A Perilous Eden by Heather Graham

hawkers were still out. Prostitutes were selling their wares not ten feet from the theatergoers, resplendent with their minks and sables and silver hair.
    New York, New York. There was nothing like it.
    Some said that a big city was a big city, but Adam didn’t think so. Oh, they were alike in some ways. London, New York, Paris—even Tokyo. They all had their blend of humanity. A multitude of languages, a multitude of faces, blending together, scurrying around. But each had its own tone, its own throbbing pace that made it unique.
    One of the prostitutes called out to him with a welcoming smile. He turned, and when she looked into his eyes, her smile slowly faded, and she hurried down the street.
    He pulled up his collar. It was almost summer, but the nights still carried a chill. Breath mingled with exhaust fumes and the steam from the sewers to create a low-lying blanket of mist.
    He passed a church, almost tripping over one of the bums who lay sprawled over the steps.
    â€œGot a quarter?” the man whined.
    Adam laughed dryly. “Whatever happened to a dime?”
    â€œInflation, man. Inflation.”
    Adam dug in his pocket for a dollar. What the hell, he had a wide-open expense account for once in his life.
    â€œThanks!” the bum called out delightedly.
    â€œMy pleasure,” Adam said dryly.
    He turned down the avenue. Things were quieter here; the streets more deserted—more respectable. Most of the store windows were covered with bars.
    His footsteps slowed without conscious thought; he discovered that he was peering between steel bars to stare at a full-length mink in a gray so soft and radiant it was like spun silver.
    Sonia would love such a coat, he thought, then gave himself an angry shake. Sonia would have loved such a coat. He had to stop thinking of her in the present tense.
    Yet a smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he stared at the coat. Perhaps it was not so bad. He could think of her and smile at the memories. Sonia, who could don khaki, bind up her hair and run blithely to the front of a battle line, could also gasp with delight over a fur, swirl like a princess in silk and purr like a kitten in bed.
    Had. She had done all those things.
    Funny how he couldn’t get it right in his mind. Maybe because he’d never really seen her. He’d seen men die in almost every conceivable fashion: shot, knifed, burned, exploded. He’d killed men in almost every conceivable fashion himself—that happened when survival became the issue.
    But when they’d brought him to see the charred bodies of his wife and child, he just hadn’t been able to see them . His mind had just rebelled. It hadn’t been Sonia, and it hadn’t been Reba.
    If Sonia had died on the line, died fighting, he might have managed to handle it. Because still, after all these years, he had the sense that there was a right and a wrong. There were battlefields, and then there were places where people lived. Where they shopped, where they mailed their letters. Where they went for long walks and played in parks.
    Children, babies, infants … just had no place in it.
    A cold sweat coated his body, and he gave himself a little shake, then started down the street again, glancing at his wristwatch. He was late.
    But the memories had come on strong. So strong that he paused before a model dressed in a T-shirt and jeans. The dummy was posed with hands on hips, body slightly tilted, a beautiful, mischievous smile in place.
    So much like Sonia. Even the hair—dark, flyaway. She had been in jeans the day he’d met her. She’d been trying to change the tire on an old Volkswagen. He’d offered to help, but she’d refused him, cheerfully saying that she had things under control. Then the rim and the tire had flown off in her hands; she’d landed on her rear in the mud—and laughed at herself.
    â€œWell, of course I can do it myself. But I suppose, if you’re