Second Love

by Gould, Judith

  He laughed. 'When you speak to Nanny again, tell her that as soon as we're back I'll give the troops a severe dressing-down.'

  'You!' Dorothy-Anne hooted. 'You, who shamelessly spoils them rotten? That'll be the day!'

  'If I spoil them, it's because I love them,' he said thickly, overcome by a rush of emotion. 'And I love you, too, honey.'

  Suddenly it seemed imperative that he emphasize this, as if he might never have the chance to tell her these words again.

  'I love you no matter what, and more than life itself. You do believe me when I say that, don't you?'

  'D-dar . . . ling?' Her voice rose slightly in pitch. 'What's wrong? Is . . . is it something with the plane?'

  'No, no, no,' he assured her. 'There's nothing wrong with the plane. Why should there be?'

  'I-I don't know. . . . It's just . . . there was something in your tone . . . .'

  'Relax.' He tipped his head back. 'I'm fine and the plane's fine. There's not even the slightest turbulence.'

  'Freddie . . . ?'

  'I'm still here.'

  'I love you, too.' She paused. 'Arrive safely, darling, will you?'

  'Don't I always?'

  'Yes. Of course you do.'

  Freddie hung up, turned his head sideways, and sat there, staring out the porthole.

  Arrive safely . . . .

  Dorothy-Anne had sounded uncharacteristically uneasy—and worried.

  Suddenly he was filled with a powerful sense of foreboding, a prescience of menace he was unable to shake. It was the kind of feeling he got when a storm was brewing and the air was full of electricity, or he awoke in the middle of the night, wondering what it was that had disturbed his sleep.

  He stared out at the star-spattered night. The jet was hurtling through a darkness as clear as crystal and deeper than death, its wings calcimined by platinum moonlight. The thick sea of clouds below was silvery, and he could make out the aircraft's tiny, distorted faint shadow racing across them. The engines hummed confidently.

  How silly of me, he chided himself. Everything's fine. Nothing's going to happen to me.

  Gradually, he began to feel calmer. His heart slowed, and the sense of foreboding seemed to lessen its grip on him.

  Suddenly there was a loud ca-rack! and the little jet pitched to starboard.

  Freddie grabbed the armrests of his seat. The IBM ThinkPad crashed to the carpet, and loose objects went flying around the cabin.

  What the hell—?

  The jet slowly straightened.

  Freddie's hands trembled as he depressed the intercom button. 'What happened?' he demanded hoarsely.

  'Sorry, Mr. Cantwell,' the pilot said calmly over the speaker, so calmly he might have been parking a car in a garage. 'We had it on autopilot. We're on manual now. Wouldn't hurt if you fastened your seat belt, though.'

  'But—'

  'Just turbulence, sir. Nothing to worry about.'

  Freddie buckled up. Just turbulence, he told himself. Nothing to worry about—

  And then it happened again. Another CA-RACK! but a lot louder than the first. The plane lurched again, this time pitching to port. But instead of straightening, it continued to spin around, whirling sickeningly around and around like some carnival ride from Hell.

  Freddie's heart was in his throat. He couldn't understand what had gone wrong. The plane was always kept in tiptop condition. Mechanics swarmed over it regularly. No expense was spared.

  Then suddenly he became aware of the silence . . . the sudden, horrible silence.

  The engines had died, and without their thrust the jet was no longer propelled forward but cartwheeling straight down in a freefall, whistling as it plunged silently through the night like a whirling bomb, down, down, down through the clouds, and Freddie knew this was the last flight he'd ever take, and suddenly he could no longer hold his screams inside.

  2

  Dorothy-Anne stood alone on the rooftop. Up here, forty-three floors above street level, the wind whipped and cleaved, and despite the cashmere throw she'd wrapped around herself, the chill cut through to the bone.

  It was hours since the fog, driven by a Pacific wind, had rolled in through the Golden Gate. Night had fallen. Alcatraz, Tiburon, Sausalito—even the great swagged bridge spanning the bay—all their lights were obscured by that impenetrable blanket of gray from which foghorns resounded mournfully, like drowned sailors calling up from the haunted deep.

  Beyond the railing of the terrace, the bright windows of the financial district's towers came and went, as though viewed through layers of slow- moving scrims. In this setting, it was easy to imagine herself in a ghostly gondola, floating in midair through an eerily lit, unpopulated metropolis. It was an image both beautiful and menacing, like an opera set remembered from some lost and half-forgotten dream, but it didn't disturb her; this was her building—hers. With it she had left her mark on yet another city's skyline, had expanded her globe-girdling empire by another notch.

  Like a spirit, she glided southward along the terrace, past the lighted sliding glass doors of the penthouse, tendrils of fog swirling around her, ethereal ribbons of vapor reaching out, only to vanish into nothingness when touched.

  For a while she stood there and gazed south, in the direction of the airport, as if through will alone she could conjure Freddie's helicopter from out of the mist and set it safely down atop the penthouse roof.

  Odd, the fanciful spells such an evening can weave, even upon a realist unused to daydreaming. Standing there, buffeted by the icy damp scalpel of the wind, Dorothy-Anne could have sworn that this enchantment had been specially concocted for her own pleasure.

  A silly notion, but in such unearthly surroundings nothing seemed impossible, no whim too far-fetched. Not even to a woman with both feet rooted firmly in the ground. And Dorothy-Anne's were, as her many acquaintances and few intimates could attest; she was practical and killer sharp.

  She was also a provocative beauty.

  Dorothy-Anne Cantwell was thirty-one years old. She had wheat gold hair, which she was wearing pulled back in a French twist for the formality of the grand opening. Brilliant aquamarines for eyes, truly beautiful lips, a stubborn chin, and a profile lifted straight from a cameo. She was five feet ten inches tall, slight of build—no one would call her voluptuous—and had a long-waisted body and legs that went forever.

  But she was more than just a pretty face.

  Dorothy-Anne Cantwell had inherited an empire and had built it into something even bigger. In fact, according to Forbes, Dorothy-Anne Cantwell was the richest woman in America. Some said the world.

  All that talk about money never fazed her. Like Mount Everest, the fortune was simply there. To her, it was a business like any other, and she worked her fanny off to steer it through treacherous financial waters. The fact that the Hale Companies consisted of hotels, resorts, a cruise line, apartment complexes, service industries, and investments in one hundred foreign countries, and that she was worth an estimated $7.8 billion had not gone to her head.

  On the contrary. She saw herself as a businesswoman responsible for the livelihoods of tens of thousands of employees and as the temporary custodian of her children's birthright. For Dorothy-Anne had inherited her great-grandmother's shining sense of values and was, above all, a devoted wife and mother.

  In a toss-up, family always came first.

  Which was why she moved heaven and earth to keep out of the public eye, and why, to date, she'd never granted a single interview.

  It wasn't that she was shy. In guarding her privacy, she was motivated solely by a deep maternal instinct and the firm belief that families thrive best outside the glare of publicity.

  Protecting her children from the great unwashed public had always been her primary concern. That she achieved this at the expense of her own social life seemed a small enough price to pay.

  She had never regretted it.

  But tonight, all that was going to change. She sighed to herself. Tonight, tonight.
She was making her first exception tonight. And only because of Freddie's powers of persuasion.

  'We've got to have a splashy opening,' he'd argued. 'This hotel cost three hundred and fifty mil—a twentieth of our total assets. If we don't start packin' 'em in, we'll be in deep shit. We need publicity, and unless we pull out all the stops . . . '

  She had tried to dissuade him.

  'You know we're overleveraged, honey,' he'd told her gently. 'Right now, our worldwide revenues barely cover our debts.'

  Naturally, he'd refrained from verbalizing the reasons. There'd been no need to. Nor was it Freddie's style to point fingers. There'd been no need to do that, either.

  She knew who was to blame.

  Me, she thought. I overrode his objections on this project, just as I turned a deaf ear to his advice against expansion. The decisions were mine to make, and I made them.

  And so . . . she'd gone out on a limb with rapid—too rapid, as it turned out—expansion into emerging markets, mainly in Eastern Europe and the former Soviet Union. It had been a costly but, in her view, justified gamble. There was a new world order. Getting a jump on the competition only made sense.

  However, she hadn't anticipated the political turmoil that would break out in various hot spots around the world, and that was now jeopardizing the company's financial well-being.

  We're overleveraged . . .

  God, but she hated that term! If only she'd heeded Freddie's counsel!

  But I didn't, so it's no use crying over spilt milk. What's done is done . . . and cannot be undone.

  She was not used to being cornered. It was an entirely new experience, and she didn't like it one damn bit.

  Dorothy-Anne's features abruptly tightened. The aquamarine eyes in the smooth unlined face had hardened, were flinty, determined, stubborn with resolve, and distinctly at odds with her innate femininity. Her beauty had been accidental, the result of an exceptional gene pool; her head for business could be traced back to her great-grandmother; but her toughness in the face of adversity came from an inner resource all her own.

  She drew a deep breath, her nostrils flaring.

  Overleveraged!

  A few weeks ago, another hot spot had ignited, this one in Latin America. Freddie had flown down to reconnoiter the situation, and she'd been sick with worry for his safety, the fate of the beautiful beachfront hotel, and the well-being of its staff. The Gulf War was still fresh in her mind—always would be, ever since she'd toured the fire-blackened shell of the once proud Kuwait City Hale, a total write-off, thanks to Mr. Saddam Hussein. But even worse were the people out of work, the employees who had been slaughtered, the wives of slain breadwinners beseeching her for help.

  It was then that she'd established the Hale Foundation, whose aim was specifically targeted to help the employees and their families in times of crises.

  When Freddie returned from Latin America, they'd sat down and had their talk. 'We're overleveraged, honey.'

  Overleveraged. It was the first time he'd ever used that word in regard to Hale Companies.

  'All right,' she said quietly, raising her head. 'So what do you suggest we do?'

  'The only things we can do, which is what every major corporation's doing. Downsizing. Slashing costs. Running a tighter ship. Pruning unprofitable operations. Laying off several thousand—'

  'Layoffs!' She was aghast.

  'That's right,' he said reasonably. 'If we do all those things, there's no reason why we shouldn't weather this crisis.'

  'And if we don't take such drastic actions?' she half whispered.

  'Then our only alternative is to raise cash through a public stock offering.'

  'You must be joking!' She was shocked.

  'If only I were.'

  'Freddie! You know I can never let that happen!' She swept her hands through the air, as if wiping an invisible window. 'This is a private company. It always has been, and always will be—at least so long as I have anything to say about it!'

  'There's one more thing,' he said softly.

  More?

  She slumped back in her chair and rubbed her forehead wearily with her thumb and forefinger. 'All right. Hit me with it.'

  He tightened his lips grimly. 'On the flight back, I stopped off at the Eden Isle Resort. Just to see how things were progressing.'

  She lowered her hand to her lap and looked at him warily. 'And?'

  He sighed heavily. 'It doesn't look good. The project's way behind schedule. Worse, it's sucking us dry.'

  She nodded. 'We knew from the start it was going to cost big bucks.'

  'I know that. But we've sustained a lot of heavy losses that insurance won't cover.'

  She stared at him. 'Freddie? Just what are you trying to say?'

  He was silent for a moment. 'In my opinion, we should put a moratorium on Eden Isle. At least for the time being.'

  She gasped. 'Are you mad? Freddie! We can't stop now! Not after pouring two hundred and fifty million dollars into it!'

  'You're forgetting something,' he said tightly. 'To finish it, it's going to cost another three quarters of a billion. Minimum.'

  She looked down at her hands. They were trembling as she clutched them in her lap.

  'I can't imagine stopping in midstream,' she said quietly. 'Besides, Eden Isle's always been your pet project!'

  'Tell me about it.' He bared his teeth. ' "Freddie's Folly." That's what it should be called!'

  'Aren't you being a little harsh on yourself? Or have you forgotten? We're in this together.'

  He laughed bitterly. 'Yeah, thanks to me! If I hadn't been so hepped up on it—'

  'Stop it,' she said firmly. 'I was just as hepped up on it as you were. As a matter of fact, I still am.'

  'I say we cut our losses, get out, and write it off.'

  She raised her chin. 'No. I won't give up that easily.'

  'And what do we use for money, pray tell?'

  'Really, Freddie!' She laughed with genuine amusement. 'When will you ever learn? I've got more than I know what to do with!'

  'No, you don't.' He shook his head soberly. 'You need it as a cushion. What if some other tragedy pops up, and the company's cash flow's interrupted?' He stared into her eyes. 'What then?'

  'If you'd rather, we'll borrow what we need. From the bank.'

  'Are you saying we should borrow seven hundred and fifty million?'

  She shrugged. 'Why not? What other choice do we have?'

  He sighed and shrugged. 'It's your call.'

  'And I've called it. Is there anything else?'

  'As a matter of fact, yes. But you won't like this, either.'

  'So? Just spit it out. At least this way we can get it out of the way.'

  He looked uncomfortable. 'It concerns the grand opening of the San Francisco Palace.'

  'And?'

  He drew a deep breath. 'Due to the losses we've suffered,' he said, tight-lipped, 'it's time to start pulling out all the stops.'

  She frowned. 'I'm not sure I quite follow you. Darling, you'll have to be a little more specific.'

  'Okay.' He hesitated. 'It would help a lot if you became more visible.'

  'More visible?' she repeated, the corners of her lips turning down even further. 'What the devil's that supposed to mean?'

  'Simply that beginning with the grand opening of the San Francisco Palace, it would help enormously if you'd do some publicity. You know . . . put a face to this company? Show its human side?'

  Dorothy-Anne stared at him. 'Publicity?' Her whisper was raw. 'You want me to do publicity?'

  He nodded.

  'I've spent years working to stay out of the public view.' Her aquamarine eyes seemed to turn into the color of blue-gray steel. 'Now I'm suddenly supposed to throw myself out there?'

  'It would help,' he said simply. 'Yes.'

  For the first time in her adult life she felt helpless and adrift, as though her destiny had been taken out of her hands and she was being guided by unseen forces. Her voice was a tremol
o. 'Oh, Christ, Freddie!'

  He sighed. 'I knew you wouldn't like it,' he said gently. 'But it's no longer a matter of choice, honey. It's a matter of survival.'

  So much for my rules of never appearing in public or granting interviews, Dorothy-Anne thought sardonically.

  What it boiled down to was throwing open the sluice gates she had so carefully erected . . . and inviting the sharks in to feed.

  She sighed to herself. It was either that, going public, or imperiling Great-Granny's legacy and permitting the children's inheritance to shrink.

  What would Great-Granny have done? she asked herself, but she already knew the answer to that. She'd have chosen the lesser of three evils and done whatever it takes. Just as I will.

  She sighed deeply. 'All right, Freddie. If I have to dance with the devil,' she said with resignation, 'so be it.'

  Now, on the rooftop of the San Francisco Palace, Dorothy-Anne stood resolute as a rock, her eyes searching the foggy skies, her ears straining, in vain, to hear the clamor of a helicopter. The wind tugged at her, kept rearranging the scrims of fog so that they were constantly in motion, the eerie yellow lights in the buildings all around brightening and dulling in undulating waves, like never-ending brownouts and power surges on the set of some cosmic theater.

  What's keeping Freddie? The fog? Is it too thick for the helicopter? Is he being driven in from the airport by limousine?

  God, but this waiting was unbearable! How she longed for Freddie's comforting embrace and his strength! And never had she needed it more. Plus, there was the surprise she had in store for him.

  She couldn't wait to see his expression when she told him: 'I'm pregnant, darling. I'm carrying our fourth child.'

  Oh, she wished he would hurry! Why wasn't he here already? It was getting late. If he didn't arrive soon, she'd have to go downstairs and face the feeding frenzy on her own.

  Beside her, one of the large glass doors slid open and floor-length white sheers billowed out into the night like ghosts.

  'Girl!' scolded a husky contralto, and Venetia Flood parted the sheers and stepped out onto the terrace. 'You're going to catch your death if you don't get back inside!'