Jenna was early for the Friday noon rendezvous with Clayton at L’Aubergine. Deliberately early. What she had to do here today was not going to be easy. Some pre-luncheon fortification would help her get through it as painlessly as possible.
The little French bistro had been their weekly meeting place throughout the eight months of their affair. Not only because the food was good and the service excellent, but because it was located just three short blocks from Clayton’s apartment. Daytime lovemaking on an empty stomach had never appealed to her. A martini, a light lunch — salade de crevette, sole meunière, quiche aux épinards — and a glass or two of imported wine relaxed her and did wonders for her libido. Clayton’s, too, for that matter.
The restaurant was already partially full. More than one male head turned in her direction as Armand, the head waiter, escorted her to the private booth she and Clayton customarily shared. Jenna was used to this sort of attention. Naturally her dark good looks drew the male eye. She exuded, with no particular effort on her part, what Adam had referred to as his trophy wife’s “smoldering Mediterranean sexuality.”
In the booth she ordered a Bombay Sapphire martini, very dry, and asked that it be delivered quickly. While she waited she exchanged smiles with some of the men at nearby tables. Not being coquettish about it, merely acknowledging their open admiration. It was one thing to possess a healthy vanity, quite another to flaunt it in public. Not even the cattiest of jealous females could deny that Jenna Burroughs was well bred and a model of decorum everywhere except in the bedroom.
She drank the martini in small, ladylike sips, not too quickly. The gin warmth immediately began to relax her. By the time she finished it, at one minute till noon, the mild glow she felt made the task ahead seem less difficult.
Clayton arrived promptly at twelve. Punctuality was one of his virtues, along with good manners and mostly faultless taste in clothing. As well bred as she, in that regard. He was also handsome in a blond, fresh-faced, boyish way. And a fantastic lover — oh my yes! Altogether a fine specimen of the male animal, Clayton Marlow... or he would have been if it weren’t for his shortcomings.
He kissed her cheek, whispered, “Darling, you look wonderful,” in her ear, seized one of her hands as he seated himself across from her, and gazed unblinkingly into her eyes. Shortcoming number one: that worshipful devotion of his. It was all well and good for him to be in love with her, as he’d often enough professed, but to practically wag his tail every time they were together had ceased to be amusing and become tedious.
“God, it’s good to see you, Jenna. I couldn’t stand being away from you another minute.”
“It hasn’t been that long, really.”
“Two and a half weeks. Ten days since your husband’s fall, and nearly a week before that. I wish you’d been able to get away sooner.”
“I had a great deal to attend to. Funeral and burial arrangements and meetings with Adam’s attorney and business associates, among other things.”
“Still, you could have found time to call. I mean, before yesterday to arrange this lunch. We have so much to talk about, plans to make.”
“Plans?”
“For our future, now that you’re free.”
Shortcoming number two: his possessiveness. It had grown to an annoying degree even before Adam’s death. If there was one thing she couldn’t abide in a man, it was a self-entitled sense of ownership. First her husband, then her lover. Intolerable.
Jenna withdrew her hand from his. Clayton frowned, then for the first time seemed to notice her empty glass. “You’ve already had a martini,” he said.
“Yes. Do you mind?”
“Well, no, but you should have waited for me. You don’t want another, do you?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.”
“All right, then, I’ll have a double to catch up. Then we’ll talk about us. Or would you rather order lunch first?”
“I’m not hungry, Clay.”
“Not hungry? Why not? You’re not sick, are you?”
Yes, she thought, I am. Of you, dear heart.
“Jenna?”
“Order the drinks, please.”
Clayton signaled the waiter, placed the order. He tried then to continue the conversation about future plans, and when she resisted, saying, “When the drinks come,” he made one of his pouty mouths — shortcoming number three — before once more fixing her with that intense puppyish gaze.
Shortcoming number four: He simply wasn’t very adult. Reasonably well-educated and a moderately successful architect — one of his designs had been showcased at a municipal fund-raiser, which was how she’d met him — but with a somewhat dull, narrowly focused mind and an ingenuous outlook on life. A boy, really, in a man’s body. There was no way she could spend her newfound freedom with a worshipful, possessive, naive boy-man, no matter how fabulous he was in bed. The world, the great wide wonderful world, was full of men who were fabulous in bed.
When the martinis arrived he clinked his glass against hers. “To us,” he said. Jenna sipped without answering.
“Now, then. Plans. How soon do you think—?”
She knew what he was about to say — “How soon do you think we can be married?” — and cut him off before he could finish the sentence. It was time to take the initiative. “Plans, yes,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “I’ve made some, after a lot of thought the past several days, but I’m afraid you won’t like hearing them.”
“What do you mean?”
“They don’t include you, at least not for the present.”
“Don’t include me?” The pouty mouth, and he grasped her hand again, more tightly this time. “What’re you talking about?”
“I need time to myself. Time to come to terms with my loss, to decide what I—”
“Your loss? For Christ’s sake, you hated that husband of yours.”
“Hate is too strong a word. Adam was an old bore, but he cared for me, he gave me everything I asked for—”
“Not everything, not by a long shot. Not what I’ve given you, what I intend to keep on giving you.”
“Clay, please try to understand. I can’t marry you, at least not for a while. I’m not ready for another commitment, I may never be ready. All I’m sure of right now is that I need a change of scenery, a getaway trip to Europe—”
“Europe!”
“Yes. Paris, the French Riviera.”
“Alone?”
“Of course alone. You don’t think I have another lover?”
“Do you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You know there’s been no one else but you.”
“I don’t know anything of the kind. I can’t stand the thought of you being with another man.”
“I tell you there is no other man.”
He was angry now. She could see it sparking in the clear blue of his eyes. “Then why are you trying to end things between us? Here, in a public restaurant, just like that?”
“I told you—”
“You told me crap.” His grip on her wrist was painful now; she tried in vain to pull free. “You can’t do it, Jenna. You can’t blindside me like this, I won’t stand for it.”
“Let go of me—”
“No, I won’t. I won’t let you go.” He leaned toward her across the table. “Not after all we’ve been to each other. Not after what I did so we can be together.”
“... What do you mean, what you did?”
In a fierce whisper: “You and everybody else think your husband’s death was an accident. Well, it wasn’t. The old bastard didn’t trip and fall down those beach steps, I threw him down.”