Her Name Will Be Faith (9 page)

Jo bent over Tamsin's bed, deliberately not looking at
Michael.

"I... er... well,"
Michael hesitated. "What do you reckon, honey?
Would you like me to come?"

Jo stood up and faced him. "Yes, Michael, I
would."

He strode across the room to take
her in his arms. "Oh, my sweetheart,"
he whispered. "I love you. I'm so sorry. Forgive me."

She hugged him back, and the kids
stood on their beds to join in.
"What
about the race?" she whispered.

"Well... maybe they can
manage without me for one weekend."

"Oh, Dad! Then you can teach
me to water-ski," Owen Michael begged.

"And me?" Tamsin squealed.

Jo looked on, beaming. Had it
really worked? Certainly it was time to
forget
that crooked smile.

"God, but it's hot out
there." Jayme, Richard Connors' secretary, deli
cately patted perspiration from her neck as she came
into the office; she had nipped out for a sandwich between newscasts.
"Even without the
sun I bet you could
fry an egg on the sidewalk. And it's only June. What
do you reckon it's
going to be like come August?"

"Worse than Florida,"
Richard commented. He was trying to concen
trate on the various weather reports, which were
certainly interesting,
but was finding himself instead thinking about Jo Donnelly. He wondered
if anything might come of her
suggestion that he do a series on hurricanes.
It was something he'd love to tackle, supposing
Kiley would go for it.
Although, he supposed, the real decision would come from that snapping
turtle on the top floor.

But he wondered even more if she
had suggested the idea – with its
implication that they would work together – from a
purely professional
point
of view, or if she might have had an ulterior motive? But how could
she, happily married as she was
and with kids. Maybe if he and Pam had
had kids... but that had been yet another thing on which
they had
differed.

Jayme leaned over him. "Anything interesting on
the way?"

"More of the same for us,
I'm afraid. But the first storm of the season
is down there. Just came in."

"Where? Let me see."

He prodded the map, as she rested
one breast on his shoulder; she was
already half in love with him. "There, in the
middle of the Caribbean.
They've just up-rated him into a Tropical Storm; winds around the
center
are sustaining 45 knots. So he has
a name: Anthony."

"And is Anthony going to become a
hurricane?"

"Could be. The water
temperature down there is certainly high enough.
But he's not going to interest us; starting where
he is, he'll almost certainly
head off
into the Gulf of Mexico."

"Now there's a shame," Jayme remarked.
"If he'd come up here,
maybe we'd get
some rain to cool things off. You know what, Richard? I'll bet you ten bucks
we're on water rationing before another month is
out. Can't you conjure
up a storm for us?"

Richard was studying the charts,
plotting the course of the jet stream.
"I don't think I'm going to have to do that,"
he said. "I think one may
come along
of its own accord."

The Four Seasons restaurant hummed with muted
conversation around
the vast shrubbery
where prospective diners sipped aperitifs and greeted
friends and guests. It was a constant source of
interest to Jo Donnelly, as
an
Englishwoman, to observe the variety and general informality of
clothes
American women wore to dinner in one of New York's leading
establishments. In London it was not unusual to see
long gowns and
black ties –
certainly most women would be in smart summer dresses, at
least, but here no one seemed to bother; skirts
and blouses, suits, slacks,
even jeans, were apparently acceptable. A
pity, she thought, so to downgrade a special evening.

Michael smiled at his wife, and
was aware how lovely she looked
tonight;
the neck of her white dress was cut wide and low, revealing the
deep tan on which a two-carat solitaire diamond
pendant gleamed,
matching the sparkle
of her ear-studs as she moved her head. She wasn't
beautiful in the modern film star style, yet she
outshone any other woman
in the room.
The angle of her head, her sleekness and dignity, had always
attracted him,
always would... if only – what? If only she'd let him lead
his own life? Stop nagging? Give up her damned
journalism? Stick to the
role of wife
and mother? But if she did, could, would she still be the lively,
dynamic
personality with whom he had fallen in love?

"Penny for your
thoughts." Jo squeezed his hand. He told her. After
all, they had come here to round off their wonderful
weekend together –and to discuss where they went from here.

It was the opening they needed.

"Can you understand that I am just not that sort
of person?" Jo gazed into his face, pleading for his understanding.

"Can you understand that I
need excitement and stimulation – like
yacht racing? That's the sort of person I am."

"Yes, of course. And if it's
not yacht racing it must be something else.
I see that." She took his hand from the cocktail
table and held it between
both of hers,
on her lap. "But as I see it, yachting as such is not the
problem. Time is the point at issue. Time to be
with your wife and family.
Surely
modern marriage isn't just a quick fuck and a wave of the hand
i
n passing, as one flits from job to amusement and
back? No," she shook
her head as he tried to speak. "Don't get
me wrong. You and I have the same problems – I just think I schedule my
life better than you, so as to
do justice to
each of my roles. And I've cut out of my life all other interests
until
Owen Michael and Tamsin are much older."

"What other interests?"

"Sport. When I left England
I was in the top division of the squash league, remember? And I was also a
county class tennis player."

"If you would only give up your..."

"Don't say it, please. I
sacrificed sport for a career and that's that.
Look at it this way; I spend an average of six hours a day, thirty
hours a
week, on journalism, and eight hours
a day, plus all weekends, say
sixty-five hours a week, on home and family.
And I spend all vacations with Owen Michael and Tamsin."

Michael frowned. "Eight hours a day? How do you
work that out?"
"Seven till nine
in the mornings; half twelve till two lunch time; and
six till half ten
evenings."

"Well, I do almost that."

"True. But it's the weekends
and holidays which are causing the
problem." She held up her hand again as he opened his
mouth. "I am
going
to make you an offer. I'll promise to cut down my journalism by
an average of one hour a day, if
you'll promise to spend alternate weekends
with the kids and me, and take two weeks' vacation with
us every summer,
plus the winter skiing.
And alternate public holidays."

The headwaiter appeared at that
moment to lead them to their table,
so Michael had several minutes to consider his reply.
"Well, put that
way, I suppose it
sounds fair," he admitted, as an under-waiter spread a napkin across his
lap. "I hadn't analyzed the situation down to hours, as you seem to have
done, and I'd gotten the idea that I was spending that
much time with you anyway. It's just a pity the Bermuda Race this year
is
sailed at roughly the same time Dad and Babs always go down to Eleuthera, and
you know how disappointed they'd be if they didn't have
the kids with them every summer. But what with the preparations and
all
that… you do realize the Bermuda Race is the big one?"

"I know. It will be an enormous sacrifice to miss
it..." Jo started.

"Miss it? You mean..."
He paused to study her expression. "Oh,
God, yes, I see you do."

He was miserable, torn both ways, and she watched his
torment with pity... but what was the alternative? "It won't be
forever," she said gently. "In five years the thought of a holiday
with us old folks will bore the kids silly. You'll be able to do what you like,
then."

"Does this mean you want me to sell my share of
Esmeralda?"
Michael asked over his avocado and prawns.

"Good Lord, no! Can't you
just cut down the amount of time you spend
on
her?" She didn't want to be unreasonable.

"I can do that, of course. But the Bermuda Race...
we have a real
chance this year, of winning
our section. And we're a team, with me both
skipper and navigator."

"Michael. You have said you have a chance of
winning every year for
the past seven, and
you never have. Surely some of the others can
navigate? Sam could
replace you as skipper."

"Cheers." He raised his wine glass and
drank.

"Cheers! Well?"

"I guess Sam could,"
he agreed reluctantly. "Larry could
navigate..."

Jo noted the reluctance with a
sinking feeling. Would this mean a
ghastly
summer holiday, with Michael sulking all the time because she had dragged him
away from his sport? "You have no idea how much fun it is down
there," she said. "All the family – Marcia is certain to bring
Benny down to show off the house – and
Lawson and Belle always come
up from Nassau..." she paused.
"It all boils down to a matter of loving,
doesn't it?" she asked, without taking her eyes from her plate.
"Which
do you love more, your wife and kids, or your yacht?"
He didn't answer, but she felt his eyes on her, and looked up. Her heart
lurched as she
whispered, "Michael? How
important to you is our marriage? Do you
want to save it, honestly, or
do you want us to split up?"

His eyes closed momentarily,
hiding his thoughts. He drained his glass
and
a waiter immediately stepped forward to take the bottle from the ice bucket,
and dry it on a napkin before refilling both glasses.

When the man retreated, Michael
held the tips of Jo's fingers and
looked
at her rings – the big emerald-cut diamond solitaire left to him by
his grandmother and given to Jo on their
engagement, the diamond
eternity he had bought her when Owen Michael was
born, and the plain
platinum wedding band he
had slid, nervously, on her finger in the
splendid surroundings of St
James's, Piccadilly, in front of a vast congre
gation
of family and friends... what a let-down it would be to everyone,
not
least himself, to admit the marriage had failed.

His eyes held hers as he
whispered back, "My dearest Jo, our marriage,
our love, is far more important
than anything else in the world. It's a
deal.
I promise to cut back on the time I spend on
Esmeralda.
And I will hand
over to Sam for the Bermuda Race."

Tears of happiness stung her eyes as she said,
"And I promise to cut back on my journalism."

Their lips met above their climbing
wine glasses, while the headwaiter
and
his team stood watching benevolently.

The phone purred beside Jo, and
she flicked the open switch, unwilling
to spare a hand from the article she was composing on Richard
Connors.
"Josephine Donnelly, good
morning."

"Jo? Marcia here. How're you
doing?" Her happy voice trilled out of
the box.

"Never better. How about you? What's new?"

"Something fantastic. I've
got to tell you all about it. Are you busy
right
now?"

Jo looked down at her pad; there was a lot to be done,
and Ed wanted this on the press by Friday. But Marcia sounded so excited and
eager to relay her good news. "Not too busy. What's happened?"

"Can I come over for a coffee?"

"Sure, little sister. Any time."

"Like right now?"

"I'll meet you at the place on the corner."

"Ten minutes. 'Bye."

Jo sighed, and folded her pad away. Ten minutes later
Marcia rushed into the coffee shop, panting. "I'm so excited I could
die." The disheveled
young blonde
squealed as she pranced in and planted herself in the chair
across the table.