Second Love

by Gould, Judith

  To demonstrate, he turned sideways in his chair, held out the lotus cup from which he had been sipping, and deliberately let it drop.

  It hit the floor with a thud and shattered into pieces.

  A pallor spread across Honorable Snake's face. 'A thousand pardons,' he said softly, bowing his head and casting his eyes downward in shame. 'I was speaking of raw clay. Before it is glazed and fired.'

  The lung tao nodded. 'And so did I think, forgetting that eventually all clay must be fired—and that many pieces survive not even the furnace!'

  His voice was soft, but his eyes were steely and unforgiving as he looked around the table at the others.

  'Then which path do you suggest we take?' inquired Honorable Snake.

  The old lung tao steepled fingers as gnarled as ginseng roots. 'The only possible path,' he said.

  'Prune the deadwood, clear the creepers, and watch our tree bloom!' Honorable Snake chortled, his narrowed eyes gleaming. 'Bury the kwai lo like stinking manure! Then use your wife's fifth cousin twice removed to contact the Sicilian, heya?'

  'Exactly.' Honorable Ox bowed his head, then looked up, his face proud. 'Sonny Fong is a most ambitious, clever, and enterprising young man. Unbeknownst to the gambler, he has doggedly followed his every step like a shadow.'

  'Eh? Then he could easily pass a message directly to the Sicilian!'

  'Not directly . . . nor indirectly either.' Seeing their perplexed frowns, the old lung tao explained: 'Arranging it seems to require the intercession of a woman known as Mama Rosa. She is said to be the Sicilian's mother, although that might well be speculation.'

  'But contacting her. That should not prove difficult?'

  'No, not so long as she is willing. She owns a restaurant named after her in Little Italy. I will tell my wife's fifth cousin twice removed to accomplish this most speedily.'

  'Thereby bypassing the diseased kwai lo, making him redundant, and severing the fornicating dog's head and silencing him for eternity!' Honorable Snake nodded with satisfaction.

  'I agree,' the old lung tao said. 'Only by so doing can we achieve harmony, not look over our shoulders, and ensure continued good fortune.'

  He glanced around. 'The time is come. Let us cast our votes. Those in favor of eliminating the kwai lo, use the chop depicting the bird. Those opposed, use the fish.'

  As at their previous meeting, all six of them opened their small teak boxes, selected the appropriate chop, and marked their choices on tiny squares of rice paper. After folding them in half, they ceremoniously dropped them, one by one, into the famille rose bowl in the center of the table.

  'It is done,' said Honorable Snake.

  'The die is cast,' added the old lung tao. 'Honorable Horse, would you graciously do the honors?'

  'With pleasure.' The Burmese, who controlled the major poppy fields of his country, carefully picked up the bowl and upended it, then slowly unfolded the six tiny slips of paper.

  The others leaned across the table and eyed them with curiosity. 'Six birds denoting yes,' said Honorable Ox dryly. 'The majority has spoken,' he announced. 'Sonny Fong shall receive his instructions, and through him, hopefully, so shall the Sicilian. Meanwhile, we will wait to deal with the woman until her husband's death is confirmed. Are there any other questions?' There were none.

  'Good. As in the past, we shall depart at intervals of ten minutes. Honorable Snake, as our gracious host you shall be the last to leave. Please ensure that all evidence of our meeting is destroyed.'

  'Consider it done.'

  Honorable Ox rose painfully to his feet, and the others followed suit. They all bowed formally to one another.

  'May the gods of fortune attend you,' each told the others in parting. The meeting was over.

  Twenty minutes after Honorable Snake departed, an explosion rocked the empty house. The flash fire that followed gutted it completely.

  That it was due to an explosive device, and not a faulty gas line, was never established. The traditional payoff forestalled any investigation.

  11

  'Child! I am excited. This girl brings you good news! Things are happening.'

  Thus spoke Venetia as she strode, all six feet of her, into the hospital room like a commanding general. Her open, floor-length, rubberized khaki duster swirled about her like Rommel's greatcoat, though no commanding general in military history—not Ike, Pershing, Patton, nor the previously mentioned Rommel—had ever worn a coat with quite such authoritative élan or inimitable, fashion-runway flair.

  At Venetia's entrance, Dorothy-Anne instantly sat up straight—too straight and too quickly, judging from the grimace of pain that shot across her face—and that Dr. Burt Chalfin, standing at the foot of her bed, chart in hand, eyed with more than a little concern.

  Not that Dorothy-Anne noticed. Her attention was riveted on Venetia. Had she heard correctly? Or were her ears playing tricks on her?

  Venetia gyrated out of her duster. 'The search parties left at the crack of dawn. Did you hear me, child?' Her husky contralto filled the room. 'Honey! This is what we have been waiting for. This is serious keep-our- fingers-crossed time!'

  Search parties?

  Dorothy-Anne stared at her blankly for a moment. Then the news registered.

  Heaving a sigh of relief, she let her head sink back on the pillows. 'Thank God!' she whispered. 'Let's just pray that it's—not too late . . .'

  'No, no, no!' Venetia scolded, wagging an admonishing finger, her multiple bracelets clunking softly. 'Sugar, I will not have you thinking negative thoughts. No. Just remember what this girl always says . . .'

  She draped her duster over the back of the visitor's chair and took a seat, clad this morning in loose, free-flowing pineapple-fiber trousers, and worn with a sand-colored, crinkle-pleated blouse and a brown leather, alligator-embossed corset belt.

  ' "It's not over until it's over." You know that's always been my motto, honey. And right now it had better be yours, too. Don't you go jumping to any conclusions. I will not tolerate that kind of thinking, child. It is counterproductive.'

  Ashamed of her pessimistic thoughts, Dorothy-Anne dropped her gaze. From out in the hall, she could hear sounds: a gurney rolling rapidly past, followed by the hurried squeaks of rubber-soled shoes; the murmur of hushed voices; a distant cry of pain. Finally she looked back up.

  'You're right,' she said quietly. 'I've been wallowing in self-pity.'

  'Well, now's the time to stop. Because, child, we have got to keep the faith. We have got to think positive.'

  'I've been trying,' Dorothy-Anne sighed. 'God knows, I really have—'

  'Course you have, sugar. And you've been hit with three major whammies. I know that, too.'

  Venetia rose and bent over the bed and hugged Dorothy-Anne, who instinctively moved into the embrace.

  'There, there,' Venetia said softly. She patted Dorothy-Anne's back, kissed her forehead, made maternal little noises.

  'I'm just . . . so scared,' Dorothy-Anne whispered into Venetia's shoulder. 'I-I'm afraid to get my hopes up! It's such an enormous search area . . . and with all the snow that's fallen—feet of it, Venetia, feet!'

  'Girl! Will you stop?' Venetia gave her an affectionate little shake. 'Obviously, you don't realize the scope of the rescue mission that's been mounted.'

  Dorothy-Anne shook her head. 'Nooooo .. .'

  'Which means you haven't been following the news.' Venetia nodded in the direction of the wall-mounted television.

  'God, no!' Dorothy-Anne shuddered. 'I-I can't bring myself to watch in case—' Aghast at her own words, she raised a hand to her mouth.

  'Forget that for now.' Venetia pulled away, took her seat, and crossed one leg over the other. 'Because girl, didn't I tell you things are in the works? Yes, child. They have pulled out all the stops. They have gone that extra mile and then some.' She sat there, swinging her leg back and forth, smiling like the Cheshire cat.

  'What do you mean?'

  Venetia grinned. 'I gather you re
member State Senator Hunt Winslow?'

  Dorothy-Anne smiled. 'How can I forget?'

  'Well, you owe him,' Venetia said. 'Big. He's apparently called in a debt from his counterpart in Colorado, who in turn called a senator who owed him a favor, who—anyway, to cut a long story short, it is like D-Day in the Rockies. Girl, I am serious. They have squadrons of planes—a veritable air force—flying grid-pattern searches right as we speak! Plus, there are armies of searchers—mountaineers, paratroopers, volunteers, specially trained dogs, you name it. That's right, sugar. They've even called out the National Guard.'

  'Good Lord.' Dorothy-Anne could feel her pulse quickening. 'I-I had no idea!'

  Venetia grinned. 'Believe it. Girl, when I say you've got friends in high places, I mean they're in mighty high places!'

  Dorothy-Anne's pale, lackluster features underwent a rapid transformation. One moment, she was lethargic and dispirited; the next, her face literally came alive. She positively glowed with color and vitality, and the sharp, determinedly mischievous glint was back in her eyes.

  She forced herself to draw several deep, sobering breaths to calm herself. In the light of Venetia's revelations, it was easy to get carried away, difficult to remain cool, collected, and level-headed.

  Confronting adversity, she would—must!—show strength and backbone. Become a shining example—for herself, yes. But especially for the children.

  Above all, for them.

  Slowly, stiffly, she drew herself up in bed. Armed with the lantern of hope, she was ready to take on whatever the future held in store. Come what may, she would confront it boldly.

  But she needed to be there. Not to participate in the search itself; that was medically out of the question. But so long as she could wait in the general vicinity, she would feel a lot better . . . .

  She must sign herself out. Gather up the brood—fly to Colorado.

  12

  The piano tinkles from the lounge filtered into the dining room of the Act IV restaurant of the Inn at the Opera, rippling a delicate etude through the civilized lunchtime hush.

  Gloria and Althea had a corner table, where they sat at right angles, looking out at the intimate dining room with its white-clothed tables, Belgian-tapestried walls, gleaming woodwork, and mirrors in ornately carved wood frames. Gloria watched her mother-in-law spear a ladylike morsel of tuna with her fork.

  Althea ate in the European manner, fork in her left hand, knife in the right. She used the blade to push a tiny dab of fried leeks with pink peppercorns and capers atop the tuna.

  'My dear child,' she observed crisply, gesturing with her knife. 'You are not eating.'

  'I'm suddenly not hungry.' Gloria placed her knife and fork in an X across her untouched plate, signifying that she was finished.

  The waiter instantly hurried over. 'Something is not to madame's satisfaction?' he inquired, with much wringing of hands. 'Madame would perhaps like to change her order?'

  'Madame certainly would not!' Gloria retorted snappishly.

  'My daughter-in-law has digestive problems,' Althea said smoothly. 'As for the food, it's superb as always. My compliments to the chef.'

  'Madame is too kind.'

  Relieved, the waiter scurried off with Gloria's plate.

  'Now, why did you have to tell him that?' Gloria groused belligerently.

  Althea swallowed her morsel of tuna. When she spoke, her voice was frosty. 'Must you be so contrary, my dear? Really, such behavior does get to be a trifle boring.'

  'And here I was, trying to liven up the joint. See if I could maybe wake up some of these stiffs. Oh, well.'

  Gloria opened her purse just far enough to reach inside for her cigarette case and lighter without her mother-in-law catching sight of her flask. Putting the purse down, she unsnapped the brushed gold case and selected a cigarette.

  'Put that away,' Althea said quietly. 'You know very well that this is a no-smoking area.'

  Gloria clicked the case shut but kept the cigarette out and tapped it against the brushed gold.

  'So?' She shrugged. 'Why should I care?'

  She started to stick the cigarette between her lips, but she wasn't quite fast enough.

  Quick as a flash, Althea laid down her cutlery and caught Gloria around the wrist. Old lady or no, she had the grip of a smithy. She pulled Gloria's hand down off the table and out of sight.

  Gloria twisted her wrist to free it, but Althea's hold was like a vise.

  Gloria's eyes widened with a kind of surprise. To all outward appearances, Althea seemed remarkably composed. She sat erect and tall, nothing in her carriage or expression hinting at the struggle taking place. But then, she'd had a lifetime's experience having the upper hand, this mother-in-law of hers.

  'Now I suggest you listen, and listen well.' Althea turned her voice up a setting colder, a setting clearer. 'I'm finding these drunken episodes of yours increasingly tiresome.'

  Gloria gave a theatrical sigh. 'Here comes the lecture.'

  'I'm afraid so, my dear. My only regret is that I've obviously waited too long.'

  'So that's what this lunch is all about. I should have guessed.'

  Althea's fingers tightened. 'Now are you, or are you not, going to put that cigarette away?'

  Gloria glared at her.

  Althea's thumb found the sensitive nerve on the inside of Gloria's wrist and applied pressure.

  Gloria clenched her teeth. It was all she could do not to yelp aloud in pain.

  The old lady waited.

  Gloria stared at her with hate-filled eyes.

  'Well?'

  'Oh, all right,' Gloria said truculently.

  Althea waited a few beats, then let go.

  Gloria massaged her wrist and scowled. Once she got the circulation going, she moodily stuck the cigarette back in the case and put it away.

  Althea raised her chin. 'That's better. Thank you, my dear.' A curious kind of triumph shone in her eyes.

  Gloria was seething. She restrained herself by taking deep breaths and mentally chanting the three-word mantra that had kept her going for the last couple of years. Two billion dollars, she reminded herself. Two billion dollars.

  All she had to do was be patient and wait and it would be hers.

  Two billion dollars . . .

  Althea lifted her crystal wineglass and took a sip of Pinot Noir.

  How like the old bitch, Gloria thought bitterly, eyeing her own glass of Calistoga water with disgust. She would limit me to one drink. And then what does she go ahead and do? Guzzles away right in front of me!

  Althea put down the wineglass and resumed eating, fork in her left hand, knife in her right.

  'Now then, my dear. It pains me to have to say this, but you've become the subject of quite a bit of gossip over the past several days.'

  'Only the past several days?' Gloria asked, unable to keep the sarcasm from surfacing.

  Althea took her time chewing and swallowing. 'Everywhere I go, I hear mention of it.' Her eyes were like cobalt drill bits. 'I am, to say the least, quite perturbed.'

  'I think you'll have to be a little more specific, Mother Winslow. I really have no idea what you're talking about!'

  'Then let me refresh your memory. The grand-opening party of the San Francisco Palace.' Althea paused. 'It seems you made quite a spectacle of yourself that night.'

  Again Gloria could feel the outrage boiling up inside her. 'You know what would be nice?' she said tightly.

  Althea raised her eyebrows. 'What, dear?'

  'If people stopped trashing me.'

  'It's your behavior that's caused all this talk, my dear,' Althea said calmly. 'Not Hunt's.'

  'Hunt, Hunt, Hunt!' Gloria gloomed resentfully. 'Christ. He's all you ever think about. Isn't that right, Mother Winslow? Nothing ever matters, except for the way it might affect Hunt?'

  Althea was never one to beat around the bush. 'That's right.'

  'And you'd forgive your precious son anything, wouldn't you?'

  The ol
d lady seemed surprised the question was even posed. 'Why, yes,' she said, 'of course I would. I'm his mother. He's my son.'

  'And me? What does that make me, Mother Winslow? Or shouldn't I ask?'

  'Of course you may ask.' Althea's eyes were bright and steady. 'You're my daughter-in-law. As Hunt's wife, it's up to you to complement your husband.'

  'Complement his image, you mean,' Gloria said bitterly. 'In other words, I'm window dressing. Let me guess where I stand. Somewhere below campaign buttons but above bunting?'

  'Now you're being silly, dear,' Althea said, taking another sip of wine.

  When she put her glass down, the waiter materialized with the chilled, open bottle. With a practiced twist of his wrist, he topped off Althea's glass without spilling a drop.

  Gloria eyed the bottle longingly. 'I wouldn't mind trying a glass of that,' she said.

  The waiter glanced inquiringly at Althea, who dismissed him with: 'Thank you. That will be all.'

  He left with the bottle.

  Gloria could feel her face burning with humiliation and resentment.

  No ice bucket for this table! she thought peevishly. No ma'am! The old bat's got the staff trained to dive through flaming hoops—waiting to be thrown a fish for not serving the young Mrs. Winslow an alcoholic beverage, no doubt. ('She's a lush, you know. It's for her own good, the poor dear.' Tsk, tsk.)

  Christ, how it galled! If the Queen of Toad Hall really cared, she'd have chosen a restaurant without a liquor license. But that would have been too easy.

  Besides which, Gloria suspected, the old biddy doesn't want me totally sober. Not really. She probably thinks I'm easier to control if she can dole out a drink every now and then—so long as it suits her purpose!

  Well, there was more than one way to skin that cat!

  'If you'll excuse me, Mother Winslow,' Gloria said, taking her purse and starting to get up, 'I have to visit the powder room.'

  Althea's smile was frozen. 'I really wouldn't go if I were you, my dear.'