Private Relations by Nancy Warren Page A

indulge without feeling guilty.
    “We’re lucky it’s still warm enough to picnic,” she said as they sank back into the cushioned leather seatsfor the very short ride down Fifth Avenue and along East 72nd St. to the Bethesda Terrace in Central Park where the driver would let them out. From there, it was only a five-minute walk to Strawberry Fields, the perfect spot for a picnic.
    “I was kind of hoping it would rain.”
    “You were?”
    “Yes. Then we could have moved the picnic indoors.”
    “Where exactly, indoors?”
    “My suite.”
    “Do you ever think of anything but sex?”
    “Not this weekend,” he said, and leaning forward kissed her softly.
    When they reached the terrace, Big Al, the limo driver, unloaded a wicker picnic basket and a red plaid blanket from the trunk. When he would have carried it for them, Peter balked and insisted on taking over from there.
    “We’ll call you when we’re done, Al. Thanks,” Kit said as Peter took the basket.
    “I was thinking of deli sandwiches in a paper bag,” he muttered as he hauled along the basket.
    They found a spot and kicked off their shoes. She spread the blanket and sank onto it. Peter settled beside her.
    “I love it here,” Kit said, tipping her face to the sun. Strawberry Fields, a two-and-half-acre, tear-shaped park, was designed in commemoration of John Lennon. A tribute to Lennon, a black-and-white mosaic, with the single word, Imagine, had become an unofficial shrine to his memory where fans left flowers and tokens. Today one white rose wilted in the heat.
    They weren’t the only ones picnicking in Strawberry Fields, but Kit suspected their meal was the most elegant.
    She’d asked for something simple and rustic, but it was designer simple.
    There was cold roast chicken with rosemary and lemon and artisan breads, cheeses and olives, grapes and apples and an almond and apple cake. There was Italian soda and sparkling water to drink and, to finish off, chocolate truffles.
    “I feel like I should have brought a book of poetry and I should read it to you,” Peter said as he demolished a chicken sandwich.
    “What kind of poetry would you recite?” she asked him. The sun was warm on her face and the scent of grass and trees was a rare pleasure.
    “I’d like to say it would be Shakespearean sonnets, but in truth?” he leaned over to touch her hair. “I’d read you erotic poetry.”
    Then Kit’s cell phone rang, a mood shatterer if there ever was one. She checked the number. “Sorry,” she said to Peter. “It’s the hotel. I have to answer.” Then she stuck her professional smile on her face and answered. “Kit Prestcott.”
    “We have a problem,” said Janice, the hotel’s general manager.
    “What is it?”
    “Our other fantasy winner checked in.”
    “Our other fantasy winner? But…there’s only one.”
    “Irene Bonnet is standing at the registration desk at this very moment.”
    “Irene Bonnet?” Irene was the comedienne with the Cinderella fantasy. “She’s the second winner. She’s not due until next weekend.”
    “Well, the thing is—she’s here.”
    “Look, call on all your tact, but she can’t come thisweekend, she has to come next weekend. We already have a fantasy winner.”
    “She’s waving around her congratulations letter—the one signed by Piper.”
    “Right.”
    “And the dates are for this weekend.”
    “No. That’s impossible…”
    “Kit, she’s not the sort of person you can quietly fob off, if you know what I mean.”
    “Damn it, I should have proofed that letter myself before Piper signed it.” She sucked in a breath.
    “Why didn’t she show up yesterday?”
    “She said she had to perform somewhere on Friday night and she called Piper who told her she could change her Friday through Sunday to Saturday through Monday.” Janice was putting on as much fake pleasantness as Kit, but it was clear she wanted to smack Piper right now as badly as Kit did.
    “And Piper forgot to mention it