Voice of the Heart (101 page)

She was an enchantress, and he was enchanted.

As the weeks passed, Nick and Katharine began to spend more and more time together, and although they did not mention it, neither was out of the other’s thoughts for very long. Both were obsessive workers, wholly dedicated to their careers, and they found a measure of comfort and security in this shared characteristic, which others in the past had found distressing. It became a special bond between them.

Nicholas Latimer was nearing the completion of his current novel, and as September turned into October the words seemed to surge out of him, the pages flying off his typewriter at a record speed. For her part Katharine was rediscovering her tremendous love of the theatre, and every day, after rehearsals, she was excited and exhilarated.

Their evenings were spent quietly, usually at Nick’s house. He was aware that acting took its toll on her, for she poured a great deal of emotion into her role and he did not want to tax her strength socializing. Occasionally Katharine joined them, sometimes Terry and Hilary Ogden, and then they would venture out to small restaurants off the beaten track. Nick recognized that his feelings for Katharine ran deep, and he accepted the fact that he was in love with her, suspected she felt the same about him. He had only once made a tentative move towards her, but she had slithered out of his arms, laughing nervously and looking distressed and embarrassed. After this gentle rebuff he had not pressed his attentions on her again, although he had continued to be warm and affectionate. He had decided to bide his time, waiting for the propitious moment, one he was convinced would present itself. He had sufficient insight to understand
that Katharine Tempest could not be rushed, that she had to come to him of her own free will.

Her brother was rarely mentioned, except by Francesca Cunningham, who appeared to be more enamoured of him than ever. Nick was wisely silent, never referred to Ryan after the Sunday in September when they had lunched. Even when Katharine brought up his name, Nick was noncommittal, vague in his responses. Ryan had not visited New York, except for a flying one-day trip early in October, when neither Nick nor Katharine had seen him. But he had left a message with Francesca, renewing his promise to attend the opening of the play. Katharine told Nick she was confident her brother would not disappoint her, whatever arguments Patrick O’Rourke might present to keep him away.

In the middle of October, on a cool Wednesday evening,
Trojan Interlude
opened at the Morosco. It was a glittering first night, the likes of which Broadway had not seen in many a year. Katharine was a movie star of the first magnitude now, adored by the public, and they flocked to see her in her first stage appearance in America. Those who were unable to get tickets jammed the street, and mounted police had to be brought in to control the crowds outside the theatre.

Francesca, looking lovely in a daffodil-yellow brocade gown and matching evening coat, sat next to Hilary, elegantly turned-out in black velvet and diamonds. They were flanked by Ryan and Nick respectively. And they all knew, after the first fifteen minutes, that the play was going to be a big hit. Katharine was superb as Helen, a role she had made entirely her own, and Terry was equally electric as Paris, Prince of Troy. They were magnetic together, and unmatched as an acting team. The audience screamed the house down at the finale, gave them a standing ovation. Later Katharine made the traditional entrance at Sardi’s, once more to thunderous acclaim. She walked in slowly, somewhat shyly, looking spectacular in a white wool-crêpe evening gown, the emerald necklace and teardrop earrings
Beau Stanton had given her as a wedding present flashing like green fire around her face. Nick was waiting for her, seated at a table with Francesca, Ryan, Hilary, the producers and their wives. And as she walked towards them, bowing to the right and left, and smiling radiantly, Nick thought his heart would burst with love and pride. Terry followed quickly in her wake, and he also received a wild reception. Champagne toast followed champagne toast, and they stayed for an hour before leaving for the Rainbow Room where a supper dance was already in progress for the rest of the cast and honoured guests.

Katharine clung to Nick throughout the entire evening, and although she presented a vivacious and self-confident front, he was conscious of her inner tension and anxiety. This was not alleviated until the first editions of the newspapers were delivered by the excited press agent for the play. Waving them over his head, he rushed into the room, shouting, ‘It’s a smash!! We’ve got a smash on our hands!’ Nobody could hear him above the noise and the band, but his beaming ecstatic face was more explicit than any words he could say. Every review was a rave, and even the jaundiced critic of the
New York Times
, who could make or break a play and was hard to please, had nothing to offer but accolades and superlatives.

Visibly relaxing immediately, Katharine was endearing in her unsuppressed joy. It was a memorable night, and a week later, one evening after the theatre, Nick took her to Pavillion for a quiet supper. It was another special occasion, in this instance to celebrate the delivery of his novel to his publishers. Sipping champagne and holding her hand, he told her that he had dedicated his new book to her. Katharine was so touched her eyes filled with tears.

‘And to think how much you used to hate me,’ she murmured, blinking, brushing her eyes with her hand.

‘You used to hate me too,’ Nick said softly, searching her face.

Katharine half smiled. ‘I’ve come to the conclusion that I was simply responding to
your
enormous dislike of
me.
’

‘Perhaps,’ Nick replied. He clasped her hand tightly, pressed it to his face. ‘Hasn’t it occurred to you that there are two sides to a coin, that the reverse side of hatred is love, you silly adorable divine girl.’

Colour crept onto her pale face, and she dropped her eyes, said nothing. But after a moment she looked at him through the tangle of dark lashes. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘It has.’

Nick remembered this particular evening a month later, as he sat at his desk, doodling on a pad, drawing small hearts and scribbling her name in many variations. He was talking to his mother on the telephone. ‘Yes, Ma, of course I’m coming to Thanksgiving dinner. Would I miss it?’

‘You have sometimes, Nicholas,’ Mrs Latimer chided softly. ‘But I do realize those lapses on your part were unavoidable, only happened when you were off gallivanting abroad.’ She cleared her throat, hesitated, and then announced, ‘We’re expecting Katharine too, you know.’

‘That’s sweet of you, Mother, but I’m not sure that she can make it. She’s been out of the play for a couple of days, with a sore throat and—’

‘I’m sorry to hear it. I hope it’s not serious.’

‘No, it’s not. She’ll probably go back to work tomorrow night. However, as far as Thanksgiving’s concerned, I have a feeling the theatre’s open that evening.’

‘Oh dear, what a shame. Your father will be disappointed, as I am. You’ll still come?’

‘Yes, darling, I will.’

‘That’s wonderful. I must rush now. I have a dental appointment. Oh, Nick dear…’

‘Yes, Mother?’ he asked patiently, glancing at his watch, wanting to get to work on his new screenplay for Victor.

‘Is there any truth in all the rumours? Your father and I have been wondering—’ Her voice trailed off lamely.

‘What rumours are you referring to specifically, Mother?’ he asked, knowing exactly what she meant.

‘Er, er, all those items in the press. About your romance with Katharine, that you’re seen here, there, and everywhere together. Are we about to get a daughter-in-law at last?’

‘Don’t rush me, Ma,’ he laughed.

‘You’re forty, Nicky.’

‘
Thirty-six
, Ma. So long. See you next week.’

‘Goodbye Nicky,’ his long-suffering mother sighed and hung up.

He was still chuckling as he rolled paper into his typewriter, numbered the page and then sat back, staring at the wall facing him, letting the scene he was about to write roll past his eyes like a segment of film. The telephone rang again, and he cursed under his breath as he swung in the chair and answered it. His literary agent apologized for disturbing him, talking briefly about a possible motion picture sale of the new novel, and hung up. In rapid succession he received three more calls, from his editor, his part-time secretary Phyllis, and a sales assistant at Tiffany’s, who told him his order was ready.

Lighting a cigarette, attempting to clear his head of all this extraneous matter, Nick put both of his telephones on the floor, removed the receivers and threw two large cushions over them. He finished his cigarette and slowly began to type, filling the blank page with words. After two hours of solid uninterrupted work he went to the kitchen, returned to his study with a mug of coffee, launched himself into the screenplay once more.

His concentration and his absorption in his writing were so complete it was a few minutes before he heard the strident pealing of the front door bell. He glanced at his watch, saw that it was almost three o’clock. Wondering who his unexpected caller was, he ran downstairs.

Flinging open the door, Nick was surprised to find Katharine standing on the steps, muffled up in a thick woollen headscarf
and a sable coat, huge dark glasses masking her face. ‘Hi, darling,’ he said delightedly, drawing her inside out of the cold, glancing down the steps to the kerb, his eyes seeking the limousine. He frowned. ‘Where’s the car? You didn’t walk di—’

‘Nick, you don’t know, do you?’ Katharine gasped, seizing his arm fiercely, taking off her dark glasses, staring at him. Naturally pale, she was now chalk white and obviously dreadfully shaken. Before he could respond, she stammered, ‘The P-P-P-President. He’s been shot… assassinated. I’ve been trying to call you for ages. Your ’phones—’

‘Oh my God!’ Nick’s eyes widened, filled with incredulity. As though he had been slammed hard in the stomach, he staggered back against the wall. Stunned and shocked, he said, again. ‘Oh my
God
. Are you sure? Where? When? Oh Jesus, no!’

‘Dallas. Around twelve-thirty,’ Katharine replied shakily. She stepped towards him, her face crumpling. Nick took her in his arms, held her to him. His face was suddenly as deathly pale as hers, his eyes swamped with horror. He saw nothing in the small dim hall, only an image in his head of the handsome young President, so full of vitality and zest and hope for the future. How could he be dead? No, not
Jack Kennedy
. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t
be
. It was a mistake. He cried, in a rasping tone, ‘Kath, are you sure? How did you find out?’

She pulled away from him, looked up into his face, the words spilling out of her in a rush. ‘It’s
true
, Nick! I happened to have the television on. Reading, not really watching. It was a soap.
As the World Turns
, I think. Suddenly CBS interrupted the show with a news flash, and there was Walter Cronkite looking terribly serious and worried, saying three shots had been fired at the President’s motorcade in Dallas, that he was seriously wounded. I remember glancing at the clock. It was just one-forty. I dialled you, but your lines were busy. I kept calling you, then realized you’d taken your—’

‘Let’s get to a TV set,’ Nick cried and bounded up the stairs. He turned on the television in his study, stood staring at it, his disbelief rapidly dissipating. Cronkite had all the facts now, was delivering them in a grave and shaken voice, a muscle in his face twitching. He was repeating what he had apparently said a few minutes before, for viewers who had just turned on, confirming the horror. President Kennedy was dead. Lying in Parkland Memorial Hospital in Dallas. Nick could not accept it. The facts would not sink in, and he flipped stations repeatedly, catching additional bits of information from each stunned newscaster. He swung to Katharine. She had disappeared. He had not even noticed her leave. She was back a moment later, had shed her coat, was carrying two mugs of coffee. Silently she put them on the table, sat down on the sofa. Nick joined her and she placed her hand on his arm, and her voice quavered as she said, ‘Nick, this is
America
, not a banana republic. We don’t have assassins
here
. Oh Nick, I’m frightened… what’s happening to the country?’

‘I don’t know,’ he mumbled. ‘And the crucial question is what’s going to happen to it from now on?’ He rubbed his hand over his forehead distractedly, took a cigarette, lit it, the flame from the lighter fluttering in his shaking hands.

They kept their vigil by the television set for hours, hardly speaking, straining to catch all the horrendous details of the ghastly and senseless murder of their President. Several times Katharine broke down and cried bitter tears, and Nick’s own tears fell as he gentled her. ‘I can’t believe it. I keep thinking of his wit and humour, and his graciousness to us when we were campaigning. Oh God, Nicky, think of what his poor wife must be suffering. And those little children, they’re so very young.’ She shook her head mournfully. ‘Why
Jack
? Why him, Nick?’

All he could say, sounding dazed, was, ‘I don’t know, Kath. I just don’t know.’ And he thought: What have they done to us? Why did they kill him?

When she was more composed, Katharine went down to the kitchen and made tuna-salad sandwiches, brought them back to the study. But neither of them could eat and the sandwiches remained untouched on their plates. A little later Nick remembered his telephones were off their hooks and he replaced them. The calls started coming in then, fast and furious: his literary agent, his brother-in-law Hunt, and his father, all of them in shock, grown men weeping unashamedly. Francesca rang from Connecticut, where she had gone for the weekend, and she too was stricken and numb, asking the same questions as Katharine. How could it happen here? What was happening in the country? Was it a conspiracy? He had no answers for her either, and he was filled with dread and rage and bitterness. Later in the afternoon, Victor called from California, his voice broken and charged with emotion, and as they talked Nick heard a twin echo of his own anger flowing back to him over the wire, and sorrow and bafflement dwelt in Victor’s voice as well.