Last Chance at Love. Gwynne Forster

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СКАЧАТЬ many did you buy, a hundred?” he asked as he walked back to her with the bag. She reached for it, but he added her laptop computer to his burden and started off.

      “Wait a minute. I can carry my stuff,” she called after him. He was not going to treat her as if she were helpless.

      He stopped, turned, and looked at her, an expression of incredulity masking his face. “Allison, if you think I’m going to walk up Madison Avenue with a woman who’s struggling under thirty or forty pounds of whatever, while I carry my four-pound briefcase, you’re a few bricks short of a full load. Please be reasonable.”

      “I’m not going to let you treat me as though I’m an incompetent little something or other. Hand me my things, please.”

      He smiled in that special way of his that seemed to bless everything around him. “You have to realize that my father didn’t let my mother lift anything heavy, and he taught me to be protective of her and all other women. I can’t ignore my upbringing just because you’re out to prove you’re the equal of, or better than, any of The Journal’s other reporters. I’m carrying this stuff, and if you don’t like that, next time don’t bring it. What do you say?”

      “Okay.” She said it grudgingly. “But I like bossy people about as well as you like contentious ones. And you don’t have to make such a big thing out of this, either. I wouldn’t want you to disobey your parents.”

      “What?” His deep laughter rolled with merriment. She loved the sound of it, and if she knew how, she’d keep him laughing.

      “I’m thirty-five years old,” he reminded her, “and at this age, I obey selectively. Does this mean you’re going to stop bickering with me and let us be friends?” The gleam in his eyes told her she’d be foolish to react, that he had her number and needled her out of devilment.

      She laughed, though she was less assured than her manner suggested. “Bees will stop stinging long before we get chummy, pal.” If only she could be sure of it.

      His gaze sauntered over her but, apparently not satisfied that his eyes had telegraphed his message, he told her, “Lie to the world if you must, but tell yourself the unvarnished truth. Self-deception can be dangerous.”

      “I certainly hope you’re not speaking from experience,” she replied. But he’d come close to her vulnerable spot, and flippancy wasn’t what she felt, as the memory of Roland Farr’s cunning floated back to her.

      In her room, she got a handful of gingersnaps and crawled into bed with Jake’s book, For the Sake of Diplomacy, hoping to find something of the man in his work. She didn’t relish the idea that her interest in him might exceed the professional preoccupation that she normally brought to her work and hoped she hadn’t set a trap for herself. Words danced before her in black-and-white confusion, challenging her to concentrate. When Jacob Covington’s face appeared among the tangled alphabets, she closed the book.

      * * *

      He’d been ungracious in not asking if she’d like company, Jake decided, and rang her room. “I forgot to ask whether you have friends here, Allison. I’d hate to think of your not taking advantage of this great town. So if you won’t be busy this evening, how about spending a couple of hours with me?”

      “Sure. What will we do?”

      He welcomed her honest, straightforward answer, because he disliked women who played games with him. She had nothing planned and didn’t pretend that she did have.

      “After we eat, we can take in a show, go to one of the jazz clubs in the Village, watch the skaters in Rockefeller Plaza, whatever. Depends on how you want to dress.”

      “I vote for food and skaters,” she said, causing him to wonder why she hadn’t suggested the music. He’d been certain she’d choose the jazz, and he’d have proof that he had indeed seen her at Blues Alley, but he didn’t exclude the possibility that her choice could be a ruse.

      He hung up, made dinner reservations at a small West Side restaurant, and remembered to call his mother.

      “I’ll be down there in a couple of weeks,” he told Annie Covington.

      She’d be glad to see him, she said and then voiced what he knew was her real concern. “Son, have you found a nice girl? I hate to think of you always by yourself.”

      “Not yet. You’ll be the first to know.” He wanted to get off the subject, because she wouldn’t hesitate to complain about the grandchildren he hadn’t given her.

      “Married men live longer than loners,” she warned. “And don’t let your success keep you out of church, Jake; it’s prayers that got you where you are.”

      “Plus hard work and my parents’ support,” he said, gave her his phone number, and added, “Don’t forget to keep my itinerary posted on your refrigerator, in the bathroom, and beside your bed.”

      Her hearty laugh always filled him with joy, reminding him that she no longer struggled in abject poverty because he made certain that she had every modern home convenience, more money that she could use, and that she worked only if she wanted to.

      “That falls pretty easily off your tongue,” she told him. “But don’t you forget that for the first forty-five years of my life—the refrigerator was a zinc tub filled with ice when we could get it, the bathroom was wherever you set yourself down, and the bed had to be moved when it rained. You send me more money every month than I used to make in a year. Your father would be proud of you, son.”

      “Thanks, Mom. Tune in to NBC tomorrow evening between seven and nine.”

      * * *

      If Jake needed grounding, he could trust his mother to keep him in touch with the good earth, and later that evening he had cause to appreciate this. While still a child, Jake had learned tolerance. He’d discovered early that his size invited challenges from the tough boys in his school and even some of his teachers. The experiences had shaped his personality and taught him the wisdom of soft-spoken, nonthreatening manners. Gentleness came naturally, but it threatened to abandon him when the maître d’ at Dino’s rushed forward to assist Allison as though she were unescorted. He liked to know that other men found the woman in his company interesting, but when one after the other stared beagle-eyed at Allison, his temper began a rare ascent. Quickly, he clamped down on it.

      She was seated at the small table for two, and he observed her closely. Jet-black hair cascaded around her shoulders, setting off her smooth ebony complexion and large dreamy eyes that promised a man everything. Her simple red dress heightened the beauty before him; and though she seemed unaware of it, she’d captured the attention of nearly every man present. He smiled to himself; at least he wasn’t the guy on the outside. He was about to remark that he liked her hair down, when it hit him that it was indeed she who he had seen in Blues Alley.

      Watch it, Jake. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt the need to give himself that lecture. “You’re different with your hair down, softer and—”

      “Approachable?”

      She had more red flags than anybody he knew. “I was going to say vulnerable, but you wouldn’t like that either, would you? Let’s be friends for tonight and leave aside the one-upmanship, shall we?” He glanced up from his menu for a look at the smoke he expected to see, but to his surprise, he caught her in an unguarded СКАЧАТЬ