Love Lyrics Page 3

  Chapter Two

  The chill air of January hit her as she stepped outside, almost stumbling over one of the little figures of a jockey as she hastened to the curb.

  “Taxi?” The doorman tipped his hat.

  “Please.” Zachary’s voice still held that special tone of command.

  They were silent until the door to the cab had been closed and it had pulled away into the snarl of after-theater traffic. She felt Zach’s eyes on her cheek but continued to stare at the back of the cabbie’s neck as though enthralled with the long, stringy hair that covered it.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I asked to see you home.”

  She had to look at him now. She couldn’t carry on a conversation with her eyes averted. After all, they had parted on a friendly basis. Two reasonable adults, coming to the reasonable conclusion that their life-styles were just too different to be reconciled. He had no way of knowing of the carnage of her emotional system that followed the breakup, and she had no intention of telling him.

  “No. Of course not. It’s nice to see you again, Zachary. I’ve wondered, on occasion, how you were and what you were doing.” Dear God, such tripe! Wondered! She thought of the endless nights spent staring into black loneliness while she tried to imagine where he was, who he was with, what he was thinking. . . .

  “I’ve been fine. Good health runs in the family. It seems to persist in spite of anything.” There was enough emphasis on the last word to imply that his health had persisted through a great deal of strain. “And the law practice continues to thrive.”

  “And your family? I still receive Christmas cards from Emily.” Emily, his sister, had become, in the eighteen months that Ashley and Zach had dated, a good friend. “She writes a brief note now and then, so I know your brother got married and your parents sold their house and moved into a condominium.”

  “Yes. Jared is very happy. His wife, Diane, is a gem, and they’re expecting a baby in about four months.”

  “Dear heaven, how time disappears! He seemed such a kid when I last saw him.”

  “Understandable. He was only twenty-one.” There was an uncomfortable pause. This was just as deadly as she’d thought it would be. “Mother and Dad seem content in their new place. By the way, I told them I’d be seeing you, and they send you their best.”

  Ashley could feel the treacherous heat of tears gathering. Zach’s parents had been cool to their affair for quite a while, obviously concerned about the vast difficulties a marriage would present, but had finally warmed to her as they grew to know her. She had often wondered if they’d been at all saddened by the breakup — or just relieved.

  “Please tell them hello.”

  “I will. And Curt and Doris. How are they?”

  Her parents, on the other hand, had engulfed Zachary in total acceptance from the start, clearly delighted to see their only daughter finally dating someone outside the questionable theater set. Their demeanor had been somewhat frosty when she’d told them the engagement was broken, as though she’d deliberately denied them a proper son-in-law. And a rich one, she thought, without bitterness. How could she blame them for wanting the security for their daughter that they’d never had themselves?

  “They’re very well. Dad’s retired, so they have plenty of time to relax.” One of the thrills of her success lay in her ability to augment her father’s meager pension with regular “gifts” of money.

  “And your brother?”

  Ashley gulped, squinting into the street to see where they were. How long would this torment last? Small talk between two people who had once fallen eagerly into each other’s arms the moment they had the slightest amount of privacy! She glanced down at his hand, lying on the seat between them. Such a beautiful hand, long-fingered and strong, with the leathery weathering that came from hours on the ocean hoisting sails and on a court swinging a racket. He was a fine athlete. He was a marvelous lover. She pulled her eyes away from the hand, fastening their attention, once again, on the back of the taxi driver’s head.

  “Johnny is still Johnny. Crazy and funny and, miraculously, still alive.”

  “I take it he’s still a Hollywood stuntman?”

  “Yes. Much to my parent’s dismay. He keeps talking about quitting and becoming an agent. He’d be so good at it, too. But I’m afraid he has too much love of danger in him.”

  “I like Johnny.”

  “Everyone likes Johnny. Although I think your parents had their doubts that time they met him and he described his job. Of course, they may have been nervous about the genes in my family. A Broadway lyricist and a Hollywood stuntman must look suspect to people of such respectable background.

  “Ashley, my parents never voiced any uneasiness about you, except the demands of your career and the fact that it tied you so firmly to New York City.”

  “How nice, that you and your parents agree so well.” There was a dreadful silence. Ashley wanted to bite her tongue but realized it was too late, by about three years.

  There was no missing the angry edge to his retort. “I wasn’t the one who broke the engagement. I trust you remember that.”

  Something inside her coiled and tightened, reminding her of the dreadful hurt, physical as well as emotional, that followed that breakup. She heard the memory of that pain in the angry tone of her own voice. “Officially, yes. But it was at least as much your decision. You couldn’t imagine a lifetime of mixing with us odd theater types.”

  “You’re not being fair, or honest. You were no more willing to compromise your life-style than I mine.”

  She gave an apologetic shake of her head. “You’re right. I’m sorry. The pressure becomes intense at this point in writing a show, and my disposition shows it.” She was desperate to plant the conversation safely back in the soil of banality.

  He reached over and ran one finger across her cheek in a gesture so tender she had to steel herself against collapsing in his arms. “You’re so lovely, Ashley. I have missed you so very much.”

  Bitter words snapped from her. “Not too much, obviously. You never contacted me in all that time!”

  His hand grasped her chin and turned her face to him as he bent disturbingly close. Their eyes met and clung in the flickering lights of the passing cars. “You sound as though you were the only victim. There is no way, Ashley, none, that you could have suffered any more than I.”

  “Oh, Zachary, if only you’d called!”

  “I could say the same to you. And I’m sure we’d both have the exact same answer. We had talked the subject to death. There was nothing to add to all that had been said.”

  She nodded, her anger subsiding as quickly as it had erupted. “I know. And nothing has changed.”

  “No. Nothing has changed. Including the fact that you are the only woman I’ve ever truly loved.”

  As the cab pulled to the curb and stopped, she laid her head back against the seat, closing her eyes for one brief instant. She felt like a plug had been pulled and her vital juices drained. She wondered where she would summon the energy to stand up and walk into the lobby. The doorman opened the door, said, “Good evening. Miss Grainger,” and stood back discreetly.

  She opened her eyes and looked at him for a long moment, then dropped her gaze. “Good night, Zachary.”

  “Good night, Ashley.”

  Ashley swung her legs out, took the hand of the doorman, who stepped forward to assist her, and, without looking back, went through the bronze door to her town house.

  Ashley lay in bed, staring sightlessly into the blackness of her room, listening to the cadence of her heart as it banged its protest against her chest. No more, no more, no more, no more, in 4/4 time.

  “Quiet, you traitorous thing.” Her words were muttered aloud, an incongruous intrusion on the stillness. Did other people honestly put themselves to sleep counting sheep? She’d sent dozens of them flying ove
r a mental fence and succeeded only in heightened frustration at their absolute refusal to leap gracefully in synchronized patterns. “Ashley, you idiot, you can’t even suffer insomnia without setting it to music.” She pushed her hands against the headboard as she pointed her toes, attempting to stretch out her tangled nerves. She felt awful.

  She reached for the light switch, propping a couple of pillows behind her as she sat up. Damn. How she hated this sleeplessness. Everything seemed more ominous in the middle of the night. A glance at the clock heightened her anxiety. Two-forty. She’d be a wreck all day, too tired to think straight, let alone write articulate lyrics.

  Zachary. The name had pounded a persistent duet with her heartbeat since she’d gone to bed at midnight. His words kept ringing in her head, “You’re the only woman I’ve ever truly loved.” Oh, Zachary. She pulled the blanket up under her chin, feeling a need for cover. Was it possible that he meant what he said? That he had lived three vacuum-packed emotional years, just as she had? And if it were true, where did that leave them? Back at square one. A love song without lyrics.

  She massaged the back of her neck, wondering why tension always centered there, corkscrewing the cords into tight purveyors of pain. If she didn’t find some release soon, the tension would work its way up and form into a splitting headache. Without giving herself time to reconsider, she picked up the receiver of the bedside phone and punched one of the preset buttons.

  It was answered on the second ring. “Hello?”

  “I’m surprised you’re home.”

  “Sis? Listen, I get enough action at work. I can hardly wait to get back to my quiet house.”

  “Is that my madcap brother speaking? Could it be that you’re aging, right along with the rest of humanity?”

  “Rumor has it.”

  “I hope you weren’t asleep.”

  “No. I was watching an old Charlie Chaplin film.” There was a pause. “Now. Unless my calculations are wrong, it is somewhere in the vicinity of 3:00 a.m. back east. Since it has never been your custom to call in the middle of the night to make sure I’m at home and not sleeping, may I ask what’s up?”

  “I saw Zachary tonight.”

  “Ah. Just as you’d feared. And it didn’t go well.”

  “Actually, the meeting was very friendly and civilized. And my stomach feels like it’s been put through a Waring blender.”

  “Ashley, what did you expect? You’ve never gotten over him.”

  “What makes you say that? I haven’t mentioned him in ages, at least not until I heard he might be coming; and I’ve dated several other men in the last couple of years. I’ve just been too busy to get serious.”

  “Don’t try to con your brother. I can read your mind . . . more to the point, your heart. You were a sitting duck for a full-scale relapse.”

  “Oh, Johnny, what am I going to do?” The plaintive wail seemed to come from her toes.

  “Is he married?”

  “No.”

  “Then call him up, tell him you made a mistake and propose.”

  “Johnny! Can’t you be serious?”

  “I’ve never been more serious in my life. Zachary is, on all accounts, the most thoroughly decent man I ever knew, and he loved you so damned much it was embarrassing to watch. If you’d had any sense, you’d have latched onto him and worked out the problems later.”

  “That’s a very simplistic thing to say. Especially from you, of all people. If it’s so easy, how come you let Leslie get away?”

  “Because I’m a wild bastard and I lay my life on the line every day and I’m not going to subject a wife to that.”

  “Then why don’t you stop that nonsense and settle down?”

  “I could ask you the same thing.” His retort stopped the conversation cold for several seconds.

  “That’s the problem, isn’t it, Johnny? I can’t stop. Is there something wrong with us?”

  “Yeah. I’m still a wild kid and you’ve got a fire in your belly. You must’ve been hexed by a crazed boy scout when you were in your crib.” They laughed uneasily. It was an old family joke that didn’t always seem funny. “Hey. How did I get into this analysis? We’ll examine my id on another occasion and on my dime. Back to Zachary. How does he look?”

  “Just the same. Exactly the same. Except . . .”

  “Except what?”

  “His eyes don’t twinkle like they used to.”

  Johnny’s answer came back coated with sarcasm. “I wonder why?”

  “Johnny . . .” Ashley sounded, even to herself, like a lost child. “He said he’d never loved any woman the way he loved me.”

  “God. He said that at the first meeting? Was he vertical or horizontal?”

  “Johnny! What kind of a woman do you think I am?”

  “A dumb one, if you let him go to his own bed after a statement like that! Ashley, for crying out loud! You’re a top-flight lyricist, an expert on all the descriptions of love. Don’t you know you’ve got the real thing in the palm of your hand and all you have to do is close your fingers? Don’t you know how rare the real thing is?”

  “It’s been three years! That’s a very long time. People change.”

  “Evidently he hasn’t, and you know damn well you haven’t. And, Ashley, we’re both old enough to know that three years is approximately two blinks of an eyelid. If you blink much more, you’ll die a spinster.”

  “I wish you and I didn’t live three thousand miles apart. I need to be hugged.”

  “Yes, you do. But you don’t need a brother hug. Call Zach.”

  “I can’t. It’s three o’clock in the morning.”

  “Call him anyway. He’s probably not asleep either.”

  “I’ll think about it. I love you, Johnny.”

  “Love you, too, sis. Be good to yourself. Snare him!”

  “Goodbye.”

  “Talk to you soon.”

  Ashley waited an instant, then took the phone book and looked up the number for the Hotel Pierre. She started to press the first number, then stopped. What would she say? That she loved him and needed him and wanted him? She’d said all of that three years ago, just before she said goodbye. She put the receiver back in the cradle and leaned against the pillows, her eyes closed. A fire in the belly. It brought back a wave of memories. . . .

  She’d been introduced to the expression when she overheard a conversation between her mother and father. They were talking about Johnny, which wasn’t unusual. Johnny seemed to defy definition and frustrate all attempts at taming. He was the “wild kid,” the one who had to try everything. He was full of passion and love and unquenchable curiosity, none of which was directed at books, and he drove their parents nuts. Ashley had heard so many worried confabs about Johnny that she started to pass the open door to the kitchen without pausing. Then the subject changed to their older brother, Jimmy. She could still hear the pride in her father’s voice: “He has a real fire in his belly, that boy. Such dedication. Never been any doubt, has there, about what he wants to do. . . .”

  And her mother’s pleased reply: “Oh, my, no. He’ll be a wonderful doctor. He has such ambition, such dedication. It’s so unusual in a youngster these days.”

  It was later — weeks? months? — before she heard the expression applied to her. This time her mother was talking to her Aunt Lorraine on the phone: “Yes, it was a cute play, wasn’t it! Ashley wrote the whole thing, you know, music and all. We were so pleased when the teachers decided to use it as the class production. Quite an achievement for a fourteen-year-old.” Then a pause, followed by her mother’s worried reply. “Well, yes, she does. She spends far too much of her time writing plays and songs. She doesn’t seem interested in clothes or the new fads, and hasn’t even mentioned any boys yet. She does have such a fire in her belly about show business. Oh, well — ” she uttered an indulgent laugh “ — w
e’ll just hope she works it out of her system before she meets the right man, so she’ll be ready to settle down and raise a family. . . .”

  It was the introduction of a theme Ashley had heard over and over, a theme that hadn’t really changed all that much, despite the hoopla about women’s liberation. When a boy had the “fire in his belly,” it meant ambition and drive, both positive attributes. When it blazed in a woman, she was compulsive and aggressive, both negative.

  She sat upright, staring straight ahead, lost in thought. Was it abnormal, this driving force inside her? Should she be able to pat herself on the back with pride over her success in such a competitive field, then walk away from it and find even more fulfillment in providing a tranquil home for a husband and producing and raising children? She, like a lot of other young women she knew, had assumed that question was out of date, like girdles and the vapors, but it wasn’t, really. It was all right, apparently, for a female to go partway up that proverbial ladder — but to the top? Only if she could survive in a very lonely territory.

  There was no doubt about her mother’s opinion. Ashley could still hear the incredulity in her voice: “You’ve broken up with Zachary? Ashley, he’s the kind of man every girl dreams of! Why, you’d never have had another worry in your life. He’d provide every comfort you could possibly want, and you could get out of that grimy city. . . .”

  In so many ways, her mother was right. Zachary was the kind of man that women create in their fantasies but rarely actually meet. And he had become not only the center of her reality, but the core of her existence; and he had left a hole that nothing — not fame, nor awards, nor the intoxicating sound of applause — could fill. What Johnny said was true: she’d been crazy to let him go. Surely she could confine her career so it demanded less of her, allowed time to concentrate her attention on a marriage, a home, children. On the man who still owned her heart. . . .