A Kiss Too Late. Ellen James

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      If only Adam could choose what was right for his newspaper. As for his ex-wife, hell, he’d never been able to figure out what was right where Jen was concerned. Last night had proved that all over again.

      Adam turned and began striding in the opposite direction.

      * * *

      THE LUNCH RUSH at Gil’s Deli in midtown Manhattan started to pick up speed at around eleven in the morning. Nearby office workers sought out the place, intent on beating the crowds for Gil’s famed homemade sausage and potato salad. Jen, one of the deli’s newer employees, still worked the sandwich bar, not yet trusted to mix the secret recipe for potato salad. She stood behind a long counter, lackadaisically slapping mustard and mayonnaise on slices of whole wheat bread.

      “What’s up?” asked her friend Suzanne, coming along to replenish Jen’s supply of pickles, romaine lettuce and Swiss cheese. “You’ve been distracted all morning.”

      “Nothing,” Jen muttered. “I’m fine. Just fine and dandy.” She tossed a lettuce leaf and two slabs of ham on the thick, crusty bread. One decisive cut of her knife, and a number five, cheese-and-ham-on-wheat, lay waiting before her.

      “Something’s wrong,” Suzanne said calmly, breaking out the pastrami. “I’ve never seen you like this.”

      “I can’t talk about it.”

      “You’ll talk,” Suzanne said with an air of confidence. Jen tossed two slices of rye bread down on the counter and dug into the mustard jar. Then she glanced at her friend in exasperation. She’d quickly bonded with Suzanne, whose placid demeanor hid implacable drive. This morning, as usual, Suzanne’s hair was swept back into a careless ponytail, and she wore her favorite uniform–corduroy pants and a madras blouse. In spite of Suzanne’s casual appearance, however, she was a focused, single-minded person, intent on accomplishing the goals she’d set for herself. She juggled her job at the deli with a full load of class work, and she intended to be a lawyer someday. She was already tenacious in cross-examination.

      “What happened?” she asked. “Come on, Jen. You stormed in here, hardly said good-morning and–”

      “I’ve made a complete ass of myself!” Jen raised her voice more than she’d intended, and several interested faces swiveled toward her.

      Suzanne’s expression remained unconcerned. “Everyone makes an ass out of herself now and then. Why should you be different?”

      “Damn,” Jen said in despair, but she never once stopped wielding the mustard. Unbidden, memories of the night before came back to her. Adam kissing her in the foyer of her apartment building. Much later, Adam standing beside her bed, both of them fumbling with zippers and buttons…

      Jen’s face burned. She worked in silence a few moments, advancing from rye to pumpernickel and sourdough. “Lord…I slept with my ex-husband last night,” she said miserably. “He shows up unannounced, informs me that my mother is getting married of all things, and I’m supposed to help with the wedding. And after that we…well, I can’t believe I let it happen.” There–it was out. The dreadful, mortifying truth. All Jen’s bad judgment exposed. Suzanne, however, appeared unperturbed.

      “What’s so awful, Jen? The way you explained it before, your ex is gorgeous and rich. I still can’t figure out why you left him.”

      Jen struggled with an all-too-familiar frustration. It seemed no one understood why she’d left Adam. Not her mother, not her friends…not even Adam himself. She pulled over a tray of sesame-seed buns and scowled at them.

      “Outwardly Adam is a very…charismatic person. He sweeps up everyone around him. But inwardly, when it comes to emotions, Adam doesn’t let anyone get too close. He never let me get too close, that’s for damn sure.”

      Suzanne waved a piece of Swiss cheese. “I still don’t understand. Your mother has money–tons of it. Your ex has money–tons of it. But you’re here slogging it out, trying to land a job as an actress. Jen, your mother could probably build you your own theater. And if you’d let your ex pay alimony, you’d be rolling in dough, instead of slicing it.”

      Jen thought she heard a touch of envy in Suzanne’s voice. Suzanne was very pragmatic, always counting dollars and cents. It must annoy her that Jen had walked away from so much family wealth. But Jen felt stifled by it–smothered. Two years ago, when she’d turned thirty, she’d begun to realize that never once had she proved anything on her own. The Hillard name–and then the Prescott name–had buffered her. Oh, she could have kept coasting along, safe and protected, never pursuing her secret yearnings. She could have done that–but courage had demanded otherwise.

      She sighed deeply. “Speaking of acting jobs,” she said, “I have an audition this afternoon. Will you cover for me?”

      “Only if you relax about your night with the ex. It’s no big deal.”

      Jen thought very much otherwise. She attacked a batch of caraway rye. “All I know is that Adam had better not be there when I get back. I left him in the apartment–asleep. I don’t know how I’ll ever face the man again!”

      * * *

      HOURS LATER, Jen hurried down the street, threading her way through the crowd. Even after a year in New York, the novelty of the place still hadn’t worn off. She loved everything about it: the theater posters plastered one after the other on the walls, the fruit and candy stands with their cheerful umbrellas, the exotic shops and palm-reading rooms tucked into odd corners, the pots of flowers brightening the fire escapes, the high narrow buildings jutting up all around. She’d never known any other town like it. Boston didn’t compare; it just didn’t have the same excitement. As for Newport, well, she’d grown up in Newport. That was where she’d first fallen in love with Adam Prescott, reason enough to stay away from the place.

      Jen glanced at the address she’d scribbled on a scrap of paper. The small theater where she’d be auditioning today didn’t even qualify as off-off-Broadway, but no matter. Jen followed any prospect she could find. And now she had an agent–a serious young man named Bernie who actually returned her phone calls. That was worth something right there.

      She pushed open the door and stepped into a dim foyer, then found her way to the theater proper, where rows of wooden seats sloped toward the stage. A cluster of people stood murmuring together several feet from Jen. The air was dank in here, the stage curtains sadly worn and drooping. Even so, the familiar reactions that any theater evoked for her kicked in: the tightening of anticipation in her stomach, the sense of magic. Ever since she was a kid, it’d been like this. When she was nine, her parents had taken her to see a play for the first time. She still remembered it–Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night. All the lights shining on the stage, the glittering costumes, the vivid backdrops–every detail had imprinted itself on her young mind. She had vowed right then that someday she would be an actress. It had taken her two decades to finally put that vow to the test….

      Jen stirred from her reverie. Taking a deep breath, she walked toward the group of people. A bored-looking woman with dyed red hair turned to her.

      “Not another one,” she said wearily. “You’re too old for the lead, you know.”

      Jen gritted her teeth, but managed a polite smile. It seemed she was always too old for the lead. “I’m just looking for work,” Jen said. “Any work.”

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