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DANGEROUS
GIFT

©

Shelter House Publishing, LLC

Born 177(?) in the Quaker community
of New Cornwall, New York. Father unknown.
Battered to death December 22, 1799,
in the Lispenard Meadow, New York City.

Her bones lie today in the mass grave
of the Friends Cemetery in Prospect Park,
Brooklyn, New York.
Her murder has never been solved.
Until now.

In Memory of Gulielma Sands
"The Girl in the Manhattan Well"

Michael was wide awake and still reading when Nina drifted quietly off to sleep. After a light sup­per on trays, they had made love for dessert. De­spite what sexologists said about postcoital gender behavior, Nina was the partner who instantly rolled over in gratified exhaustion while Michael was energized by their pleasure and took up his nighdy editing chores with renewed purpose.

Now as the salt breeze off the Hudson River sweetened the early morning Greenwich Village streets, Nina awoke in the drowsy contentment of a good night's rest to find Michael fast asleep with his bed light shining in his face, his glasses on and the new Americana manuscript on his chest.

Oh, Michael . . . ! She plucked off his glasses with pickpocket skill, removed the manuscript, and turned off the light. What am I going to do with you?

"You could marry me."

Had she spoken aloud? Or were they so attuned

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that he could hear her thoughts? "Oh, Michael! I thought you were asleep!" She skimmed a playful pillow at his head. He swatted it aside and wres­tled her into his arms with her full cooperation.

"I'm serious, Nina. I found a gray hair last night. I've given you the best years of my life. It's time you made an honest man of me. Besides that, I love you with all my heart and soul."

Michael Ludovic had indeed devoted his life to her. She returned his love with all her heart and soul. She owed everything she was and had to him. By publishing her college thesis, The Role of the Libido in 3,000 Years of History, he had launched her career as America's youngest and most controversial historian. The combination of her youth, beauty, and indisputable academic bril­liance had jump-started Libido and History onto the best-seller list and made her a star of the lec­ture circuit.

Michael had been shrewd enough to see that without realizing it, Nina Slocum had staked out her own patch of literary territory with her sex- and-history approach. What some called her sassy interpretations of people and events might invite debate and sometimes anger, yet her scholarship was impeccable, her research scrupulous. Noted historians might be stingy with praise. They might sneer at her jazzy style. They could not fault her on facts.

Under Michael's guidance, her sexual compari­

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sons of historic enemies had become her trade­mark. Comparing Elizabeth I and Mary of Scotland, Nina concluded that Mary had let men use her and paid for it with her head while Eliza­beth encouraged men to think they were using her. When they went too far, they were the ones who paid with their heads.

Her current biography compared Napoleon Bo­naparte with Admiral Horatio Nelson, contrasting their respective lives in the context of the women they loved. To Michael's delight, the book was creating an uproar in both Britain and France be­cause Nina's opening paragraph called the read­er's attention to "the sexually revealing contrast between the phallic simplicity of Nelson's column penetrating the sky above Trafalgar Square and the vulvic opulence of Napoleon's Arc de Tri- omphe straddling the Champs Elysees."

If not for Michael, Nina would doubtless be teaching history somewhere, worrying about ten­ure and trying to be both mother and father to J.J. Her daughter adored Michael, the only father figure she'd ever known. The three of them lived harmoniously in the nineteenth-century town house she and Michael had bought and re­stored. So why did she hesitate to make their arrangement legal? It wasn't that old bugaboo about fearing to make a commitment. She had passionately committed herself to Michael Lu- dovic in every aspect of her life. Her love and

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devotion. Her work. Her daughter's happiness and well-being. Her tender desire to spend the rest of her life with him.

Perhaps it was a superstitious fear of hubris, of defying the gods by wanting everything. Right now she had everything except marriage. She was haunted by the conviction that life was a house of cards, ever vulnerable to collapse. If she played the marriage card, the gods might decide she was too greedy and blow her card house down.

"Well—?" From behind the open pages of the Wall Street Journal, Michael peered at her across the breakfast table. He had proposed marriage many times before and had philosophically ac­cepted her excuses:

She was older than he. Six years older. When she was a wrinkled old crone of seventy, he would be a dynamic sixty-four.

He passionately wanted them to have a child and fretted about her biological clock. She had given birth to one child and regarded that as sufficient J.J. adored Michael. Their father-daughter relation­ship was better than most based on biology.

Nina smiled at him and blew him a kiss, pre­tending to misunderstand. "What did you say? More jam? Forgive me, darling. I was daydreaming."

Pretending to believe her, he quietly pressed his point. "I thought we might wander down to City Hall this afternoon and pick up a marriage license."

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"But, darling—we can't. Not this afternoon, anyway. Have you forgotten? The Prunella Dove interview! The whole damn crew—cameras, lights, producers—everybody will be arriving here this af­ternoon to set things up before the great Prunella herself sweeps in. Don't you remember?"

He lowered his newspaper. "I remember dis­cussing it, but I didn't think you'd agreed to do it. You know her reputation. 'Swoop like a vulture; coo like a dove!' "

Nina was defensive. "The Dove Report sells books."

He reached across the table and took her hand. "Listen to me, Nina. Remember what that TV critic said? How Prunella makes chopped liver out of her guests and makes them think it's pate until they see the hatchet job she does in the editing process? We don't need this media exposure. Not now. All of your books are still selling. Napoleon and Nelson is still a best-seller in paperback. You're just starting Hamilton and Burr, and that won't be out for at least a year. I thought we'd agreed you'd give Prunella a pass. Why'd you change your mind?"

"I thought I told you—"

He groaned. They both knew she hadn't told him.

"Tell me again." He was more hurt than angry. Candor and honesty were central to their relation­

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ship. Why had she tried to do something behind his back?

She found it hard to explain even to herself. "I was going to tell you after it was over. When you got home from the Backgammon Club. I know it's a sneaky thing to do, and you and I don't do sneaky things, do we?"

"We do not do sneaky things."

It was time to explain. "This isn't an ordinary interview. It's part of a special Mother-and- Daughter series. They're doing Vanessa Redgrave and Natasha Richardson. Debbie Reynolds and Carrie Fisher. Janet Leigh and Jamie Lee Curtis. And—ta-da!—bringing up the rear yours truly Nina Slocum, controversial historian, and her bril­liant and lovely daughter, Jennifer Joy Drake, oth­erwise known as J.J. Vera Boyle thought it was wonderful—"

"And who is Vera Boyle?"

"Prunella Dove's producer. Everybody knows that."

"I didn't know that."

An unaccustomed guilt washed over her. She could not for the life of her figure out why she had tried to deceive him.

"Oh, Michael, I don't know what got into me. There was Vera telling me about all the other mothers and daughters and dammit, I wanted J.J. and me to be included. I'm so proud of her want­ing to follow in the old lady's footsteps, and now

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that I've hired her as my official research assis­tant, I want to show her off to the entire world! Is that so awful?"

A paternal grin warmed Michael's face. "The mother hen wanting to show off her baby chick. The most basic instinct in nature. Face it, Nina. You're a mother and you're reacting like a mother. I knew there had to be more to it than plugging your books."

There was more to it. Vera Boyle couldn't be absolutely sure, but it looked like Lady Antonia Fraser and her mother, Lady Longford, would also be part of the series. To Nina, Antonia Fraser was the twentieth-century's greatest biographer. Not only was the aristocratic English beauty acclaimed for her exquisite style and vivid reconstruction of historical events, but she was also married to play­wright Harold Pinter and moved in British intel­lectual circles that had no counterpart in the United States.

When a New York book critic called Nina "the American Antonia Fraser," she had been thrilled at first and then embarrassed. In twenty years per­haps but not now. To her chagrin, the tag line stuck and followed her to Britain, where the press, sensing controversy, had hailed her as such. As a result the Pinters had snubbed the reception given by Nina's publisher, and Antonia had sent back the review copy of the Napoleon-Nelson book without comment.

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Michael had assured her it didn't matter. The book continued to sell well in Britain and the Continent. But it did matter. Through no fault of her own, Nina had dared to be what the English called presumptuous, presuming to include her­self in the rarefied world of Antonia Fraser.

Nina had resigned herself to the "America's An­tonia Fraser" tag. Reviewers automatically used it, as did the lecture-circuit brochures. She hated it, but she was stuck with it. Common sense dictated that she view it in public at least as a compliment.

That was why it was so important to her to be part of the series that included the two English­women. From what Vera Boyle had said, there was a good chance Prunella would schedule Nina and J.J.'s tape on the same night as Longford and Fra­ser. The connecting theme? Daughters following in their mother's footsteps.

Relieved at having cleared the air, Nina rose from her place, circled the table, and pulled out Michael's chair so she could sit on his lap. "For­give me?"

"Only if you agree to marry me."

"Let's talk about it tomorrow."

He raised her to her feet and pressed his face to her breasts for a brief moment. "Just be careful. The woman's truly a vulture. Remember. Just be­cause she asks a question doesn't mean you have to answer it. And tell that to J.J. You can always

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say, 'What an interesting question!' or 'I don't think I can answer that!' "

In keeping with their morning routine, he snapped on his bicycle clip and led the way down the inside stairwell to where his twelve-speed Schwinn leaned against the wall. She no longer teased him about being New York's only publish­ing tycoon who rode a bicycle to work wearing a Brooks Brothers suit and cordovans. She watched him strap last night's homework into his basket before giving his hair a schoolboy pat and straight­ening his tie.

"Nice tie, darling."

"Some sexy dame bought it for me. Refuses to sleep with me unless I wear it."

Another part of their ritual, a jocular reminder that he allowed Nina to pick his ties but remained adamant about the conservative wardrobe he had worn since adolescence. No arguments. No Ar­mani. No jeans, even on weekends. And yet, as Nina reminded herself, he was not a total stiff. Shortly after they met she had laughingly accused him of having been born wearing a three-piece suit. "I bet you keep it on even when you take a shower." That night she had fallen in love with him when he did just that.

The hand brake released, one foot pressed to the pavement in start position, he embraced her as if he were off to war. "Why don't I slap back­

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gammon? I think I should be here when the vul­ture swoops."

"Not on your life. You'll only make J.J. and me nervous."

"I worry about J.J., Nina. Is she getting enough sleep? I heard her working late last night, and when I knocked on her door this morning she was already gone!"

Nina crossed her arms with tender exaspera­tion. "Quit stalling, Mr. Ludovic. You know very well she has her aerobics class at eight."

He could not tear himself away. "I don't think she had breakfast." He also knew very well that J.J. liked to make herself a peanut butter and bagel to eat on the way.

"Michaell Get going! Everything will be fine."

"You've got my number at the club?"

"I've got your number, period. Move it." She smacked his back fender as if it were a horse and sent him on his way.

Although she could hear the phone from the sidewalk as Michael disappeared around the far corner, she took her time returning to the house. Let it ring. Whoever it was could leave a message on the machine or send a fax. She wanted to spend a few moments gazing at the building's fa­cade and remind herself that this was almost how it had looked when it was built by John Jacob Astor in the 1820s. The elegant Federal architec­ture of the new republic had replaced the heavier

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Georgian look of the colonial period. The original Flemish bond brickwork had stood up well. On either side of the low stoop, the wrought iron handrails were turn-of-the-century copies of the originals. The leaded glass in the front door had come from another house and had been certified authentic.

She stopped to polish the brass door knocker with her shirttail, straightened the raincoats and hats on the hall rack, and entered the kitchen just in time to hear her daughter's voice on the answering machine: "... so, I hope it's okay ... I knew you'd understand . . . love you . .. see you later, Mom."

Understand? Understand what? Last night J.J. had told Nina she didn't want to be on television. She had begged Nina to do the interview without her. "Say I've got hives. And laryngitis!"

Nina had brushed her daughter's hair as she always did in times of stress, and soon the truth emerged. J.J. had seen Prunella Dove in action. She was terrified the vulture would swoop down on her with questions about her real father, maybe ask if J.J. was illegitimate, maybe ask how she felt about her mother living in sin and maybe what it was like to have a mother who was not only famous but more beautiful than she could ever be.

"Who's been talking to you?"

J.J. had dissolved in tears. "The girls at the gym.

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Sally Morse said anyone who goes on the Dove Report is asking to be crucified. And she said—"

"That little bitch! You don't have to tell me what she said. I remember what happened with those pictures of you when you got the history prize. She said you looked like the gargoyles on Notre Dame cathedral, right? Like this maybe?"

Nina twisted her face into a hideous distortion, bugging out her eyes and drooling saliva until her daughter choked with laughter and begged her to stop.

"Oh, Mom! I want to grow up and be like you."

Nina held her close. "No, you don't. You want to grow up and be yourself, your own woman. And that means protecting yourself from spoilers like Sally Morse. The best way to judge people is ask yourself: are they for you or against you? And if they're not for you, avoid them like the plague. Okay, my pretty? And remember you are pretty, you're articulate, and you're going to knock Prunella's socks off."

Reassured by her mother, J.J. said her morning classes ended at one and she would come straight home from school. Nina held her breath as she rewound the message tape. Had Sally Morse once more gotten to her daughter? If only Nina hadn't dawdled on the sidewalk. The sin of pride over her beautiful house! If only she'd been in the kitchen to answer the phone. She pressed Play.

"Hi, Mom. I just remembered something. You

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know that box of clippings I was telling you about? In the Rare Book Room? Well, I just remembered the librarian said she'd hold them until today and then they go back into the system, and it could be months before she could reserve them again. So don't be mad. I'm going to the library, but I'll be home in plenty of time. In fact, it's probably the best idea. I'll get too nervous hanging around the house all afternoon. So, I hope it's okay ... I knew you'd understand .. . love you . . . see you later, Mom."

By the time Vera Boyle and the Dove Report production crew arrived at the house, Nina had convinced herself that J.J.'s decision proved her daughter wise beyond her years. If she had come straight home from gym class, the afternoon would have dragged endlessly and had both of them bouncing off the walls.

Being alone allowed Nina to deal with certain necessary details. Such as what did a famous author - at - home - known - for- her -sexual-brashness wear when Prunella Dove called? Faded Calvins and a DKNY T-shirt? Too Hamptons. A slinky silk caftan over a naked body? Too St. Tropez. Her new Chanel suit with chains, quilted bag, and two-tone slingbacks? Too uptown charity.

What, then? If she really had guts, she'd answer the door as if she'd lost track of time and was deliciously frazzled to be caught in her preferred

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writing outfit, her "lucky" flannel nightgown. She had worn it her entire senior year at college while writing the sex and politics thesis that had launched her career. For nearly twenty years she had carefully washed it by hand, repaired the seams, and replaced the ribbon around the neck and wrists. Summers she'd worn it barefoot, using her toes to regulate the air conditioner. Winters she wore ski underwear under it and tennis socks a size too big.

Tempting but not a good idea. For tonight's in­terview she should wear something that she knew from experience always felt good and looked good. White pants, black turtleneck, diamond stud ear­rings, and bare tanned feet in black patent penny loafers. The two shiny pennies had been courtesy of Michael Ludovic the day he read her thesis and asked if she'd mind his putting his two cents in.

Next decision? Refreshments. If any. Hie deli­cate balance. Haul out the Georgian silver tea ser­vice? She and Michael had bought it in London on a whim and had yet to use it. Ice cream? Oreos? Madeleines? Nuts. Fruit? All too messy. Diet Cokes, Snapple, Perrier, and white wine would do the trick.

As for exactly where in the house Prunella would do the interview, Nina was determined the choice would be hers. Her workroom and bed­room were off limits since a certain French maga­zine had conned her into posing on her four-

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poster bed munching chocolates and lolling in a bubble bath with—unbeknownst to her—one breast exposed.

Vera agreed with her suggestion of the second- floor parlor with its original William Morris wall­paper and shelves full of books and memorabilia of Nina's career. Behind the cozy sofa French doors opened onto a small wooden porch that looked west across the Hudson River. By the time Prunella Dove arrived, the sun would be setting on the Jersey Palisades, purple, green, and red, nature at her most dazzling. The view would also be Nina's cue to point across the river at Wee haw- ken, where Aaron Burr had killed Alexander Ham­ilton in their historic duel.

"It's an amazing coincidence," she explained as Vera Boyle took feverish notes. "We bought this house long before I decided to do a book on Ham­ilton and Burr. And would you believe it, after the duel Hamilton's friends rowed him back across the Hudson and carried him to William Bayard's house in Jane Street. Just around the corner from here. The house is gone, but"—she lowered her voice—"his ghost shows up every July twelfth on the anniversary of his death!"

"You've seen his ghost? Prunella will love that!"

"I didn't see him, but ... I felt something last July. I was alone out back. There's a little garden and a tiny pool that's supposed to have been part of Aaron Burr's water system, and all of a sudden

*3

I felt something whispering in my ear but I couldn't make out the words. Like it was some secret from the past trying to break through."

Vera's eyes shone with excitement. "You really think it was Hamilton?"

Nina saw that she had gone too far. In trying to divert Vera Boyle's attention away from the fact that J.J. had still not shown up, Nina was begin­ning to sound like some crackpot. Ghosts whisper­ing secrets? That's all she had to say on network television. For all the vaunted eroticism of her biographies, her academic integrity was beyond question.

"Of course not," Nina laughed. "New York his­tory is full of ghost stories, especially in this part of town. George Washington lived up the street at Richmond Hill when New York was the nation's capital. Someone's always seeing him and Martha in their coach on dark and stormy nights."

Vera shuddered. "I'm glad I live in a house with a doorman." She consulted her watch. "My God, it's after four o'clock. Where's J.J.? I thought she'd be here by now. I've got to pre-interview her so I can have the cue cards ready when Prunella gets here."

"Don't worry. She'll be here in plenty of time."

"You're sure she's responsible?"

"This may sound funny, but sometimes I think my daughter is too responsible. Her room is al­ways neat as a pin. She always makes her bed and

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hangs up her clothes. I used to wish she was a slob like other lads. Underwear on the floor. Shoes under the bed. Pizza crusts, hair spray, candy wrappers, tape decks all over the place. I tell you, Vera, it drove me nuts. I was one mother who could never say, 'For God's sake, clean up your room!'"

Thus diverted, Vera nodded and made her notes. "That's a switch. Prunella will like that. An orderly child! Is that why you've hired her as a researcher?"

"Exactly. She's a terrier for detail, and she's in­herited my instinct for what I call the 'Aha!'" 'The 'Aha!'?"

Nina explained. When seemingly unrelated facts, events, and people suddenly seemed to connect, a tiny voice in her head cried, "Aha!" J.J. had the same tiny voice. "She has an amazing mind, my daughter has. The other day she said she'd come to the conclusion that historical research was a form of archeology like digging for Egyptian tombs. You know something is there, but you don't know what it is until you dig it out."

"Prunella will love that, too." She closed her notebook in the time-honored journalist's trick of putting her subject at ease. The closed notebook signified a break and suggested whatever was said next would be off the record.

"Now tell me something, Nina—"

A danger signal flashed. Vera's studied noncha­lance put Nina on the alert.

"As long as she's not here, let's be frank Is J.J. as beautiful as you or does she have an ugly duck­ling complex like most daughters of great beauties?"

How to wreck a mother-daughter relationship with one bitchy question.

"As you will see for yourself, J.J. is not only touchingly lovely but is utterly unaware of it. She startles me at times when she walks in unexpect­edly. Not a stitch of makeup. Sltin flawless as satin. Glorious hair pulled back in a knot. Soft hazel eyes that melt your heart. To quote Byron, 'She walks in beauty ..

Vera hesitated, her pen poised above her pad. "Byron?"

What did they teach where this dodo went to school?

"Lord Byron? You know . .."

Vera bristled at the perceived crack. "Excuse me\ I do know Lord Byron. But the Dove Report is not educational TV, you know. We're mass mar­ket all the way."

Nina hastened to smooth things over. "I'm sorry, Vera. I guess my nerves are on edge. You know how important this interview is for me. I just wish J.J. would get here so we can both stop watching the clock."

Clearly Nina had hit a nerve. Vera looked like a whipped puppy. "Why did you think I didn't

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know who Lord Byron was? Just because I didn't go to college? Who cares about poetry anyway! It doesn't put food on the table."

Nina poured them both a glass of wine. "I'm sorry, Vera." She raised her glass in a toast. "You've got one of the most glamorous jobs in television. Thousands of women would give their eye teeth to be in your shoes. Nobody realizes how demanding it is. Well, I do." She extended her hand. "Friends?"

Vera's hand trembled, her palm damp. "Friends. I'm sorry I snapped at you. Prunella will have my ass if J.J. isn't here. Now, let's talk about her, okay? She's, let's see, twenty-one? And you're thirty-nine?"

"I'd just turned eighteen when she was born."

Vera had recovered her cool. "Would you say she was a love child?"

Here we go. The pit bull mentality. Nina had recovered her cool as well. "Ah, Vera. Wouldn't you say every child is a love child?"

Gotcha. "I—I mean—"

"I know what you mean, and I know you're just doing your job—doing it well, I might add. But if you've done your homework—that piece about me in People, for instance—then you'd know I eloped with my high school sweetheart, Russell Drake, the night of the senior prom. I was seventeen and pregnant since our spring break in Florida. We were wildly, passionately in love. The world was

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ours. We would get married, have the baby, con­tinue our education, and live happily ever after."

Vera was quickly taking notes.

"Am I going too fast?"

Vera shook her head no.

"A justice of the peace in Maryland married us. We spent the summer in a golden haze planning a golden future, but by the time J.J. was born we knew the marriage was a mistake."

"How did your family take it?"

Sorry to disappoint. "Both families were won­derful. They helped us work out an amicable di­vorce. Russ signed over full custody of J.J. if I agreed for her to keep his last name. He had vis­iting rights, but after a while he decided a clean break was best. He eventually married and moved to California."

"And you never heard from him again?"

"No." It was none of anyone's business. Russ had in fact written to congratulate her when her first book made the best-seller list. She had not answered. Nor had she acknowledged subsequent notes praising her books and telling her about his life. Only last week a letter had arrived saying he and his wife were planning a trip east and asking if he could see his daughter. No way. Not possi­ble. As before, she had not replied.

"No alimony?"

"I didn't ask for any. His parents did offer to set up a trust fund for J.J.'s education, which was

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very nice of them. She used it at N.Y.U. Earned her degree in history just like her old lady, and a year younger than the average graduate."

Vera took a deep breath, the sign of a hard question before asking as casually as she could manage, "And so what about Mike? Will Mike be here for the taping?"

Mike? Could she possibly mean Michael Lu- dovic? If she'd done her homework she'd know he was one Michael who was never called Mike. Apart from which, who gave her the right to refer to him so familiarly when they'd never met?

Nina pretended to be perplexed. "Mike? I'm not sure who you mean. Unless ... of course, how silly of me—you must mean Michael Ludovic."

Vera got the message. "I'm sorry. I meant to say Michael—Michael Ludovic, your publisher . . ."

"My publisher. My mentor. My lover and best friend. It's common knowledge, that I owe every­thing to him. We're a perfect match. I write the books. He publishes them. We live in harmony in this beautiful landmark house."

"Well, if it isn't too personal, why haven't you married?"

Definitely too personal. "Oh, dear. I thought we were going to discuss mothers and daughters. I didn't think you'd want to know about Michael's skills as a lover. Though I can tell you this. He's very, very good!"

Michael would love hearing that. It had taken

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her five years to get him out of those drawstring pajamas and into a nightshirt and ultimately noth­ing at all.

Vera pressed on. "Is it because he's so much younger than you?"

So this was the way it was going to be! "Is what because he's so much younger?"

"Your decision not to marry, of course." An old clipping from Publishers Weekly slipped off Vera's lap and fell to the floor. Nina remembered it well, all about Michael Ludovic, the scion of an old, respected family publishing house who had inher­ited it at seventeen when his father died.

Instead of turning over the reins to hired help, he had left Choate and taken over. A year later, when the company was about to go belly up from years of bad management, he happened to attend a Young Historians seminar and heard twenty- four-year-old Nina Slocum's lecture on sex and politics based on her master's thesis.

Waiting until everyone else had left, his first words to her had been: "You've heard of 'publish or perish'? If you don't let me publish your thesis, my company will perish."

Her first impression of this slender young man was that he was wearing his father's clothes. Or maybe his grandfather's clothes. His three-piece suit and short hair were in marked contrast to the jeans and ponytails sported by the other young men. His seriousness touched her. More so when

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the waiter at Julio's in Little Italy asked to see his ID before he would serve them.

She had not laughed then or in the hours that followed as he convinced her that he was indeed a publisher and that he thought her views on sex and politics were provocative and controversial. The next day she had met with him at his Irving Place premises to discuss terms.

Vera pursued her inquiry. "How did it feel to be discovered by a teenage boy?"

Any compassion she might have felt for this cow disappeared. "Do you really want the truth?"

Clearly, Vera's entire being yearned for the truth."

"Michael Ludovic was not in his teens when we met. I know it's hard to believe, but he was only four years old. Just out of diapers. He looked at me with those grave, intelligent eyes. He wasn't a boy genius. He was a child genius like Mozart— and when he said, I'm going to make you a star, what could I do? I surrendered!"

"Very funny, Nina. For your own sake, I would not pull that on Prunella. She'll rip your throat out."

"I'm sorry. It's just that I'm sick to death of the Boy Genius story. How I robbed the cradle. Jokes about serving him baby food for dinner. For God's sake, I'm only six years older. It's no big deal. Besides, I thought the segment was about mothers and daughters."

3'

"So where the hell is your daughter?"

"It's still early! She'll be here, I promise."

While Vera supervised the crew in setting up the lights and cameras, Nina excused herself. "I'm just going to change." What she was actually going to do, what she should have done hours ago, was to phone the library and track J.J. down in the Rare Book Room. A recorded message of­fered a list of exhibitions and the schedules of various departments but no living person. Appeals to the directory-assistance operator were fruitless. An inspired call to the library's executive office produced yet another recorded message.

There was nothing more she could do except switch on the classic movie channel to divert her while she changed. A vintage film buff, she prided herself on being able to recognize an old movie in an instant from whatever fragment of a scene was on when she tuned in. This afternoon's clas­sic was a cinch. Katharine Hepburn in Mary of Scotland, 1936, directed by John Ford with Flor­ence Eldridge as Elizabeth I.

This particular scene between Hepburn and El­dridge was wonderful except for one thing. Mary and Elizabeth had never met in real life. Nina often wondered whether old-time stars ever watched their early movies, whether at this very moment in her midtown brownstone Hepburn was watching herself and waiting for her famous death scene. Nina shivered at the thought.

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"Nina! Open the door!"

Vera stumbled through the door. "You've got to do something. I just called Prunella to say every­thing's set. Lights and cameras in place. Cue cards ready. So what does she say? Shell be here at six-thirty instead of seven. No discussion. What if J.J. isn't here? I'm begging you. Do something."

There was nothing Nina could do. A deathly silence fell over the two women. As the seconds passed, Nina tried to think positively. "She'll get here and shell probably come home with some­thing scandalous she found in the archives. An exclusive discovery revealed for the first time on the Dove Report!"

Vera perked up. "About Hamilton and Burr?"

With effort Nina twinkled her eyes. "May be. J.J.'s a terrier."

Vera was thinking ahead. "Like maybe Hamil­ton and Burr were gay?"

"Vera! Come on ..."

Vera defended herself. "Who knew Laurence Olivier and Danny Kaye were lovers? Men! No wonder I can't find a husband."

Six o'clock. Nina could no longer hide her fear. It did not take an hour to get home from the library. Something must have happened. Vera's mounting hysteria only made things worse. Sud­denly the specter of J.J.'s corpse on a slab trig­gered flashes of maternal horror. Her precious child hit by a cab, raped on a rooftop, and hurled

33

down an airshaft. Shot in a drug bust. Trapped between floors in an elevator. Crushed to a pulp by a cement mixer.

As if on cue the phone rang. Vera snatched it out of Nina's hand.

"Is this J.J.?" To Nina's imploring look she shook her head. It was not J.J. It was Prunella Dove calling from her limo in a tantrum directed at all the rush-hour peasants who had the gall to block traffic when she, Prunella Dove, was in a hurry.

"Let's have another glass of wine," Vera said as she hung up the phone.

But their relief at Prunella's delay was over­shadowed by J.J.'s continued absence. "I wasn't kidding, Vera. This isn't like J.J."

Vera had an inspiration. "Maybe she's stuck in the same traffic jam as Prunella."

As the clock moved inexorably to seven o'clock, the two women were reduced to silent and private worst-case scenarios. Vera's focussed on Prunel­la's fury at being held up in traffic, compounded by J-J-'s absence and erupting into a violent tem­per tantrum, instant dismissal from her job and a new career as a bag lady. Nina's scenario was more graphic. Her daughter lying mangled on the street while pedestrians stepped over her with an­noyance and a policeman giving her a summons for littering. Crazy? Not so crazy! Read the papers.

At last a familiar New York sound brought both

34

women to their feet. The shriek of brakes. A car door swinging open. A sputter of voices. Urgent footsteps pounding across the sidewalk and up the stone steps to the front door.

35

J.J. sat in the hushed embrace of the Rare Book Room, staring at the material on the table before her, unable to bring herself to open it. She knew she should be home preparing to be on television. She knew that hundreds, thousands, millions of young women her age would give anything to be in her shoes and that she was an ungrateful wimp to be shaking in her boots, wishing she were dead.

For the first time in her entire life she could not confide in her mother. It wasn't just a matter of looks. J.J. could brush off Sally Morse's nasty cracks about gargoyles. Sally was nasty to every­one. J.J. knew she did not look like a gargoyle. She knew she looked like a fresh-faced American girl-next-door with even features and a good smile thanks to orthodontia.

It was fear, irrational, stomach-turning terror that had sent her into temporary hiding at the public library. She had tried unsuccessfully to laugh it off. Her mouth was too dry to laugh. The

37

panic had been building for days. She had been sick to her stomach on her way to the gym. She had screwed up enough courage to call Nina in­tent on begging her mother to get her out of the interview. When the machine answered, she had lost her nerve and used the library excuse to give herself time.

She had hoped the panic would pass. That im­mersing herself in her favorite activity, historical research, would change her frame of mind suffi­ciently so that she could go home and fulfill her obligation. What would happen if she did not go home was for the moment beyond consideration. Trying once more for the balm of humor, she con­sidered shaving her head and disguising herself as a Tibetan monk. The ultimate bad hair day!

By sheer willpower she opened the thickest of the dusty folders before her, muttering to herself her mother's oft-repeated approach to historical research. History did not evolve in a vacuum. Wars did not just start. Civilizations did not just end. "There are only two questions. What hap­pened? And how come?"

"Here you are. Please be extra careful. They're the original clippings." The librarian placed before her the file of New York newspapers for the years 1799 and 1800.

Her hands trembled with anticipation as she opened the dusty folder and realized that the frag­ile newsprint was nearly two hundred years old.

38

She imagined herself as an ordinary New Yorker at the turn of the nineteenth century, sipping her mug of strong Jamaican coffee and munching a sweet currant bun while reading the New York Daily Advertiser.

The edition of January 4, 1800, reported the discovery of Elma Sands's battered body in the Manhattan Well. The next day's paper described the removal of the frozen corpse to her cousin's boarding house in Greenwich Street where fren­zied mobs stormed the modest structure to view the remains. When the crowds got out of hand, the body was removed to the street and displayed to the public in an open coffin.

The subsequent arrest of the victim's lover, Levi Weeks, was reported in the colorful language of the day. He was charged with "being moved and seduced by the instigation of the devil" into beat­ing and drowning the young Quaker beauty. The city prosecutor called her "a young girl of modesty and virtue, lively and cheerful" and was further quoted as vowing to "prove her virtue fell sacrifice to her lover's assiduity."

Without warning, a sudden wave of nausea en­gulfed J.J. The Rare Book Room whirled around her as if she were on a runaway carousel. Could it be the dust from the crumbling old newsprint? She felt her body go limp and pitch forward, her head as heavy as a bowling ball. Within the circle

39

formed by her arms, her face came to rest on the library table like a first grader's during rest period.

"Are you okay?" The librarian loomed above her.

Only superhuman will brought J.J. upright.

"Sorry about that. Just an energy dip. I didn't have time for lunch."

The librarian consulted her watch. "It's almost two. Maybe you should go and get something to eat. IH hold your material here."

J.J. didn't think she could move. Her entire body felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds and that her feet were nailed to the floor. "I'll be okay."

The librarian looked doubtful. "Well, take it easy. I'm going on my lunch break. Just return the material to the desk."

J.J. couldn't be sure, but she got the impression that the librarian whispered something to the man sitting across the table from her. He nodded and looked at her while pretending not to. His appear­ance reminded her of some of her professors; a 1970s throwback. Still wearing the denim shirt, the calico neckerchief, and the hair in a ponytail. She tried to distract herself by picturing the lower half of his body, the part she couldn't see because the table was in the way. Levi's, she was sure, the original 505s with the straight legs and the button flies, authentic Americana, no zippers. Levi Strauss's 49ers did not have zippers. She tried

40

forcing herself to feel better, to disperse the invisi­ble caul pressing tighter and tighter around her head. As for his feet—mustn't forget his feet, foot­wear definitely made a statement throughout his­tory. This man who she could tell was watching her covertly, this man would be wearing cowboy boots she was sure.

She dropped a pencil on the floor to check. A bad mistake. As she bent down to retrieve it and to look at his feet, a tidal wave of nausea struck. She was unable to stop herself from sliding to the floor like a sack of meal.

He had her up and on her way out before any­one could offer to help. It was so stuffy in there, he explained. All she needed was some fresh air. He gathered up her things in one arm and held her firmly around the shoulders with the other, half carrying her along the marble corridor toward the elevators.

"I'm going to be sick."

He eased her to the wall. "Bend down. Head way down. Pretend you're tying your shoe."

She did as he said.

"Throw up if you have to. Don't worry. I'm here. Try to breathe deeply."

After a few deep breaths, her face dripping with perspiration, she rose unsteadily. "Ladies' room," she murmured. Fortunately, she knew where it was.

"Take your time. I'll wait outside."

3'

She looked uncertain. He was holding her belongings.

"Trust me. I'll be here."

Out on the Fifth Avenue side of the library, he sat them down on the steps. "You're looking bet­ter. Have some of this."

The slender silver flask felt good in her hand. "What is it?"

"Brandy."

"I don't drink."

"Pretend you're lost in an avalanche and I'm the St. Bernard who's come through a blizzard to save your life." He gave her a reassuring grin and she almost smiled.

One sip acted like smelling salts. Her head snapped back. Color rushed to her cheeks. A vo­luptuous yawn filled her lungs with fresh cool air. "I don't know what hit me."

"I know. I was watching you in the library. It's happened to me. You were having an anxiety attack."

The very idea offended her. Who did he think he was? In bright daylight she could see the lines on his face. He must be forty if he was a day. Who gave him the right to decide what was wrong with her? "And what have I got to be anxious about?"

"You tell me. All I know is you were looking the way I feel before I face an audience. Call it stage fright. Call it anything else. What it boils

3*

down to is talking to strangers. Going to some party. Asking for a bank loan. Going to the doctor or the barber or checking into a goddamn hotel, you feel queasy as hell, you want to run for your life, anything to get away. I've been a performer for twenty years, and I still get sick as a dog."

"A performer?"

"Don't be embarrassed. I don't expect you to know me. I've been working in England and Eu­rope, and I'm just getting started here. But we were talking about you. Why the anxiety? Are you an actress going for some audition?"

"What time is it?"

"Nearly three o'clock."

"Oh, my God, what am I going to do?" She knew she had upset her mother with her phone message. Nina would be frantic and furious, won­dering where she was, wondering why she wasn't home so that mother and daughter could prepare for the interview as Nina had planned. The worst part of it was Nina's evident anticipation of an afternoon of girl stuff. Clothes. Makeup. Giggles. At one point Nina had wondered whether they should dress the same like sisters, an idea she herself had laughingly quashed before J.J. rolled her eyes in the negative.

She rose unsteadily to her feet. Nausea tasting of brandy crept up her esophagus. She sat down abruptly, her head between her knees. "I'm going to throw up."

43

New Yorkers mind their own business. As long as she was not screaming for help, those on the library steps chose not to see the tall gray-haired man brace himself against the young woman's back and hold her head as she heaved.

To lighten the situation he warned, "Don't get it on my boots."

Despite her distress, she hiccupped a laugh.

"What's so funny about that? They're Tony Lama's, five hundred bucks!"

The spasms had stopped. She explained about having trained herself to have an eye for details and how after seeing him from the waist up she had dropped the pencil in order to look under the table and see if she was right about jeans and boots. "It must be some kind of detail gene I in­herited from my mother."

"What does your mother do? Read palms for a living?"

"She happens to be Nina Slocum." That would show him.

"Am I supposed to know who Nina Slocum is?"

"She's only America's most famous historian."

His eyes were scanning the Fifth Avenue traffic. 'Time to go home, I think. In fact, you should really call your doctor. You may have a virus or something. Not just an anxiety attack."

"No, please, I can't go home. Please. Don't make me explain."

He shook his head. "Like the man said, 'No

44

good deed goes unpunished!' What would you suggest?"

Desperation made her reckless. "Do you live in Manhattan?"

"Are you crazy? Besides, I don't have an apart­ment. I'm staying at a hotel. And you are going home."

She looked up at him, her eyes pleading.

He shook his head again. "You promise not to cut your wrists in the bathroom?"

A musician friend in London had told Johnny Black about the Mohawk Hotel, "the poor man's Algonquin" and just down the street from the more famous hostelry. His room lived up to his friend's description as early Salvation Army. Attic- reject chest of drawers. Frayed chintz armchair. Heavy wooden bedstead with a clip-on lamp on the headboard. Clean and cheap, his friend had promised. Clean and cheap it was with the friendly smell of lemon oil reminding him of his Grandma Leah's house in Brooklyn before his fa­ther had moved them to England in disgrace.

The short walk from the library passed without incident. With her head on his shoulder and his arm propping her upright, Johnny worried that he might look as if he were abducting her. An elderly woman's indulgent smile made him realize they looked like lovers, an image confirmed by the desk clerk's blind eye.

Alone with her in his room, his uneasiness in­

45

creased. He really didn't need this. His life was complicated enough without playing nursemaid to some waif who was afraid to go home. Why was it any of his business? The answer was a sublime irony. Among the demo tapes he had submitted to record producers was a version of John Donne's No Man Is an Island. The message? The impor­tance of being involved with others, including this wan baby bird who was afraid to return to her mother's nest.

There was a coffee shop downstairs. He would leave her to freshen up while he got some hot tea and toast to settle her stomach.

He returned to find her on the bed with one of his pillows hugged in a close embrace. Her eyes were shut. What if she was dead? That was all he needed. More than forty years had passed since the McCarthy hearings. He was a child when his family had fled. This was his first time back to the States. All he needed was to get involved with the police.

Her even breathing reassured him. He settled in the armchair and slowly consumed the tea and toast. The steam heat from the ancient radiator and the distant sounds of traffic lulled him into the half sleep of nightmare losses and regrets. Haunting images of closed coffins and closed doors. Grim reminders of rejection and loneliness. And always the cold fact that this journey home

46

was his last hope for achieving success and self- respect on his own terms.

"Are you okay?"

For a moment he didn't know where he was. The young woman standing before him was peer­ing at him intently. With an effort he returned to the present. "The question is, are you okay?"

She touched his face. "You looked so sad in your sleep."

Her sweet, ingenuous sympathy unleashed a torrent of repressed emotion. With a deep sigh he stood and gathered her tightly to him. Her arms circled his neck. She buried her face in his shoul­der. The closeness of their embrace cast a spell neither wished to break until J.J.'s gaze fell on her wristwatch and snapped her back to reality.

"Five o'clock!"

Energy danced through her entire body. She leaped away from him and cried, 'Thank you, thank you. Thank you!" She knew about the eight- hour virus and the twenty-four-hour flu. What she had suffered was a one-day nervous breakdown! As quickly as it had come it had gone, and all because of Johnny Black's tender loving care.

She jumped on the bed in an exuberant little jig. "You saved my life. You're my guardian angel. I feel great. Don't you feel great, too?"

Something had happened between them. They had not kissed nor had they touched each other beyond the embrace, yet a bond had formed. A

47

surprise to them both, a situation that demanded discussion but not now. J.J. had to get home and fast.

Johnny sat on the edge of the tub while she washed her face, combed her hair, and told him about the mother-and-daughter interview with Prunella Dove.

"I don't know why I was so frightened. I feel wonderful now!"

"You look wonderful. What a transformation from that pathetic little kid on the library steps. What time were you supposed to be home?"

"Two-ish."

"Well, it's six-ish now. Your mother must be frantic. Shouldn't you call to say you're on your way?"

"I'd rather surprise her."

"Should I put you in a cab?"

"Don't be stupid. You're coming with me!"

Nina had often chided her about all work and no play and regularly encouraged her to invite guys home. Wait till she got a load of Johnny Black.

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Please, God! Let it be J.J. Nina all but knocked Vera Boyle over in her haste to reach the front door. I'U kill her! Ill strangle her \vith my bare hands. She damn well better have a damn good excuse. I'll break both her legs. I'll lock her in her room for the next ten years. Twenty years! On bread and water!

"J.J.! Thank God!"

Vera rushed up breathlessly. "You sure had us worried. Your mother was ready to call out the army. What happened to you?"

Neither woman had noticed the man in the shadows outside the open door until he stepped into the light and put a protective arm around the runaway.

"I got sick at the library, I thought I was going to die. If it wasn't for Johnny, they might have called an ambulance or something. But Johnny saved me. He took care of me. He said I was having an anxiety attack, that's all."

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