The Other Side of Midnight

"It's about Miss Page," he said, finally.

There was a moment of silence.

"Come in here," Demiris said. He led the pilot into the paneled library and closed the doors. Demiris took a flat Egyptian cigarette out of a platinum case and lit it. He looked at the perspiring Metaxas. "What about Miss Page?" he asked, almost absently.

Metaxas swallowed, wondering if he had made a mistake. If he had estimated the situation correctly, his information would be appreciated, but if he was mistaken...

He cursed himself for his rashness in having come here, but he had no choice now but to plunge ahead.

"It's--it's about her and Larry Douglas." He watched Demiris' face, trying to read his expression. There was not even the faintest flicker of interest. Christ! Metaxas forced himself to stumble on. "They--they're living in a beach house together in Rafina."

Demiris flicked the ash of the cigarette into a gold, dome-shaped ashtray. Metaxas had the feeling that he was about to be dismissed, that he had made a terrible blunder and that it was going to cost him his job. He had to convince Demiris that he was telling the truth. The words began spilling out of him. "My--my sister is a housekeeper in one of the villas there. She sees the two of them on the beach together all the time. She recognized Miss Page from her pictures in the paper, but she didn't think anything about it until a couple of nights ago when she came down to the airport to have dinner with me. I introduced her to Larry Douglas and--well, she told me he was the man Miss Page is living with."

Demiris' olive black eyes stared at him, completely devoid of expression.

"I--I just thought you would want to know," Metaxas finished lamely.

When Demiris spoke, his voice was toneless. "What Miss Page does with her private life is her own affair. I am sure she would not appreciate anyone's spying on her."

Metaxas' forehead was beaded with sweat. Jesus Christ, he had gotten the whole situation wrong. And he had only wanted to be loyal. "Believe me, Mr. Demiris, I was only trying to..."

"I am sure you thought you were serving my best interests. You were mistaken. Is there anything else?"

"No--no, sir." Metaxas turned and fled.

Constantin Demiris leaned back in his chair, his black eyes fixed on the ceiling, staring at nothing.

At nine o'clock the following morning Paul Metaxas received a call to report to Demiris' mining company in the Congo, where Metaxas was to spend ten days ferrying equipment from Brazzaville to the mine. On a Wednesday morning on the third flight his plane crashed into the dense, green jungle. No traces of Metaxas' body or the wreckage were ever found.

Two weeks after Catherine was released from the hospital, Larry came to visit her. It was a Saturday evening, and Catherine was in the kitchen preparing an omelet. The sounds of cooking had prevented her from hearing the front door open, and she was not aware of Larry's presence until she turned and saw him standing in the doorway. She jumped involuntarily, and he said, "Sorry if I scared you. I just dropped in to see how you were getting along."

Catherine felt her heart beating faster and despised herself because he could still affect her that way.

"I'm just fine," she said. She turned and took the omelet out of the pan.

"Smells good," Larry said. "I haven't had time for dinner. If it isn't too much trouble, would you mind fixing me one of those?"

She looked at him a long moment, then shrugged.

She made him dinner but she was so unnerved by his presence that Catherine could not eat a bite. He talked to her, telling her about a flight he had just made and an amusing anecdote about one of Demiris' friends. He was the old Larry, warm and charming and irresistible as though nothing had gone wrong between them, as though he had not smashed their lives together.

When dinner was over, Larry helped Catherine wash and dry the dishes. He stood next to her at the sink, and his nearness gave her a physical ache. How long had it been? It did not bear thinking about.

"I've really enjoyed it," Larry was saying, with that easy, boyish grin of his. "Thanks, Cathy."

And that, Catherine thought, was the end of that.

Three days later, the phone rang and it was Larry phoning from Madrid to say that he was on his way home and to ask whether she would go out to dinner with him that evening. Catherine clutched the phone, listening to his friendly, easy voice, determined not to go. "I'm free for dinner tonight," she said.

They dined at Tourkolimano at the harbor at Piraeus. Catherine was barely able to touch her food. Being with Larry was far too painful a reminder of other restaurants they had dined in, of too many exciting evenings together in the long-dead past, of the love that was going to last them both a lifetime.

"You're not eating, Cathy. Would you like me to order something else for you?" he asked, concerned.

"I had a late lunch," she lied. He probably won't ever ask me out again, Catherine thought, but if he does I will say no.

A few days later Larry called and they had lunch at a lovely restaurant in a hidden maze off Syntagma Square. It was called Gerofinikas, the Old Palm Tree, and was reached through a long, cool passageway with a palm tree in front of it. They had an excellent meal, with Hymettus, the light, dry Greek wine. Larry was at his most entertaining.

The following Sunday he asked Catherine to fly to Vienna with him. They had dinner at the Sacher Hotel and flew back the same night. It had been a wonderful evening, filled with wine and music and candlelight, but Catherine had the eerie feeling that somehow it didn't belong to her. It belonged to that other Catherine Douglas who was long since dead and buried. When they got back to the apartment, she said, "Thank you, Larry, it was a lovely day."