To Jennifer’s surprise, Joshua’s first words had been car-car, when she took him for a drive one day.
He was speaking in sentences now and he said please and thank you. Once, when Jennifer was trying to feed him in his high chair, he said impatiently, “Mama, go play with your toys.”
Ken had bought Joshua a paint set, and Joshua industriously set about painting the walls of the living room.
When Mrs. Mackey wanted to spank him, Jennifer said, “Don’t. It will wash off. Joshua’s just expressing himself.”
“That’s all I wanted to do,” Mrs. Mackey sniffed. “Express myself. You’ll spoil that boy rotten.”
But Joshua was not spoiled. He was mischievous and demanding, but that was normal for a two-year-old. He was afraid of the vacuum cleaner, wild animals, trains and the dark.
Joshua was a natural athlete. Once, watching him at play with some of his friends, Jennifer turned to Mrs. Mackey and said, “Even though I’m Joshua’s mother, I’m able to look at him objectively, Mrs. Mackey. I think he may be the Second Coming.”
Jennifer had made it a policy to avoid any cases that would take her out of town and away from Joshua, but one morning she received an urgent call from Peter Fenton, a client who owned a large manufacturing firm.
“I’m buying a factory in Las Vegas and I’d like you to fly down there and meet with their lawyers.”
“Let me send Dan Martin,” Jennifer suggested. “You know I don’t like to go out of town, Peter.”
“Jennifer, you can wrap the whole thing up in twenty-four hours. I’ll fly you down in the company plane and you’ll be back the next day.”
Jennifer hesitated. “All right.”
She had been to Las Vegas and was indifferent to it. It was impossible to hate Las Vegas or to like it. One had to look upon it as a phenomenon, an alien civilization with its own language, laws and morals. It was like no other city in the world. Huge neon lights blazed all night long, pro-claiming the glories of the magnificent palaces that had been built to deplete the purses of tourists who flocked in like lemmings and lined up to have their carefully hoarded savings taken away from them.
Jennifer gave Mrs. Mackey a long and detailed list of instructions about taking care of Joshua.
“How long are you going to be away, Mrs. Parker?”
“I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Mothers!”
Peter Fenton’s Lear jet picked Jennifer up early the next morning and flew her to Las Vegas. Jennifer spent the afternoon and evening working out the details of the contract. When they finished, Peter Fenton asked Jennifer to have dinner with him.
“Thank you, Peter, but I think I’ll stay in my room and get to bed early. I’m returning to New York in the morning.”
Jennifer had talked to Mrs. Mackey three times during the day and had been reassured each time that little Joshua was fine. He had eaten his meals, he had no fever and he seemed happy.
“Does he miss me?” Jennifer asked.
“He didn’t say,” Mrs. Mackey sighed.
Jennifer knew that Mrs. Mackey thought she was a fool, but Jennifer did not care.
“Tell him I’ll be home tomorrow.”
“I’ll give him the message, Mrs. Parker.”
Jennifer had intended to have a quiet dinner in her suite, but for some reason, the rooms suddenly became oppressive, the walls seemed to be closing in on her. She could not stop thinking about Adam.
How could he have made love to Mary Beth and made her pregnant when…
The game Jennifer always played, that her Adam was just away on a business trip and would soon return to her, did not work this time. Jennifer’s mind kept returning to a picture of Mary Beth in her lace negligee and Adam…
She had to get out, to be somewhere where there were noisy crowds of people. Perhaps, Jennifer thought, I might even see a show. She quickly showered, dressed and went downstairs.
Marty Allen was starring in the main show room. There was a long line at the entrance to the room for the late show, and Jennifer regretted that she had not asked Peter Fenton to make a reservation for her.
She went up to the captain at the head of the line and said, “How long a wait will there be for a table?”
“How many in your party?”
“I’m alone.”
“I’m sorry, miss, but I’m afraid—”
A voice beside her said, “My booth, Abe.”
The captain beamed and said, “Certainly, Mr. Moretti. This way, please.”
Jennifer turned and found herself looking into the deep black eyes of Michael Moretti.
“No, thank you,” Jennifer said. “I’m afraid I—”
“You have to eat.” Michael Moretti took Jennifer’s arm and she found herself walking beside him, following the captain to a choice banquette in the center of the large room. Jennifer loathed the idea of dining with Michael Moretti, but she did not know how to get out of it now without creating a scene. She wished fervently that she had agreed to have dinner with Peter Fenton.
They were seated at a banquette facing the stage and the captain said, “Enjoy your dinner, Mr. Moretti, miss.”
Jennifer could feel Michael Moretti’s eyes on her and it made her uncomfortable. He sat there, saying nothing. Michael Moretti was a man of deep silences, a man who distrusted words, as though they were a trap rather than a form of communication. There was something riveting about his silence. Michael Moretti used silence the way other men used speech.
When he finally spoke, Jennifer was caught off guard.
“I hate dogs,” Michael Moretti said. “They die.”