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Winnie's question drew some reluctant laughs and the crowd jostled closer. "Is Morgan Grady here?" one reporter shouted above the rest.
"No, he is not," she answered.
"Where is he now?"
Winnie crossed her arms over her chest. "In a conference across town."
"Does he know he's been selected News Weekly's Man of the Year?"
Winnie's eyebrows arched. "What do you think?"
The crowd laughed again. Another reporter stepped forward. "When do you expect him back?"
"Not until you're gone."
And they laughed harder, real chuckles mixed with mock groans. Winnie couldn't help smiling back, realizing that some of the tension in the reception area had finally dissipated. For the first time in days she felt as though she'd finally done something right.
Just then, from the corner of her eye, she saw the elevator doors slide open and inside the gleaming paneled elevator stood Morgan Grady.
Her heart lurched.
His gaze met hers and held. Her smile faded and she felt the most intense longing for all the things she'd never had, for all the passion she'd never known. What impossible desires, she thought, what painful impossible dreams.
She shook her head slightly, a nearly imperceptible shake that only Morgan noticed. You don't want to get off here, she tried to tell him. You don't want to go through this now.
Morgan remained inside the elevator and the doors slid soundlessly closed.
He'd escaped.
CHAPTER FIVE
HE'D escaped.
Morgan let himself into his Fifth Avenue
apartment and shut the door behind him. A row of extravagant floral arrangements crowded the marble-topped eighteenth-century mahogany sideboard with dolphin feet. Those were new.
He scanned the florist envelopes, reluctant to open any of them. He could guess who'd sent the arrangements and he could imagine the sentiment expressed. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the support-it was wonderful to have such a loving family-but he didn't feel celebratory.
How ironic that a big day like this should leave him cold. He hated the fuss. Didn't know how to internalize success like this.
The phone began to ring and Morgan started to move, but stopped as he heard Mr. Foley, butler and chef, answer it. Mr. Foley was taking a message, murmuring thanks and saying goodbye.
The phone rang almost immediately again, and then the doorbell chimed.
Morgan closed his eyes, pressed a fist to the middle of his forehead, and wished he were anywhere but here. Most people would have loved the honor News Weekly bestowed on him today, but it was the last thing Morgan needed. He couldn't bear to be the focus of so much attention. The hype reminded him too much of where he'd been.
The doorbell chimed a second time.
He had to get out of the limelight, had to do something soon. But first, the door.
Morgan opened the door, accepted an even more lavish bouquet, a huge crystal vase filled with lilies and orchids. There was no room left on the crowded table and Morgan set the vase down on the limestone floor.
Mr. Foley appeared in the doorway. He wore a dark suit, white shirt, dark tie, all very crisp and formal. "Congratulations, sir."
Morgan struggled to smile as he nodded his thanks but the smile never came. He hadn't felt this lonely in years. "Thank you, Mr. Foley."
The butler bowed. "Can I get you a drink, sir? A celebratory champagne, perhaps?"
"Gin and tonic is fine."
"Of course, sir. And congratulations again, sir."
No, lonely wasn't the right word, Morgan thought, correcting himself as he glanced around his expansive entry hall, teeming with flowers and the overpowering sweetness of lilies. He wasn't lonely. He felt alone. It was a subtle, but significant, difference.
It was a difference that continued to haunt him hours later as he lay in bed. How had he become this larger than-life figure?
He wasn't a cool, sophisticated playboy, nor was he Wall Street's Boy Genius and he hated the cult of personality. The Morgan Grady the media glorified had never existed. He saw what they saw-Ivy League schools, gorgeous girlfriends, tremendous wealth. On
paper, he looked good. In an Italian suit, he looked even better. But scratch a little at the surface polish, peek beneath the diplomas, the social life, the tailored suit, and he was Morgan O'Connell, Big Mike's terrified kid, a kid so desperate to escape his neighborhood that he took all kinds of jobs to get him off the street and away from the fighting.
He'd folded newspapers at four in the morning, delivered them on his bike at five, collected payments from the high-class neighborhoods in the afternoon. When he'd finished delivering papers, he collected beer bottles and Coke cans, and then started mowing lawns. He'd made up flyers and pasted them on bulletin boards, stuck them in mailboxes, pushed them under people's doors.
Morgan O'Connell. Yardwork, Painting, Cleaning, Odd Jobs. Excellent work at cheap prices. References available. Will work after school and every weekend.
Anything for a buck.
Anything to escape the decrepit building called home. Anything to avoid Big Mike's mean temper and quick fist.
Eyes burning, Morgan grabbed his pillow, and turned over on his stomach. The sheet slipped low on his hip, leaving his torso bare.
The Gradys helped him leave his old neighborhood behind, and he'd made enough bucks now to ensure financial security. But he still didn't feel as if he’d made it. And work, which had been his safest haven, had become a nightmare. How to do this? How to continue like this? How to be someone he wasn't?
Closing his eyes, he rested his cheek on the cool cotton pillowcase. But with his eyes closed he saw a dark shape, and the shape became a squiggly black-green tattoo on Big Mike's arm. Wouldn't the press love to know that Morgan Grady was really Morgan O'Connell from Roxbury, not Beacon Hill?
Charlotte had found out and look what had happened.
She'd hadn't just left him. She'd run away.
Morgan couldn't do this anymore. Rose had said to throw the media a bone, to give them a story. A story ...
Morgan Grady gets married.
Morgan Grady no longer a bachelor.
No longer sexy, now just a boring old married man ... a very boring Morgan Grady.
Morgan took a deep breath and the pressure in his chest began to ease. He'd get married, get away from the hype, get back to being just a regular guy.
And it came to him as the tension melted, that he knew the perfect woman, knew the most sensible, practical woman who handled the press with ease, could manage his schedule, and already knew his many foibles-Winnie.
She'd been the best damn secretary. She'd be the best damn wife.
****
In the end, Winnie went to the interview at Osborne Manufacturing. It didn't seem right to cancel at the last minute and she thought she'd be smart to keep some avenues open. But while Mr. Osborne was just as nice in person as he'd been on the phone, Winnie knew the life she wanted wasn't in Charleston. The life she wanted was on Wall Street in downtown Manhattan, and just thinking of Morgan made her heart jump, more pain than pleasure in the swift rush of emotion.
On the late flight from Charleston to New York, Winnie plucked the pins from her chignon, freeing her hair. It fell past her shoulders in a heavy tumble.
The plane touched down in one big bump. Drooping a little in her taupe suit, she filed out with the other passengers, hair still loose, her travel bag dangling from her shoulder.
She'd kill for a long soak in the tub, followed by a pint of Rocky Road
ice cream. No, make that a half gallon. To hell with her diet. D
iets didn't work anyway. All the experts said so.
Wearily, she moved with the crowd through the terminal until she reached the curb, searching past the whizzing cars and buses for an available taxi.
"Need a lift?"
Him, it was him. Winnie half closed her eyes, thinking she'd never grow tired of that voice, never grow tired of the rich husky inflection. Air catching in her throat she turned around.
"Hello, Morg- Mr. Grady." It was the first time she'd slipped like that. Must have been the glass of wine she'd had on the plane on the way back.
