by Jack Waddell
Just then Billy Compton and his wife Dorothy appeared at the table. “Hey, Connie. Who’s this beauty you’ve managed to corral?” Billy jested.
“Billy, this is Bridie Aiken, Mitch Aiken’s wife. Bridie, these are my friends Bill and Dorothy Compton.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Bridie said rising from her seat. “We were just finishing up. I have to hurry along now, but I hope you all enjoy the evening.”
“Nice meeting you,” Conor replied. “We’ll see you again, then.”
“Yes. And when we do you must let me know what you think of Reagan’s talk tonight. I think you’ll like it.”
“I’m sure I will,” Conor smiled. “I’m sure I will.”
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Chapter 33
Revelation
Thursday, September 24, 1964
Conor’s office at GCI’s corporate headquarters in Burbank was unlike any other in the building. The seven-story glass and concrete edifice was one of the tallest buildings in the city and its interior reflected its modern architecture; black metal desks with chrome legs and rosewood Formica tops, glass partitions, beige tweed industrial carpeting, beige IBM Selectric typewriters, Venetian blinds on the exterior windows, abstract artwork and wall hangings as decoration. By contrast, Conor’s office in the northeast corner of the top floor had more the look of a museum. Oriental carpets were scattered about a broad-planked hardwood floor. Drapes framed the windows. The wood paneled walls were adorned with oil paintings of people, golf courses and horses. A heavy mahogany desk commanded one end of the room. A portrait and framed memorabilia hung above the credenza behind the desk. A leather sofa, two club chairs and coffee and end tables made for a seating area in the middle of the room. The far wall was a floor to ceiling dark wood bookcase with more framed pictures and artifacts.
Conor liked the view from his desk. Wherever his eyes fell he could glean a memory, some happy, some bittersweet. There were the several silver trophies in the bookcase marking his club championships at Redlands and, later, Biarritz. In a place of prominence was the loving cup from the 1930 Biarritz Calcutta. Centered above the credenza was a life-sized portrait of Robert Graves done shortly before his death in 1949. He and Meg were killed when their small plane went down in Nevada on their way to a hunting lodge in Idaho. To the left of the portrait was a framed stock certificate from the company's initial public offering in 1955 that Conor had engineered. It was then the company's name had changed from Graves Industries to Graves Consolidated Industries – GCI. To the right of Graves' portrait was a large black and white aerial photograph of one of the post-war housing developments Conor had invested in. This one, like the four others he had been involved with, contained a street named Annie Lane. An array of model aircraft were displayed on top of the credenza representing contracts for commercial and military plane parts the company garnered since the war ended. On a side wall was a painting made from a photograph showing Billy Compton, Conor and his cousin Michael standing in front of a race horse with a jockey mounted in the saddle. Billy had established a stable breeding thoroughbreds and Michael had gone to work for him as a trainer. A filly Conor had bought from them and named "Lahinch Lassie" had managed to win the Pacific Derby at Hollywood Park in 1951. On the opposite wall was a large oil still life depicting yellow tulips. Next to the credenza a half dozen putters of various shapes and sizes leaned against the wall. On the floor were three golf balls and a putting cup. Sometimes Conor liked to practice putting when trying to think through a problem. Scattered about on the tables were examples of pre-Columbian stone carvings Conor had begun to collect on his visits to Central America. On the desk was an ornately framed color photograph of his late wife, Sylvia. They had married in 1935 much to the delight of her father and mother who were pleased that Conor had so quickly made his mark in the business and would be a suitable heir apparent for the family. Conor had become the son they never had and they were relieved that someone so reliable and resourceful would take care of Sylvia – she having needed taking care of. Her asthma never improved and over the years she was increasingly limited in what she could do. Finally a bout with influenza was followed by pneumonia and she died in the winter of 1962.
On this particular morning Conor sat in that office among his mementoes and wondered just what he was doing. He felt like some forgotten recollection lurking somewhere about his office was haunting him, leading him on. Mitch Aiken and his wife were due there shortly to talk to him about the Southern California Economic Development Advisory Committee and what he could do to help them as a member. But he knew it was just politics. The real reason to name someone to such an ostentatious-sounding group was to get money out of them. He was no fool and he had no intention of investing in a party or a campaign that had no chance. And Goldwater had no chance. On the other hand he had spent the past two weeks finding himself wondering about this Bridie woman. There was something about her so eerily familiar he had to see her again.
At promptly eleven o'clock his secretary announced their arrival on the intercom. As Conor bid she ushered them into the office. Conor was a bit disappointed they had brought along George Phillips. He rose from behind his desk with a smile to greet them and lead them to the sofa and chairs. His secretary took their coffee orders and they sat down and exchanged pleasantries.
Phillips took the lead in explaining the political landscape. They desperately needed money for television time for Goldwater. There was little time left before the election and they had to act now. Money was crucial. Could Conor help?
Bridie watched as Conor sank back in the chair and folded his arms. She could sense what was coming.
"I hear you," Conor said. "But I'm not interested in supporting Goldwater. It's a lost cause. The guy's a fool to say the things he does. And the country's in no mood for a conservative right now. The election was lost when he got the nomination. So, no, I can't help with money for him."
The secretary excused herself as she came back into the office with the coffee service and placed the tray on the table and asked if anyone needed anything else. When assured that was all they needed she left. Conor's remark still hung in the room as they took their coffee.
"I can appreciate your stance," Mitchell finally responded. "It's something we're hearing a lot of. But we also need help down the road. We've got a gubernatorial election in two years. And we think Reagan could be viable, especially after the exposure he got during this campaign. And there's also the issue locally. I could really use you on the economic development committee. We need to stimulate continued growth here in Southern California, and I am committed to showing results before I come up for reelection in '68."
"Well, if it's Reagan we're talking about, that's something else… as is your reelection, for that matter. What would my time commitment be for your committee?"
"We'll meet about every six weeks. It's about helping us identify resources we can use, strategies we can implement to attract more industries here to Southern California. You can really help with your insights into aerospace and real estate."
"I could maybe do that. But I'm probably most interested in Reagan. I like what I hear from him and I like what he had to say the other night at the dinner. We get him in as governor and we'll do more for business than all the committees you could ever dream up."
Phillips grinned and broke in. "I'm glad you liked Reagan's remarks. You know who wrote them, don't you? No one else but Bridie here."
"Really?" Conor said surprised. "You're a speechwriter for Reagan?"
Bridie blushed slightly. "Just that event. It's one of the things I do. Married to Mitch I've gotten pretty involved in politics. So I write and advise and help to make things happen."
"She does more than that," Mitch added. "She's got a real feel for the message and for saying the right things at the right time. We're pretty proud of her,"
"As you should be, it appears." Conor said. Turning to Bridie he asked, "So how does a woman like you become a speechwriter?
I thought politics was a man's world."
She gave a small laugh. "Well, the writing part I come by naturally. My mother is a writer, an author actually. The rest is pretty much just osmosis being married to Mitch."
Maybe it was the laugh. Maybe it was the way her eyes crinkled when she did so. Conor felt a pang in his heart. He began to make a connection. He had to know more. He leaned forward in his chair. "You say your mother is an author. What's her name? What has she written? Anything I might have read?"
Bridie gave a quick glance at Mitch sitting next to her on the couch surprised at Conor's intensity. Turning back to Conor she said, "She's Anna Hyde, although she writes under the name A.C. Harrington. It was her mother's maiden name. You might have read her first book, Tuesday's Caddie. Actually it was based loosely on the time she was a member at Biarritz back when she was young… back before she moved to Chicago. So maybe you read it?"
Conor was struck dumb. He settled back into his chair his hands gripping its arms, a look of shock on his face.
"Are you all right?" Mitch asked.
"Did I say something wrong?" Bridie added.
Conor struggled to compose himself. "No, no, it's all right. It's just I might have known her back then. I was around Biarritz back in those days, you know."
"Oh really?" Bridie replied. "What a coincidence! She wrote about an Irish caddie. I take it you haven't read the book then."
"No, no I haven't."
"Well, you should. I think you'd enjoy it. Especially if you were around Biarritz back then."
"Yes. Yes, I'll have to read it."
"It really launched her career as a novelist. I know it meant a lot to her to write it. It's still my favorite of what she's done."
As Conor's sense of the present returned he realized he had too many questions for the moment. He would allow himself just one. But it turned into two. "So where is she now? Is she married?"
"She and her husband live in Westchester, just outside New York City, although they're in the process of moving to Manhattan. He's actually been her editor for all three of her books."
The dagger piercing his heart turned ice cold. "I see." Then, once again composing himself, he said, "Well, that's wonderful. I'll have to make it a point to read the book." It was time to change the subject. He made a decision. "So you say you're looking ahead to '68. That I may be able to help with."
Mitch grinned. "That's wonderful. We could surely use your help. Did you have anything specific in mind?"
"I'll commit to the advisory committee for whatever that's worth to you," Conor said. "Then maybe after the election I can host some sort of fundraiser for you. I'm sure I have enough friends to make it worth your while. Maybe you can get Reagan to attend and we can split the proceeds between both of you."
Bridie jumped in. "That's perfect. I'm sure with enough lead-time we can get Ronnie involved. And he's always a great draw, especially now after what he did at the convention."
"I'm thinking of something different than the other night. I hate those black tie things. What if we made it some sort of daytime event, you know, for families? Maybe hold it at my ranch out in the Valley or even over at my friend Bill's place. Horse rides, hayrides, barbeque, that sort of thing. Reagan's into horses is he not?"
"Yes he is," Bridie replied again giving him that smile that was so familiar. "I think you have a great idea there. We could call it 'Riding for Reagan' or something like that. And the family angle is perfect. Not to mention the photo opportunities."
"You two have children?" Conor asked.
"Yes, a boy and a girl, eight and six. They'd love a day like that," Bridie assured him.
"Good. Well, let's start from there. You'll work with me on this, right?" Conor said looking at Bridie.
"Oh, sure, if you like. Maybe we can get together soon and talk about setting up a committee. That's usually the best place to start."
"Sounds good. Get in touch with my secretary when you're ready and we'll get it on the calendar," Conor said with a note of finality. Rising from his chair he added, "I'm glad you could come by. I look forward to working with you on this."
The other three took his cue and stood from their seats. Mitch spoke first, "Thank you, Conor, for the chance to talk. I know your help will make a big difference for the party moving forward."
"You're going to need all the help you can get after what Goldwater's doing to it," Conor said derisively.
Conor shook each of their hands then shepherded them to the door. They exchanged final goodbyes and Conor shut the door and leaned back against it eyes closed. He stayed that way for several seconds before moving back behind his desk and sitting down. He opened one of the doors in the credenza and pulled out a bottle and a glass. He poured himself a healthy scotch and took a swig. He replaced the bottle and then turned in his chair to look back into his office. His eyes went from the Calcutta loving cup to the painting of the yellow tulips. Apparently that was the memory that had haunted him all morning. He leaned into his intercom and buzzed for his secretary. When she responded he said, "I need you to get me a book. Harrington is the author. The title is Tuesday's Caddie. I could use it this afternoon. You can do that for me, right?"
"Yes sir, no problem sir," came the reply.
"Good. Now hold my calls until I tell you different."
"Very good, sir."
"Thanks." Conor released the intercom button and leaned back in his chair. He took another sip of his scotch and looked again at the painting of yellow tulips. She was alive and she lived someplace called Westchester. That was something to think about.
(back to top)
Chapter 34
Tuesday's Caddie
Thursday, September 24, 1964
Rather than go to Biarritz for his usual evening drinks, banter and dinner Conor drove home. It had taken whomever his secretary dispatched on the mission the better part of the day to find the book. It had been published four years earlier and, while not a best seller, it had done well enough that there was still a copy on the remainder shelf at a small bookstore in downtown Los Angeles. Tuesday's Caddie lay on the seat next to him as he neared his estate in the Hollywood Hills. He stopped at the entrance and pressed a button under the dashboard to open the wrought iron gate that hung from the two stucco pillars on either side of the drive. A bronze plaque on one proclaimed the estate's name: "Westlake." He glanced at the name as he had done a thousand times before. But this time he felt it connect with meaning. He recalled that day in the park. He was glad he'd named his home after it, especially since someone had since seen fit to change the park's name to MacArthur.
The house itself was huge. Too huge he'd always thought. But Sylvia had loved to entertain and a house big enough to entertain came with a lot of bedrooms. He parked the car in the garage and entered through the kitchen. The maid heard him and met him as he emerged into the dining room. He told her he'd take his dinner in the study. He went straight through the foyer and into his lair. He took off his jacket and tossed it on a chair. He loosened his tie and made himself a drink. He settled into the chair behind the desk and examined the book again. He stared at the picture on the back of the dust jacket. She was still a great beauty. She was older, yes, but her child-like innocence had taken on a regal glow. He opened the back cover and again read the short author's biography with things he'd never known. She was from Iowa. She had gone to Coe College. She had written an entertainment column for the Chicago Tribune. She still played golf. She had two cats. Her husband's name was Nigel.
He put the book down on the desk and looked at the cover as he took another pull on his scotch. It was an illustration showing a woman golfer in period costume posed in her follow through. To the side stood a caddie looking out after the shot, her bag at his side. In the distance on a hill was a grand clubhouse. There was the title and the author's name: A.C. Harrington. No wonder she had been impossible to find. She had too many names.
He remembered how devastated and helpless he had felt wh
en she disappeared after the Calcutta. There was nowhere to look, no one to turn to and no time to pursue her. Given how he knew they would feel, he dared not approach Robert or Meg for help. He did manage to learn that Meg had no idea of what happened to Annie and had never heard from her again after Franklin's death. He knew Annie must have been traumatized by the circumstances of his death, but he could not understand why she had not sought him out for comfort or at least a word of goodbye if leaving was what she must do. He knew only her married name and suspected it would be shed as soon as she got wherever she was going. Still, every time a new phone book was published he would look for a listing for Anna Burke.
A year ago, a year after Sylvia passed away, he had made a concerted effort to track her down. He hired a private investigator and paid him a princely sum only to find out her maiden name was Harper, a fact he could have learned himself had he gone to the Hall of Records and looked up her marriage license. With only that name to go on the thirty-year-old trail went cold. The P.I. had found six Anna Harpers in the country but none of them were his Annie. It was as if she had never existed.
The maid knocked on his door and entered with his dinner on a tray. He picked up the book so she could set the tray in front of him on the desk. He thanked her and she left closing the door behind her. He pulled himself up to the desk, put the napkin on his lap and began taking bites of his meal. He laid the book at the side of the tray and opened it. He turned past the title page and read the dedication: "To Bridie. Some stories have a happier ending then can ever be told." He wondered what that could possibly mean. He took another forkful of his dinner and turned to the first chapter and began to read.
As he read he realized her daughter had been wrong. It was more than a loosely based account of her days at Biarritz. The story was their story, if not embellished a bit with more romanticism than he remembered. Ryan was the Irish caddie, Charlene the ghostwriter with the abusive husband, although he was not a homosexual in this story. Ryan was strong, handsome, quick witted and chivalrous. His accent was like a musical instrument to the ear of the ghostwriter. Charlene had fallen madly in love with her caddie. Their nights together had been rapturous, taking her to places she had never been. Her husband and his girlfriend were killed in a car accident. Ryan and his friend won the Calcutta with Charlene in the gallery. But it was there the story veered. A pretty young scullery maid ran run out from the gallery at the moment of triumph and leapt into Ryan's arms. Charlene was mortified, incensed and instantly aware she had been a fool to believe there was no one else. But she found the strength to put those things aside along with all the embarrassment her husband's death and the ensuing scandal had caused. She too ran out onto the green and embraced her Ryan and kissed him passionately on the lips for all the world to see. And she was right to do so. The maid turned out to be but an overzealous friend.
