beginning secondhand furniture. It had taken time and effort, but it had still been home—her things, her colors, her decorations and her choice of art on the walls.
“How long will you be living in Indonesia?”
“Five years, probably. Perhaps longer. And this time I’ve decided to get myself a place I can call home, not to rent someone else’s house with someone else’s furniture.”
Only he did not have the time to invest in doing what was necessary—find a house, furniture, servants— Marcus had told her. Setting up a new company, managing and staffing it was going to take all his energies.
What he really needed was a wife, but Kim decided not to point this out to him; it might not be news to him.
So here she was in a classy restaurant in her funeral dress, trying to convince Sam that, since he didn’t have a wife, she was the next perfect person for the setting-up-house job. She stared at his tie, a very nice one, thinking she might as well go straight for it. Just as she was about to launch into her appeal, the waiter came to take their order.
They ordered a first course, something duck-liverish that was artfully arranged on a big white plate and garnished elegantly.
“Food as art, I love it,” Kim said. “It’s almost too beautiful to eat—but I will!” She put her fork in the culinary art piece carefully and took a delicate little bite. It was delicious.
“Okay,” she said, having finished it a while later, “give me the job and I will find you a wonderful house with a great veranda and furnish it and decorate it to your taste and specifications. I will hire you the perfect servants. And if you wish, I will even put on a big dinner or cocktail party when it’s all done so you can show off your new home to your business connections and friends. I will do a fabulous job for you. I am very good at this sort of thing.”
He observed her with a kind of curious speculation. “And your instincts tell you that leaving behind what you’ve built up in New York and trotting off to do this job for me will somehow further your career?”
“I never trot,” she said, “But to answer your question, yes, in a way it will.”
“In a way?” One eyebrow cocked, suspicions raised.
She fiddled idly with the little hoop earring in her left ear. “I have ulterior motives,” she said with a bit of drama.
“Ah,” he said meaningfully. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
So she told him how much she wanted to go back to the Far East, how she loved Java, how there was nothing on earth greener than rice paddies, nothing better than… She went on for far too long, and he was quiet, listening intently as she told him of the wonderful art, the batik of Solo, the carved wood of Jepara, the fascinating wayang plays that went on all night, the delicious food. She explained how good for her creativity it would be to live there, how much inspiration she would get. And when she finally stopped, she could feel her face, flushed and warm, and knew she must look like an excited child. She tucked a loose curl behind her ear and glanced down at her food, as yet uneaten. She felt his dark gaze on her as if it were a touch.
“Fascinating,” he said.
She glanced up and saw him smile.
“All right,” he said, “you’ve got the job.”
Kim locked the door behind her and made a triumphant little dance through the living room. She’d done it! She waltzed into the bedroom and began to undress. And tomorrow she would see Sam again. They’d made plans for her to meet him at his office at six, since she’d be right in the area, and together they’d go to her loft, so he could see what she had done with the decorating and to discuss things further.
She caught her smiling reflection in the mirror. And she had suggested, since it was evening, that he might as well stay and she’d cook them some dinner.
Too excited to sleep, Kim prowled around the living room in her peacock colored kimono, replaying the evening with Sam in her head as if it were a movie, recounting the conversation, seeing Sam’s handsome face in her mind’s eye.
“Why did you never settle down?” she’d asked. He didn’t even own an apartment in New York, but lived in the company penthouse when in town.
“There was never much point,” he’d said with a faint shrug of his shoulders. “I was free to do the work overseas, and most of the time I enjoyed the experience. There was never a reason to stop.”
He had no brothers and sisters, she knew, and when his parents died when he was twenty, he’d lost his parental home. Kim remembered her mother being impressed by Sam’s courteous appreciation of their welcoming him into their home during weekends and holidays, how he’d always brought a thoughtful little gift for her mother to thank her for her hospitality. Kim hadn’t realized it then, but now, as she paced restlessly around the loft, she wondered if Sam had been lonely. Lonely for family and companionship.
And she wondered if he was lonely now, living like a global nomad.
Except for the widowed uncle who ran the company in New York, and one married Greek cousin, all his extended family lived in Jordan and Greece. Although he’d been thoroughly Americanized during his high school and college years, in his younger years he had lived and been educated in Jordan, but spending much time in Greece as well with his mother’s family.
“I don’t have a very strong sense of really belonging anyplace,” he’d said over dinner, and his dark eyes had suddenly been full of shadows. She’d wondered what had been hidden in those shadows. Loneliness? It was an odd thought to have about Sam, who had always seemed so self-reliant, so…together. Yet who could tell what dwelled in the deepest part of people’s souls?
Kim gave a little shiver. How awful it must be to not feel you belonged somewhere, to feel so rootless, to not even have a place to really call your own.
And now he wanted a house that was his, with everything in it belonging to him. A home.
And she was going to help him get it.
They met the next evening at Sam’s office to discuss the job in more detail, then headed home to Kim’s loft so she could show him what she’d done with her own place.
A clown in full circus costume was sitting on the doorstep when Kim and Sam arrived at her building. A sad clown, mouth curved downward, big fat tears painted on his face. He held a bouquet of huge rainbow-colored balloons. Several children had congregated and were laughing and teasing him.
It didn’t take long to figure out what he was doing there and it wasn’t a gig at a children’s birthday party. I Adore You, Kim! one of the balloons read. Please Be Mine, was on another.
“Kim!” he called out as she emerged from the limousine. “Oh, please, Kim, listen to me, my heart is breaking!”
Hers was sinking, like a ton of cement. She was aware of Sam next to her, tall, silent, observing the spectacle. She didn’t need this. A clown was not part of the plan.
“Tony,” she said coldly. “This is enough, d’you hear? It’s not funny anymore. Will you please just stop it?”
He began to sob, big, noisy, wet clown sobs. The children cheered.
“She
