Part 3 (1/2)
”Oh, come on, Julia,” I said, laughing. ”You know me better than that.”
”Do I?”
I took her by the shoulders and turned her to face me.
”You know I care for you. Very much.”
”I know....” Her eyes were like two bottomless lakes, cold and unfathomable. ”But do you love me, Trev?”
I felt a rush of anger. I'd been boxed into a corner by a professional, and I resented it. Yet, I knew she was hurting, and I wanted to ease her pain. The issue, however, was a th.o.r.n.y one. If I simply told her what she wanted to hear, I would be no better than some low-rent Lothario eager to bed a woman at any price. And I knew I couldn't live with that. The other choice-living without her-was just as bad. I'd grown comfortable being with her. Then again, perhaps being comfortable was the problem. We'd become complacent, at least I had.
When I didn't answer right away, I saw her withdraw into herself, like a light dimming in a room, deepening the shadows.
”I think you should leave, Trevor,” she said, in a voice barely above a whisper.
”Julia....”
”Just go, dammit.”
No longer angry, and feeling adrift, I picked up my jacket off the couch and headed for the door, turning to look at her one last time.
She'd gone to the window, and now stood there staring out at the lights, her back to me, arms clasped around her chest, as if to keep herself from flying apart.
”I'll call you,” I said.
”Please...don't.”
I left.
Outside, the air was chilly, and I saw thick dark nimbostratus clouds hovering on the western horizon. It would be raining by morning.
I turned up my collar and began the long hike down the hill, my mind churning. I'd been a heel, or at least I felt like one. And yet, lying to her about my feelings was never an option. Maybe, in time, she would come to appreciate that. Right now, however, I knew we were finished.
I picked up a cab in front of the Red Line station and during the ride home, kept remembering what she'd said about t.i.tanic's vanished world, how no amount of money could ever bring it back. And while I harbored my own doubts about Harlan and his crazy dream, I also knew-without a shred of doubt-I wanted to be on that great s.h.i.+p when she sailed.
3.
The news of Harlan's extravagance broke that morning. I was revising the middle section of my book for what seemed to be the hundredth time, trying to tighten up the pace, when my screen suddenly went blank.
”You have a news alert,” the computer said.
Annoyed, I reached for the ”Escape” key. ”Not now, Millie.”
Although it was considered to be unnecessary, I'd given the computer a name. I think the Artificial Intelligence program-a gift from Ken-responded better as a result, then again, maybe it was just my over-fertile imagination.
Millie's voice took on a note of urgency. ”The news item concerns subject: Harlan Astor.”
That changed everything. ”Put it on.”
I sat back in my ergonomic chair, adjusting it for pa.s.sive viewing, while Millie brought up CNN. ”Engaging surround sound,” she said.
The wireless speakers mounted on the walls behind me crackled to life and the picture on the screen faded up on the CNN newsroom. The anchor, a young Asian beauty I'd never seen before, was reading off the TelePrompTer with studied irony.
”...We now have confirmation the rumors swirling around New York real estate tyc.o.o.n, Harlan Astor, are true. For the past two and a half years, the semi-reclusive Astor has been involved in a secret construction project in Poland, known-until now-as 'Project X.'
”Sources in that country have revealed the incredible news that Astor has been employing a vast army of fifteen thousand laborers to rebuild the t.i.tanic, the grandest ocean liner of all time, which tragically sank one hundred years ago, taking over fifteen hundred lives. Our correspondent, Rita Newton, is standing by in Gdansk with more of the story.”
The scene s.h.i.+fted to a stark industrial landscape: soot-streaked brick buildings, steel gantries, smokestacks, and cranes jutted skyward, all of which combined with the gray featureless sky overhead to make the young blonde reporter, standing in the glare of the lights clutching her microphone, appear pale and washed out-like a ghost.
My pulse was pounding and my hands ached from clenching the armrests of the chair. The reporter began speaking, her voice and demeanor earnest.
”This is the Gdansk s.h.i.+pyards, one of the largest and busiest centers for s.h.i.+pbuilding in the world. Behind me, shrouded in its own building to s.h.i.+eld it from the prying eyes of the world, lies the nearly completed hull of what many are calling: Astor's Folly.
”At a cost of nearly six hundred million dollars, Harlan Astor has spared no expense to recreate the t.i.tanic, the most famous s.h.i.+p ever built. And while there have been numerous others since that have been larger, none has ever achieved the magical allure of that ill-fated vessel.
”No pictures have been made available, nor were our cameras allowed anywhere near the forbidding black hangar where the great s.h.i.+p lies in its slipway awaiting launch.
”As for more details, a spokesman from Mr. Astor's European headquarters in London informed us that a press conference would be convened on March twenty-first, six weeks from today. Until then, no further information would be forthcoming. And that leaves the world asking, why? Why would a man spend a fortune to rebuild a tragic symbol of a century many would like to forget? For an answer, we will all have to wait. This is Rita Newton, CNN, Gdansk, Poland.”
I rose from my chair and went into the kitchen where I pulled out a root beer. ”Millie, turn to NBC.”
”Executing....”
The channel switched to Brian Williams's report and gave pretty much the same coverage, though the correspondent in Gdansk seemed angrier, more contemptuous of Harlan's audacity, as well as his silence.
The other networks were evenly divided in their coverage between those who saw Harlan as insane and wasteful and those who saw his rebuilding the t.i.tanic as a metaphor for redemption. And just like CNN, none of them had any footage of the s.h.i.+p. I smiled. Like P. T. Barnum at his peak, good old Harlan was going to make them wait. By the time of his March twenty-first press conference, the press and the rest of the world would be at fever pitch.
I overrode Millie's voice commands and switched off the news manually, going back to my book. Harlan called half an hour later.
He looked haggard on the screen, but his face glowed with an inner light, as if he were plugged into a wall socket. Either that, or he was on something.
”Hey, Trev! How are you? Bet you forgot all about me, huh?”
”Out of sight, out of mind,” I replied, grinning.
”You always were a lousy liar, kiddo. That's why your books are so d.a.m.ned good. They're honest.”
”Well at least you saved yourself some money,” I said, referring to the now-forfeited secrecy bonus.
Harlan's smile widened. ”Yeah, there's that, too.”
”What happened?”
”Oh, h.e.l.l, some riveter got drunk on too much vodka and blabbed to a roomful of people. Somebody with an itch for network money heard him and put it out on the wire. What can you do?” He shrugged again. ”I never expected to pay it, anyway. All I wanted to do was buy myself some peace and quiet for as long as possible.”
”How does she look?”