Ms. Taken. Jo Leigh
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She wished he would take better care, though.
“What can I get you today?”
“I need a copy of Attitudes.”
“That all?”
“That’s all.”
He gave her the magazine and she gave him five dollars. When he turned to ring up her change, she darted away. “Hey!”
“Have a good day!” she called over her shoulder. Then she waved as she walked down the subway steps.
CHARLES UNLOCKED his office door, then flipped on the light switch. He liked being the first one in. Normally, Mrs. Robinson would have been here, would have had his coffee ready along with his agenda. But he wasn’t helpless. He knew how to make coffee, and he knew how to work a calendar. He missed his routine, that’s all. He liked it when the world worked like a well-oiled machine.
He put his briefcase down, then took off his coat and his kidskin gloves. Ben, his driver, had had to drop him off down the street this morning, and Charles’s shoes had paid the price. The construction on the building had become increasingly annoying, and he wished they’d finish. It wasn’t going to happen anytime soon, though, so he’d better make a note to wear his galoshes for a while.
In the meantime, he had to go to his washroom and work for a considerable time to repair the damage to the Italian leather. When he finished, he made coffee, and the moment he turned on the machine, the phone rang.
For Charles, the sound was like the gun at the start of a race, sending him into his day. It would be Frank Toyamichi calling from Japan. Charles had an appointment with Bob Riverside and his people at nine. Lunch, as usual, at Charlemagne. His attorneys were due this afternoon, and tonight David was taking him to an auction at Christie’s where he hoped to purchase a rocking chair that had once belonged to Jack Kennedy.
“Charles Warren,” he said into the speaker phone as he settled into his chair.
“Mr. Warren. It’s Frank. I have the numbers for you.”
Charles glanced at the clock. It was exactly sevenfifteen. Frank was a good man. A punctual man. Charles liked things punctual.
SHE WAS LATE. The subway train had been delayed more than ten minutes several miles before her Wall Street station. She’d passed the time reading the magazine in her lap, returning again and again to the personals. To the unadorned ad. “Holly Baskin, late of Vassar, call C.W.”
Holly. Certainly an appropriate name for the season. She’d be blond, of course. Or maybe her hair would be chestnut. Those Vassar girls liked chestnut.
She’d be beautiful, too. Slender, with good ankles and perky B cups. She’d have impeccable taste in all things. She’d know the right restaurants, the right wine, the right jewelers, the right people. She’d be the perfect complement to everything that Charles was. Only…
Only she wouldn’t love him the way Jane did. She couldn’t. If she had, she never would have left him. Not for anything. Only a fool would leave Charles Warren.
Holly wouldn’t understand his need for laughter. She wouldn’t see that his was a cautious soul that needed lots of loving care. Poor Charles didn’t want anyone to see his vulnerability, and Holly, who might be very attractive and speak umpteen languages, was too selfish to look beyond the facade. The only one, Jane thought, who had an inkling about the real Charles was David Levinson. He came to the office a couple of times a month, and he never failed to ask her how she was, and about her latest project. He was so nice. Such a sweetie pie. He never rushed his conversations, even if Charles tried to hurry him up.
She could see that David was worried about Charles, just as she was. And that David wasn’t having any luck getting Charles to see he had to slow down. But then, David was just a friend. Not a girlfriend. Not a wife.
The train started with a jerk and before she had a chance to fix her lipstick, she arrived at Pearl Street. Jane hustled out with about a million other people who were just as late as she was. No one spoke to each other, no one looked at each other. As far as she could see in this mass of humanity, there wasn’t one smile.
It was too near Christmas for such dour moods. She wished she was brave enough to say something. Just to holler, “Lighten up!” But then someone shoved her in the back, and she nearly stumbled. She sighed. Sometimes it was difficult to keep a positive attitude.
On the street, she breathed in a healthy dose of fresh air. But there was no time to appreciate the morning smells of doughnuts and coffee coming from the cart next to her. She had to run if she was going to make it to the office on time.
She dashed across the street with all the other pedestrians, dodging taxis and limos. The chorus of horns was anything but festive. She didn’t understand the honking. It never changed anything. Maybe all those drivers were just trying to be heard. A primal cry, desperate in its futility.
One of those desperate souls nearly ran her over, and she teetered on the edge of the sidewalk for a moment. No one noticed.
She walked as quickly as she dared, nearing the huge office building in the heart of Wall Street. Somewhere among all the noise and hubbub she heard the jingle of a bell. A street-corner Santa. That made things a little easier to take.
One more street crossed, and then she was under the scaffolding, pushing through the throng of office workers huddled in their heavy coats, their gloved hands thrust in pockets or gripping briefcases.
Again she was bumped. A man on a cell phone. Just as she was about to give him a piece of her mind, a scream, “Watch out!” made her look up.
Something was falling—
It hit her on the head. White light filled her vision and agony turned her legs to mush. Then the white faded to black, and that was all.
HER HEAD HURT. When she opened her eyes, the light hurt, too. “Ouch.”
“Good, you’re awake.”
“Huh?” She blinked, trying to figure out who was talking to her. A man in a coat. A white coat.
“You’re in an emergency room. I’m Dr. Larson. You were hit on the head.”
“I was?” She touched her forehead gingerly, but all she felt was a bandage.
“It’s amazing you’re alive. That was quite a blow.”
“What was?”
“This,” he said, holding up a plaster statuette. After a long moment she realized it was a Cupid. Complete with bow and arrow. Except the right wing was broken and his feet were missing.
“I was hit in the head by Cupid?”
“By about two pounds of plaster.”
“Am I all right?”
“I don’t know yet. Let’s find out, shall we?”
She nodded. Big mistake. Her head throbbed with an ungodly pain, the worst she’d ever felt. For a moment, the blackness threatened. She clung to something cold as steel as she struggled to focus her vision.
The doctor’s concerned look didn’t help matters any. Maybe she was really hurt. Seriously hurt. “It’s all right,” she said finally, knowing that it wasn’t. “I’m okay.”
“Why don’t we let me be the judge of that?” He helped her sit, and it was then she realized she was on a gurney and her hand had been gripping the rail. Her skirt was torn and damp, her sweater dirty. The lump of black wool on the chair by the curtain must be her coat.
“Look at my finger.”
She did, following the digit from right to left and back again. Then the doctor shone a light in her eyes, which made the throbbing worse.
When she could see again, she saw the doctor was young. Thirty? Maybe. Probably a resident. Or an intern. He was pretty good-looking, too. Tres ER.
His