temporary, don't you think?"
Not giving her a chance to answer, he continued. "I thought tonight
we'd try this pizza place I know where they serve deep-dish by the
pound. It's across the street from where the St. Valentine's Day
Massacre took place back in the twenties, and legend has it one
victim crawled to the front step and breathed his last right
there."
* * * *
Nearly four hours later Bette found herself
trying to figure out exactly where she'd lost control with Paul
Monroe. Somewhere, she figured, between the time he played on her
sense of responsibility by mentioning the need to discuss business
and the time he cast out the lure of deep-dish pizza. She dismissed
as overly pessimistic the voice that insisted on whispering that
control had walked out the minute Paul had walked in the day
before.
The dinner had been wonderful. And so, she
had to admit, had the company.
He'd regaled her with tales of the oddities
he'd seen in his business and of the escapades he'd pulled in his
life. He'd also drawn stories from her of her childhood and her
travails in setting up her business, but she didn't enjoy that half
as much as when he talked—and made her laugh.
As the cab carried them south from the
restaurant toward the center of the city, she studied him. A man
whose business was children's toys. A man who refused to live by
schedules or plans. A man who seemed wary of committing to
something as simple as choosing a temporary secretary. Logic said,
a man wary of committing to anything. Or anyone?
She frowned, disturbed for reasons she
couldn't explain.
"Wait a minute. Stop here," Paul ordered the
cabbie as they neared the northern limit of Michigan Avenue's
Magnificent Mile.
Bundling Bette out of the taxi, he paid the
fare and started her off across the wind-whipped boulevard.
"What are you doing? Where are we going?"
"The beach."
"What?"
"Oak Street Beach. I haven't been there all
summer." He took her hand and wrapped it securely in the warmth of
his, then led her across the lanes of traffic. They'd reached the
sidewalk bordering the beach before she thought to protest further.
"Don't you think it's a little late in the season to be going to
the beach?"
"Don't want to rush into anything," he said
with a grin, still pulling her along.
"Hey. Wait a minute. I'm getting sand in my
shoes." Hauling back on his hand, she managed to stop him.
"Take 'em off."
She glared. "I also have hosiery on, and
besides, it's October."
"It's also probably seventy degrees, and the
sand's been soaking up sun all day."
He had a point; she ignored it. "I'm not
taking my shoes off and walking in the sand in my hose. And before
you say it," she rushed on, "I'm not taking off my hose on a public
beach, either."
He looked at her a long moment, and she had
the impression that a measuring and accounting was taking place.
She stood very still for the outcome.
"You want to go back?" It was an offer more
than a question.
Now she felt as if she were the one doing the
measuring and accounting, only she didn't know of what or by what
standards. Had he experienced this uncertainty a moment ago? She
considered the toes of her shoes, already awash in a wave of sand.
The black leather pumps needed polishing anyhow, and their wedge
heels were nearly flat. She glanced at the tall, lighted buildings
standing sentinel behind them, then out to the glistening roll of
the lake and finally back to Paul. He watched her without judgment,
not goading, not pressuring. Just waiting.
"Could we walk a little slower?"
His eyes lit first, then he smiled. "Yeah, I
think we could manage that."
She smiled back, feeling oddly happy, as they
started more sedately for the edge of the water.
"Thanks, Bette." The quick words sounded
almost ill at ease, as if he expected her to jump on them. "I
wouldn't have wanted to miss walking on Oak Street Beach. I've done
it every summer since I was fourteen."
"Summer, huh?" She made as if to pull her
suit jacket closer around
Not giving her a chance to answer, he continued. "I thought tonight
we'd try this pizza place I know where they serve deep-dish by the
pound. It's across the street from where the St. Valentine's Day
Massacre took place back in the twenties, and legend has it one
victim crawled to the front step and breathed his last right
there."
* * * *
Nearly four hours later Bette found herself
trying to figure out exactly where she'd lost control with Paul
Monroe. Somewhere, she figured, between the time he played on her
sense of responsibility by mentioning the need to discuss business
and the time he cast out the lure of deep-dish pizza. She dismissed
as overly pessimistic the voice that insisted on whispering that
control had walked out the minute Paul had walked in the day
before.
The dinner had been wonderful. And so, she
had to admit, had the company.
He'd regaled her with tales of the oddities
he'd seen in his business and of the escapades he'd pulled in his
life. He'd also drawn stories from her of her childhood and her
travails in setting up her business, but she didn't enjoy that half
as much as when he talked—and made her laugh.
As the cab carried them south from the
restaurant toward the center of the city, she studied him. A man
whose business was children's toys. A man who refused to live by
schedules or plans. A man who seemed wary of committing to
something as simple as choosing a temporary secretary. Logic said,
a man wary of committing to anything. Or anyone?
She frowned, disturbed for reasons she
couldn't explain.
"Wait a minute. Stop here," Paul ordered the
cabbie as they neared the northern limit of Michigan Avenue's
Magnificent Mile.
Bundling Bette out of the taxi, he paid the
fare and started her off across the wind-whipped boulevard.
"What are you doing? Where are we going?"
"The beach."
"What?"
"Oak Street Beach. I haven't been there all
summer." He took her hand and wrapped it securely in the warmth of
his, then led her across the lanes of traffic. They'd reached the
sidewalk bordering the beach before she thought to protest further.
"Don't you think it's a little late in the season to be going to
the beach?"
"Don't want to rush into anything," he said
with a grin, still pulling her along.
"Hey. Wait a minute. I'm getting sand in my
shoes." Hauling back on his hand, she managed to stop him.
"Take 'em off."
She glared. "I also have hosiery on, and
besides, it's October."
"It's also probably seventy degrees, and the
sand's been soaking up sun all day."
He had a point; she ignored it. "I'm not
taking my shoes off and walking in the sand in my hose. And before
you say it," she rushed on, "I'm not taking off my hose on a public
beach, either."
He looked at her a long moment, and she had
the impression that a measuring and accounting was taking place.
She stood very still for the outcome.
"You want to go back?" It was an offer more
than a question.
Now she felt as if she were the one doing the
measuring and accounting, only she didn't know of what or by what
standards. Had he experienced this uncertainty a moment ago? She
considered the toes of her shoes, already awash in a wave of sand.
The black leather pumps needed polishing anyhow, and their wedge
heels were nearly flat. She glanced at the tall, lighted buildings
standing sentinel behind them, then out to the glistening roll of
the lake and finally back to Paul. He watched her without judgment,
not goading, not pressuring. Just waiting.
"Could we walk a little slower?"
His eyes lit first, then he smiled. "Yeah, I
think we could manage that."
She smiled back, feeling oddly happy, as they
started more sedately for the edge of the water.
"Thanks, Bette." The quick words sounded
almost ill at ease, as if he expected her to jump on them. "I
wouldn't have wanted to miss walking on Oak Street Beach. I've done
it every summer since I was fourteen."
"Summer, huh?" She made as if to pull her
suit jacket closer around
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