New Way to Fly (5 page)

She saw something in Brock Munroe's face, a flicker of some emotion that looked almost like disappointment.

“And is that all you dream about, Amanda? Being a big success? Is that your whole happiness in life?”

Amanda met his eyes. Then she flushed and looked away, buffeted by a sudden paralyzing wave of yearning when she remembered her dream.

The dream haunted her all the time these days. She saw herself on a grassy hillside, laughing in the sunlight with a baby in her arms. That was the whole dream, just herself and the midday warmth and the comfortable weight of the drowsy infant in her arms. And somehow there was also the knowledge that a man stood nearby, unseen but deeply loved.

The image was always brief, usually invading her sleep in the misty hours just before dawn, and it filled Amanda with a happiness so exquisite that waking to cold reality sometimes seemed like an anguish too great to be endured.

She glanced helplessly toward the patio door and saw Beverly emerge, mouthing something and waving across the crowded noisy room.

“I—I have to go,” Amanda told the dark man in his poorly fitting suit. “My friends are looking for me.”

“In a minute, Amanda,” Brock Munroe said
gently, holding her with his eyes. “First, you were going to tell me what you dream about.”

“I dream about clothes,” Amanda told him abruptly, wincing at the harsh arrogant note in her own voice. “And real jewelry and expensive cars. I dream about having lots and lots of money so I can own beautiful things, Mr. Munroe.”

When Amanda saw the disappointment that flickered across Brock's face, she was tempted to grab his arm and apologize for her lies. She wanted to say, No, no, it's not true, none of it's true, that's not what I'm like at all….

But maybe it was, she told herself defiantly.

Maybe they were all true, the things she'd just told him. Why was she so driven by her need to succeed in business, if not for the pleasures that came along with financial success? And why had she left behind everything she'd once valued, if not to attain a new goal that meant even more to her?

Brock waited politely, but his handsome face was no longer warm with interest. Amanda wanted to say something—anything to dispel the sudden chill that had come between them.

“Mr. Munroe…Brock, look, I just wanted to…” She began with uncharacteristic awkwardness.

But Beverly reappeared at that moment, waving frantically over the heads of people nearby, trying to catch Amanda's eye.

Conscious of her friend, Amanda paused ner
vously. Brock smiled down at her with that same distant look of sadness.

“‘Again, the Cousin's whistle,'” he quoted softly. “‘Go, my Love.'”

Amanda nodded automatically, then turned and stared up him.

“That's from a Robert Browning poem, isn't it?”

Brock Munroe nodded, looking down at her intently. “The poem's called ‘Andrea del Sarto,'” he said. “It's always been one of my favorites.”

“But…” Amanda's astonishment was evident. “But how…”

“I may be a big simple cowboy in a bad suit, Miss Walker,” Brock said quietly. “That doesn't mean I can't enjoy poetry.”

She was silent, still searching for words to express her surprise.

“All you glamorous people don't own the world, Amanda,” Brock told her quietly, his hard sculpted face empty of emotion. “You don't have a corner on everything that's beautiful and worthwhile. The rest of us may be peasants, but we have eyes and hearts and souls just like you do.”

Amanda felt an urgent desire to explain herself, to apologize and show him she wasn't what he considered her to be. But this emotion was soon overridden by a slow burning outrage.

How
dared
he be so superior and judgmental, this “simple cowboy in the bad suit,” as he called him
self? What gave him the right to express opinions about Amanda Walker, to look at her with such evident disappointment and give the clear impression that she'd been weighed in the balance and found wanting?

“I suppose that's true,” she told him coldly. “I really wouldn't know, and I'm not all that interested in finding out, to tell you the truth.”

He nodded, accepting her words as a dismissal.

“Goodbye, Amanda,” he murmured.

“Goodbye,” Amanda said with a small sardonic lift of her beautiful mouth. “It's certainly been interesting talking to you.”

Then she was gone, moving gracefully off through the laughing throng, conscious of his dark eyes resting on her as she walked away.

R
AIN POUNDED
against the windshield and streamed over the surface of Amanda's small car, whipping past in gusty sprays to pool on the highway and in the ditches. Amanda gripped the wheel, frowning and squinting into the darkness, struggling to see ahead each time the wipers gave her a brief field of vision.

“Damned lousy rain,” Beverly Townsend muttered, lounging beside Amanda in the passenger seat and glaring out the window. “It's probably fixing to flood again, like it did in the spring. Everything will be a great big ol' mess, all over again. I hate it, Mandy. I just
hate
it.”

Amanda grinned at her friend's fretful tone, distracted for a moment from the strain of driving in the storm.

“Well, I declare, Beverly Townsend,” she said in a cheerful imitation of Beverly's warm Texas drawl, “you certainly aren't your usual chipper self tonight, are you? Now, why on earth could that be, I wonder?”

Beverly had the grace to smile back, her teeth flashing white in the darkness. “Well, what do you expect? Here I am, a poor helpless waif thrown out of my own home, forced to thrust myself on the hospitality of a friend who doesn't even like me enough to show the least little bit of sympathy.”

Amanda chuckled. She was always charmed by Beverly's witty good humor, and by the warmth and sweetness that were so startling to all those people who looked on Beverly Townsend as little more than a self-absorbed beauty queen.

“Nobody's throwing you out of your home,” Amanda pointed out reasonably. “This was entirely your own choice, Bev, coming to Austin to stay with me for a week or so to give Carolyn and Vern some time alone together.”

Beverly shrugged. “Well, sure, but really, what choice did I have, Mandy? It's their
honeymoon,
for God's sake. And since Mama absolutely refuses to go away anywhere while Cynthia's so close to her due date, I could hardly hang around the house and make it a cozy threesome, could I, now?”

“What about Lori? Isn't she going to be around? She lives there, too, doesn't she?”

Beverly glanced over at her friend with the look of weary but resigned tolerance that she reserved for Amanda.

“I
told
you,” she began, “about twelve hundred
times, Mandy, that Lori's been renovating the old garage next to the tennis court to make a gorgeous little studio apartment for herself. It's not quite finished but she moved in a couple days ago anyhow, just to give the newlyweds some privacy.”

“Did you tell me that?” Amanda asked blankly.

Beverly laughed, then sobered and gazed moodily out at the rain once more.

Amanda stole a sidelong glance at her friend's discontented profile. “You know what I think? I think this mood of yours has nothing at all to do with the weather or where you're going to be living for the next week, Bev.”

Beverly turned to glance at her quickly, then sank low in the seat and braced her blue-jeaned knees against the dashboard, hugging them gloomily.

“I know,” she said at last. “But, Mandy, it's so strange, somehow. All those years I had so much fun playing the field, picking up guys and dropping them just for the hell of it, never really giving any of them much thought. Now, I hate to admit it, but Jeff goes away for a week on business and I can hardly stand it. A week, it seems like eternity, you know what I mean? I don't know if I can bear to be away from the man for a whole entire week.”

Amanda gave her friend a disbelieving look. “Not even for the chance to spend a week in the city, attend two fashion shows and a gallery opening, meet
some really important people and do a whole lot of early Christmas shopping?”

Beverly shook her head morosely. “Nope. Not even for that.”

“My goodness,” Amanda said seriously, although her mouth was twitching with amusement. “I guess it must be love, all right.”

Beverly glared at the other woman and punched her arm lightly. “If you'd ever been really, really in love,” she complained, “you wouldn't laugh at my misery. You'd show a little more compassion, you coldhearted witch.”

Amanda's face tightened briefly and she stared ahead into the driving rain.

Beverly caught the look and laid a gentle hand on Amanda's suede coat sleeve. “Sorry, kid,” she murmured. “I guess you've been through it, too, haven't you? You spent a lot of years with Edward, after all.”

“Four,” Amanda said, trying to smile. “Four years. And you don't need to treat me like a poor girl with a broken heart, Bev. It was my idea to leave, after all.”

“I keep wondering about that, but I never wanted to pry. So there was no big fight or dustup, nothing like that? You just decided to move back to Texas and open your own business, and Edward let you go, just like that?”

“Just like that,” Amanda agreed with a sad smile. “All very civilized. He'd just bought his own store in New York, and sunk all the money he inherited into it, and he certainly wasn't about to toss all that aside and follow me, no matter how much he cared about the relationship.”

She fell silent, gripping the wheel in gloved hands and gazing bleakly at the black flowing rain.

“And you?” Beverly prodded delicately. “Didn't it hurt to leave him behind after all those years? Did you really want to be on your own enough to give up such a long-term relationship?”

Amanda frowned. “I don't know,” she said finally. “I thought I did, Bev. I was getting so restless, so stale and tired of everything, and I really thought I needed a change of scene, some kind of fresh challenge.”

Beverly nodded. “Absolutely. That's the way I felt before I got really involved with my hospital work. And Jeff, of course,” she added with a faraway smile.

“Of course,” Amanda agreed dryly.

“So how do you feel about it all now? Do you wish you were back in New York, working for Edward again and socializing with all your friends?”

“Sometimes…well, I guess I do,” Amanda said, surprising herself with her response. “Sometimes I
feel so lonely and out of place, and so terribly scared that my business will fail and I'll be…”

She was silent again, regretting the sudden intimacy of the conversation. Beverly Townsend was a good friend, probably Amanda's closest friend at the moment. But there were things about herself, fears and dreams and longings, that Amanda Walker never admitted to another soul.

Beverly didn't notice the sudden silence. She was still much more interested in the details of her friend's relationship. “So, do you hear from him at all?” she asked.

Amanda shook her head again. “Not often. He said that if we were going to make a break, it might as well be a clean break, but that any time I wanted to come back, he'd be waiting.”

“Well, that was real sweet,” Beverly ventured cautiously. “Wasn't it?”

“Oh, sure,” Amanda said. “Edward always does and says exactly the right thing. Then, about a month later, a mutual friend told me he was dating one of the top models from a big-name agency.”

She swerved to avoid the lashing spray of a passing semitrailer, then pulled her little car back into the driving lane.

“It bothered you, right?” Beverly said, glancing at her friend's still face. “Hearing he was with somebody else, it really got to you, didn't it?”

“A little,” Amanda said, not willing to discuss the unexpected pain she'd felt when she heard about the glamourous new woman in Edward's life.

“Maybe you're still in love with him,” Beverly suggested comfortably. “Maybe you should go back to New York and check it out.”

“And give up everything I'm beginning to achieve here? Just admit that it was all a big mistake and go running home saying, ‘please look after me, I'm so sorry, I'll never do it again?'”

“Yeah, I see the problem,” Beverly said slowly. “Especially since he's not likely to move to where you are, right?”

“Not likely,” Amanda agreed bitterly. “He spent years clawing his way up through the retail garment industry in New York to the point where he could manage his own store and draw a handpicked clientele. Believe me, Edward Price is not about to throw all that away for a woman, Bev.
Any
woman.”

Beverly was silent a moment, her face thoughtful. “What does he look like?” she asked finally. “You know, I never did meet him, Mandy. Every time I came to New York, he was off on a buying trip to Paris or Bangkok or somewhere.”

“I know.” Amanda frowned, clutching the wheel and trying to visualize Edward, startled again by the pain it caused her. “He's about five-eleven,” she said at last, “thirty-five years old, very handsome
and sophisticated. He has hazel eyes and auburn hair that he wears parted on the side and flowing over like this, you know…” She made a quick gesture with her gloved hand against her own dark head, indicating a graceful fall of hair.

Beverly nodded with complete understanding. “
Very
trendy,” she said. “Like the guys in the suit ads in magazines, right? I wish I could talk Jeff into getting his hair cut that way. He always looks like his barber lives in the back of a saloon somewhere.”

Amanda chuckled, but Beverly's words stirred a chord of memory in the depths of her mind, a thought that had been nagging at her ever since they'd left the wedding party at the Double C and started the forty-mile journey back to Austin.

“Bev,” she began slowly, “do you remember that English literature class we took in our sophomore year? I think it was called Late Victorian Poetry, something like that?”

Beverly didn't appear to hear the question. She was gazing out the side window at the neon signs and lighted storefronts that lined the highway for miles on the way into Austin.

“Bev?” Amanda repeated, wondering why this whole question suddenly seemed so important.

“Hmm?” Beverly asked, turning to look over at her friend. “What were you saying, Mandy? Something about college?”

“Our sophomore-year English class,” Amanda repeated patiently. “Do you remember it?”

Beverly chuckled. “Who could forget? Old Professor Starcross, with all that awful hair in his ears and the same mustard stain on his tie for the entire term—what a scream.”

“Do you remember any of the poetry we studied?”

Beverly opened the glove compartment, rummaging idly for a pack of mints. “I certainly remember the Brownings,” she said, popping a mint into her mouth and passing another to her friend. “Robert and Elizabeth, who could ever forget them? Wasn't that just the most romantic thing you ever heard of, Mandy, the way they fell in love just by writing letters to each other and then he went sweeping into her house, gathered her into his arms and carried her away, right under the nose of her awful old father?”

Beverly sighed, lost in the pleasure of the story.

Amanda grinned fondly. “Beverly Townsend, you're an incurable romantic, you know that? As a matter of fact,” she added more seriously, “I was interested in one of Browning's poems, not his personal life. I wondered if you might recall it, Bev. It's called ‘Andrea del Sarto.'”

Beverly frowned, searching her memory while she munched thoughtfully on the mint. Despite her flippant manner, Beverly had a quick mind and an im
pressive memory. Amanda was confident she would be able to recall at least something of the poem in question.

“I've got it,” Beverly announced finally. “Actually there's two poems, kind of similar, and I always get them mixed up. The other one's called ‘My Last Duchess.' But the Del Sarto one, it's about an artist, talking to his wife.”

“And it ends with the line, ‘Again the Cousin's whistle. Go, my Love.' Right?”

“Right,” Beverly agreed. “I always thought that was just about the saddest line in the English language. Tore my heart out, every time I read it.”

Amanda felt a brief chill that touched her body with icy fingers, almost making her shiver. “Why?” she asked, keeping her voice light. “You know, I don't really recall the poem at all, except for the title and that one line.”

“Well, it's this artist talking to his wife,” Beverly began cozily, resting against the door and turning to look at her friend, her blue eyes alight with interest. “She's a whole lot younger than he is, you see, and she's really beautiful and shallow. Completely selfish. He only married her because he was obsessed by her looks, and both of them know it. And in the poem, he's begging her to just sit with him for a while and watch the sunset, but she can't wait to be off with her friends or a boyfriend or whatever.”

“Doesn't she love him?”

“Not a bit. She's probably not even capable of love. That's what he's saying in the poem, ever so gently. He's not really complaining about her, just saying how different their lives could have been, what a great painter he could have been and how much happiness they could have had if only she'd had enough depth to care for him a little and give him even the tiniest bit of support.”