“Me too.” She slid a hand under his ragged, paintsplattered shirt and smiled into his eyes.

“Let me look at you.” He slowly pulled her shirt over her head, and she stood straight and still, her hair falling across one shoulder, a warm light in her rich blue eyes, a living reflection of the sketch of a nude that hung on the wall behind her. He had done it the previous winter, soon after they had met. She reached out to him slowly then, and he came into her arms smiling at the same moment that there was a knock at the door.

“Go away!”

“No, I won’t.” It was George.

“Shit, motherfucker, what do you want?” He pulled open the door as Kezia darted bare-chested into the bedroom. George loomed large and smiling in the doorway with a small split of champagne in one hand.”

“For your wedding night, Marcus.”

“George, you’re beautiful.” George danced down the stairs with a wave, and Mark closed the door with a burst of laughter. “Hey, Kezia! Could you dig a glass of champagne?” She returned to the room smiling and naked, her hair swinging loose down her back, the vision of champagne at La Grenouille in the Dior dress bringing laughter to her eyes now. The comparison was absurd.

She lounged in the doorway, her head to one side, watching him open the champagne. And suddenly she felt as though she loved him, and that was absurd too. They both knew she didn’t. It wasn’t that kind of thing. They both understood … but it would have been nice not to understand, just for a moment. Not to be rational, or make sense. It would have been lovely to love him, to love someone-anyone-and why not Mark?

“I missed you, Kezia.”

“So did I, darling. So did I. And I also wondered if you had another lady by now.” She smiled and took a sip of the too-sweet, bubbly wine. “I was queasy as hell about coming up. I even stopped and had some wine at The Partridge with George.”

“Asshole. You could have come here first.”

“I was afraid to.” She walked toward him and traced a finger across his chest as he looked down at her.

“You know something weird, Kezia?”

“What?” Her eyes filled with dreams.

“I’ve got syphilis.”

“WHAT!” She stared at him, horrified, and he chuckled.

“I just wondered what you’d say. I don’t really have it.” But he looked amused at his joke.

“Jesus.” She settled back into his arms with a shake of the head and a grin. “I’m not so sure about your sense of humor, kiddo.” But it was the same Mark.

He followed her into the bedroom and his voice sounded husky as he spoke from behind her. “I saw a picture of some girl in the paper the other day. She looked sort of like you, only older, and very uptight.” There was a question in his voice. One she was not planning to answer.

“So?”

“Her last name was French. Not ‘Miller,’ but her first name was blurred. I couldn’t read it. You related to anyone like that? She looked pretty fancy.”

“No, I’m not related to anyone like that. Why?” And now the lies had even begun with Mark. Not just sins of omission; now they were sins of commission too. Damn.

“I don’t know. I was just curious. She was interesting looking, in a fierce, unhappy sort of way.”

“And you fell in love with her, and decided that you had to find her and rescue her, so you could both live happily ever after. Right?” Her voice was light, but not as light as she wanted it to be. His answer was lost as he kissed her and eased her gently onto the bed. There was at least an hour of truth amid the lifetime of lies. Bodies are generally honest.


Chapter 3


“Ready?”

“Ready.” Whit smiled at her across the last of their coffee and mousse au chocolat. They were two hours late for the Marshes’ party at the St. Regis, but no one would notice. The Marshes had invited more than five hundred guests.

Kezia was resplendent in a blue-gray satin dress that circled her neck in a halter and left her back bare to show her deep summer tan. Small diamond earrings glistened at her ears, and her hair was swept into a neat knot high on her head. Whit’s impeccable evening clothes set off his classic good looks. They made a very spectacular couple. By now, they took it for granted.

The crowd at the entrance to the Maisonette at the St. Regis was enormous. Elegantly dinner-jacketed men whose names appeared regularly in Fortune; women in diamonds and Balenciagas and Givenchys and Diors whose faces and living rooms appeared constantly in Vogue. European titles, American scions of society, friends from Palm Beach and Grosse Pointe and Scottsdale and Beverly Hills. The Marshes had outdone themselves. Waiters circulated through the ever-thickening crowd, offering Moët et Chandon champagne and little platters boasting caviar and pâté.

There was cold lobster on a buffet at the back of the room, and later on there would appear the pièce de résistance, an enormous wedding cake, a replica of the original served a quarter of a century before. Each guest would be given a tiny box of dream cake, the wrapping carefully inscribed with the couple’s name and the date. “More than a little tacky,” as Martin Hallam would note in his column the next day. Whit handed Kezia a glass of champagne from a passing tray and gently took her arm.

“Do you want to dance, or circulate for a while?”

“Circulate, I think, if it’s humanly possible.” She smiled quietly at him, and he squeezed her arm.

A photographer hired by their hosts snapped a picture of them looking lovingly at each other, and Whit slipped an arm about her waist. She was comfortable with him. After her night with Mark, she felt benign and benevolent, even with Whit. It was odd to think that at dawn that morning she had wandered the streets of SoHo with Mark, then left him reluctantly at three that afternoon to phone in her column to her agent, clear her desk, and rest before the onslaught of the evening. Edward had called to see how she was, and they had chuckled for a few moments about her mention of their lunch in the morning’s column.

“How in God’s name can you call me ‘dashing,’ Kezia? I’m over sixty years old.”

“You’re a mere sixty-one. And you are dashing, Edward. Look at you.”

“I try very hard not to.”

“Silly man.” They had moved on to other topics, both of them careful not to mention what she had done the night before….

“More champagne, Kezia?”

“Mm?” She had drifted through the first glass without even noticing it. She had been thinking of other things: Edward; the new article she’d just been commissioned to write, a piece on the outstanding women candidates in the upcoming national elections. She had forgotten all about Whit, and the Marshes’ party. “Good Heavens, did I finish that already?” She smiled at Whit again, and he looked at her quizzically.

“Still tired from the trip?”

“No, just a little dreamy. Drifting, I suppose.”

“That’s quite a knack in a furor like this.” She exchanged her empty glass for a full one, and they found a secluded corner where they could watch the dance floor. Her eyes took in all the couples and she made rapid mental notes as to who was with whom, and who was wearing what. Opera divas, bankers, famous beauties, celebrated playboys, and an extravagance of rubies and sapphires and diamonds and emeralds.

“You look more beautiful than ever, Kezia.”

“You flatter me, Whit.”

“No. I love you.”

It was foolish of him to say it. They both knew otherwise. But she inclined her head demurely with a slender smile. Perhaps he did love her, after a fashion. Perhaps she even loved him, like a favorite brother or a childhood friend. He was a sweet man; it wasn’t really difficult to like him. But love him? That was different.

“It looks as though the summer did you good.”

“Europe always does. Oh, no!”

“What?” He turned in the direction that had brought a look of dismay to her face, but it was too late. The Baron von Schnellingen was bearing down on them, with perspiration pouring from his temples, and a look of ecstasy at having spotted the pair.

“Oh Christ tell him you’ve got the curse, and you can’t dance,” Whit whispered.

Kezia burst into laughter, which the chubby little German Baron misinterpreted as delight.

“I am zo happy to zee you too, my dear. Good evening, Vitney. Kee-zee-ah, you are exquisite tonight.”

“Thank you, Manfred. You’re looking well.” And hot and sweaty. And obese, and disgusting. And lecherous, as usual.

“It is a valtz. Chust for us. Ja? Nein, but why the hell not? She couldn’t say no. He was always sure to remind her of how much he had loved her dear departed father. It was simpler to concede one waltz with him, for her “father’s sake.” At least he was a proficient dancer. At the waltz in any case. She bowed her head gently and extended a hand to be led to the floor. The Baron patted her hand ecstatically and led her away, just as Whit whispered in her ear, “I’ll rescue you right after the waltz.”

“You’d better, darling.” She said it through clenched teeth and a well-practiced smile.

How could she ever explain something like this to Mark? She began to laugh to herself at the thought of explaining Mark and her anonymous forays into SoHo to anyone at the Maisonette that night. Surely the Baron would understand. He probably crept off to far more unusual places than SoHo, but he didn’t expect Kezia to. No one did. Not Kezia, a woman, the Kezia Saint Martin … and that was different anyway. Like the other men she knew, the Baron conducted his adventures differently, and for different reasons … or was it different? Was she simply being a poor little rich girl running away to get laid and play with her Bohemian friends? Were any of them real to her? Sometimes she wondered. The Maisonette was real. Whit was real. The Baron was real. So real it made her feel hopeless at times. A gilded cage from which one never escapes. One never escapes one’s name and one’s face and one’s ancestors and one’s father or one’s mother, no matter how many years they’ve been dead. One never escapes all the bullshit about Noblesse oblige. Or does one? Does one simply get on the subway with a token and a smile, never to return? The mysterious disappearance of the Honorable Kezia Saint Martin. No, if one leaves, one leaves elegantly and openly. With style. Not fleeing on a subway in total silence. If she really wanted SoHo, she had to say so, if only for her own sake. She knew that much. But was that what she wanted? How much better was SoHo than this? It was zabaglione instead of souffié Grand Marnier. But neither was very nourishing. What she needed was good, wholesome steak. Counting on Mark’s world for sustenance was like hiding with a six-month supply of Oreo cookies and nothing else. She simply had one world to offset the other, one man to complement another, and the worst of it was that she knew it. Nothing was whole…. “Am I?” She didn’t realize that she had said it aloud.