps overweight—and pushy as hell. Six years in prison had to do strange things to a man, and it surely couldn’t add to his beauty. Armed robbery too … a little fat man in a liquor store with a gun. And now he was respected, and she was being offered a chance to interview him. Still, despite all the talk with Simpson, she knew she couldn’t do that. He had made some good points about her life … but an interview with Lucas Johns, or anyone, was still out of the realm of the possible, or the wise.

She did something foolish then. She went to lunch with Edward.

“I don’t think you should do it” He was emphatic.

“Why not?” It was almost like setting a trap for him; she knew what he’d say. But she couldn’t resist the urge to bait him.

“You know why not. If you start doing interviews, it’s only one step away from someone catching on to what you’re up to. You might get away with this one, Kezia. But sooner or later…”

“So you think I should hide forever?”

“You call this hiding?” He waved a hand demonstratively around the hallowed halls of La Caravelle.

“In a sense, yes.”

“In the sense you mean, I think that’s wise.”

“And what about my life, Edward? What about that?”

“What about it? You have everything you want. Your friends, your comfort, and your writing. Could you possibly ask for more, except a husband?”

“That isn’t on my list to Santa Claus anymore, darling. And yes, I could ask for more. Honesty.”

“You’re splitting hairs. And what you’d be risking for that kind of honesty would be your privacy. Remember the job you wanted so badly at the Times years ago?”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“I was younger. And that wasn’t a career, it was a job, and something I wanted to prove.”

“Isn’t this the same thing?”

“Maybe not Maybe it’s a question of my sanity.”

“Good Heavens, Kezia, don’t be ridiculous. You’re all wound up with whatever nonsense Simpson leveled at you this morning. Be reasonable, the man has a vested interest in you. He’s looking at it from his point of view, not yours. For his benefit, not yours.”

But she knew that wasn’t true. And what she also knew now was that Edward was afraid. Even more afraid than she was. But of what? And why? “Edward, no matter how you slice it, one of these days I’m going to have to make a choice.”

“Over an interview for a magazine? An interview with some jailbird?” He wasn’t afraid, he was terrified. Kezia almost felt sorry for him as she realized what it was he so feared. She was slipping away from the last of his grasp.

“This interview really isn’t the issue, Edward. We both know that. Even Simpson knows that.”

“Then what in God’s name is the issue? And why are you making all these strange noises about sanity and freedom and honesty? None of it makes any sense. Is someone in your life putting pressure on you?”