“Where and what is Xanadu?”
“It’s a nifty ranch in southwest Colorado. Peter bought it last year.”
“We must have a bad connection,” Christy said. “I thought I heard you say ‘ranch’ and ‘nifty’ in the same breath.”
“The West has changed. People are much more aware of the primal forces of the land than they were when we were growing up.”
Christy grimaced while the intercom buzzed. Her sister’s words had the cadence of a publicity release, something memorized and then repeated often enough to remove the natural rhythms.
“You’ll see when you get here,” Jo-Jo said.
The intercom stopped buzzing.
“What are you talking about?” Christy asked.
“You’re coming to Xanadu.”
“What?”
“Hasn’t your boss told you?” Jo-Jo asked. “I figured it was all set up by now. That’s why I tried to get hold of you before you left.”
“I left, but not for Colorado. I’ve spent the last two weeks on vacation.”
The intercom buzzed again. Christy wondered if it was her boss, trying to tell her what Jo-Jo already had.
“When you come,” Jo-Jo said in a rush, “you might hear some things about me that aren’t true.”
Christy became very still. Her instincts told her that Jo-Jo was finally getting down to the reason she’d opened up the lines of communication after twelve years.
“I’ve made some enemies,” Jo-Jo said. “Men. You know….”
“No, I don’t. Men are crazy for you.”
“Yeah, well, that can be a problem. Some don’t like it when you say no or yes. Some get really pissed. Like Cain.”
“Who?”
“Aaron Cain. So stay away from Cain when you come here. Do you hear me? He hates me now. He’s not safe.”
“You’re not making any sense. What’s wrong?”
This time there was no question in Christy’s voice. It was a flat demand, big sister to little.
“I’ll give you Gramma’s necklace if you get here in three days,” Jo-Jo said. “I need you.”
The line went dead.
Christy stared uneasily at the phone, wondering how much of what Jo-Jo had said was truth and how much was lies. As a teenager, Jo-Jo had had a taste for psychodrama and a malicious flair for involving others in her adrenaline head trips.
Yet the undercurrent of fear in her sister’s voice had seemed very real.
It couldn’t have been, Christy thought. I must be wrong. It’s been twelve years. I don’t know her anymore.
Then she shook her head and stopped trying to lie to herself. She’d held Jo-Jo through too many long hours while nightmares shook the beautiful golden-haired child. Christy knew what her sister sounded like when she was afraid.
And Jo-Jo was afraid now.
Chapter 2
The intercom buzzer shrilled, dragging Christy back into the world of Horizon magazine. She punched in the button and spoke automatically.
“McKenna here.”
“About time,” said Amy, the editorial secretary. “Myra is on me every three seconds. She wants you in her office.”
“Now?” Christy asked. “Technically, I’m still on vacation.”
“You should have left word where you’d be while you were gone.”
“The point of a vacation is to take time off.”
“Tell it to Myra.”
Christy hung up and gathered herself for the showdown to come.
Myra was no friend. She represented a certain stratum of Manhattan—smooth, polished as a marble sphere, and just as warm.
The fundamental differences between Christy and Myra were reflected in everything from their politics to their clothes. Myra followed trends. Christy analyzed them. Myra wouldn’t wear anything that hadn’t been approved by the very fashion world Horizon covered. Christy had long since realized that what models wore wasn’t necessarily what looked good on her.
The intercom buzzed again, a harsh reminder that Myra was waiting.
With a silent curse at office politics, Christy headed for the managing editor’s suite. She hesitated outside Myra’s door, then opened it and stuck her head in.
“You called?” Christy asked.
Startled, Myra looked up from the stack of color prints on her desk. She scowled and snatched a pair of tortoiseshell glasses from her nose, as if annoyed at being caught using them.
“I didn’t hear your knock,” Myra said.
“Sorry. I gave it up after Howard threatened to fire me on grounds of formality.”
Myra smiled rather grimly as she straightened her pastel jacket over her dainty print skirt. Both were Peter Hutton designs. She lifted her manicured hand to the single strand of pearls she wore, letting the silence build while she counted the beads of her WASP rosary. While her fingers moved slowly, she eyed Christy’s clothes—no-name jeans, cotton shirt, and a faded black blazer.
“Were you out on the pistol range playing Annie Oakley again?” Myra asked coolly.
“We can’t all be brave and wealthy enough to choke muggers with a rope of pearls.”
“Unless other arrangements have been made in advance,” Myra said coldly, “staff is expected to be in the office by nine, and dressed for business.”
Silently Christy prayed for Howard’s rapid recovery. “Of course,” she said aloud. “I was counting this as a vacation day. I still have more than a month coming to me.”
Myra’s smile was as cool and perfect as her pearls. “Would you shut the door and sit down, dear?”
Christy shut the door, sat down, and waited, knowing she wouldn’t like what was coming next.
“Howard died yesterday,” Myra said.
Pain twisted through Christy, surprising her with its intensity. Three times in the past twenty months, Howard Kessler had been hospitalized with complications from AIDS. Each time he’d recovered and returned to work, thinner and more frail, yet with renewed wit and sharpened sensibility. As a result, the staff had believed that Howard would beat the odds and survive until a cure was found.
Christy tried to speak, but knew her voice would break. She closed her eyes for a few seconds, fighting for self-control.
“Tomorrow,” Myra said, “I will be named editor in chief.”
“Congratulations,” Christy managed.
Myra looked at her for a long moment, then nodded. “Thank you. Although we’ve had our, ah, differences in the past, I’m certain things will run smoothly in the future.”
Christy nodded and said nothing. She was still caught in the painful moment of discovering the depth of her feelings for Howard. She’d been very different from him, but they had been bound together by a shared fascination with the ways human beings use clothing, jewelry, and objets d’art to express their own unique and individual selves.
“We will be doing things a bit differently now,” Myra said. “I’m rethinking your piece on diamonds. I feel it was a bit too gushy when it came to the nouveau…”
She paused, looking for the right French word.
It didn’t come.
Christy didn’t offer to fill up the silence.
“Your provincial prejudice against tradition and continental sophistication was just too obvious,” Myra said finally.
Christy felt her temper gnawing through her self-control. First Myra quietly gloated over Howard’s death, then she attacked a piece of writing that Howard had regarded as one of Christy’s best.
“The article was designed to showcase some of the exciting new Pacific Rim jewelry designers,” Christy said evenly. “Was I too kind to the new kids, or was I too hard on some of the high-priced hacks who advertise with us?”
“Are you suggesting that an advertiser could pressure me?”
“They wouldn’t have to. As Howard so often pointed out in staff meetings, you have a gift for celebrating the costly mundane.”
Myra’s narrow mouth flattened into a line of distaste. “Your unneces
sarily hostile piece on the makers, buyers, and sellers of important jewelry will go on the hook for the time being. I have something much more meaningful for you to work on.”
Deliberately she straightened and folded her small hands on the desk, waiting for a reaction.
Christy did her best not to show what she felt. Most of the anger she felt was at herself. She’d been naïve at best and stupid at worst. She’d assumed that good work and an enviable reputation for intelligence, integrity, and taste would assure her editorial freedom.
She’d been wrong. Her decade of hard work at Horizon was as fragile as a giant shimmering soap bubble.
And Myra Best was sitting with a needle ready in her hand.
“Sounds irresistible,” Christy said neutrally. “What is it?”
“Horizon has become too unpredictable, too undisciplined, too tangential,” Myra said quickly. “Our readers aren’t interested in bizarre little trends and no-name Japanese designers who might or might not be in business tomorrow.”
She looked at Christy.
Christy looked back at her.
“We must pay closer attention to the best-known people in fashion and design,” Myra said. “Those are the names the public recognizes, because they are the names on the labels the public buys.”
“And those are the labels that advertise most heavily in our pages. Friends helping friends,” Christy said, remembering Jo-Jo’s blunt summary of how business was done.
“Advertiser influence has nothing to do with it! If you even hint at such a thing again inside or outside this office, you will be fired. And then you will never work again in fashion in this city.”
Christy didn’t doubt it. Myra had connections that went back farther than the Mayflower. Christy had nothing but intelligence, a flair for style, and the discipline to make it all work.
“Do we understand each other?” Myra asked.
“Completely.”
There was a tight silence. Then Myra nodded slightly and went back to her carefully prepared presentation, the one she’d given to every staff member who mattered to the magazine’s future.
“Horizon is one of the great fashion magazines of the world. Naturally the greatest designers advertise in our pages. Inevitably those same designers will create new styles that will take the international fashion community by storm. Peter Hutton is a case in point.”
Myra paused and looked narrowly at Christy. “You don’t approve.”
“I haven’t seen his new designs. How can I approve or disapprove?”
Spots of color appeared on Myra’s pale cheeks. “My dear, why don’t you put that shrewd little Irish brain to work on pulling with me instead of against me?”
“Scots,” Christy said evenly.
“What?”
“I have a shrewd little Scots brain.”
“Irrelevant,” Myra said, waving her hand. “My entire point is that Horizon must move in a new direction, and I am telling you what that direction will be.”
Christy braced herself.
“We will record megatrends, not obscure Japanese or South American metalworkers,” Myra said. “We will showcase the design studios and designers whose work is sold in every world capital and whose fashions are worn on the most exclusive streets in Paris, New York, London, Rome, and even—God forbid—Los Angeles and Tokyo.”
Christy had told herself she wouldn’t argue, but she couldn’t let that one by. “Peter Hutton isn’t the first name most people would have chosen for a piece on the best of international design. He’s hardly at the top of his game anymore.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Sales are down in his own stores, retail chains are reluctant to feature his lines, and there have been rumors that—”
“Nonsense,” Myra cut in. “This industry is always full of groundless rumors. Peter Hutton is the most recognized name in contemporary American fashion. You see his logo everywhere.”
“Yes. Everywhere.”
Myra frowned delicately, not liking the reminder that a designer couldn’t be exclusive and at the same time be sold in shopping malls across America.
“Peter is on the verge of announcing an exciting, entirely new line,” Myra said firmly.
Christy waited.
“I’ve previewed some of the materials and motifs,” Myra said. “I’m convinced this will be his biggest success yet. It will also be a Horizon exclusive.”
As Christy listened, she felt her whole life slipping out of control. Myra had already decided what Horizon’s position on Hutton’s new collection would be. She was expecting praise for a designer whose work had become increasingly marginal, humdrum, and predictable.
“I know you’ll do a wonderful job of capturing the spirit of Peter’s bold new venture and delivering its excitement to our readers,” Myra concluded.
Her smile dared Christy to object.
Christy wanted to, but the memory of Jo-Jo’s plea was too fresh.
Jo-Jo, what have you gotten me into? Christy asked in silent bitterness. I should tell this smug-faced piece of Brie to lie down in traffic on Fifth Avenue.
But she couldn’t. All she could do was pray that she found a new job before Myra ruined her old reputation.
Maybe Peter Hutton has rediscovered his original vision.
Maybe pigs sing.
“That’s an interesting idea,” Christy said aloud.
It was her all-purpose response to certain types of modern art and music.
Myra smiled with real relief. “Thank you for signing on with the new program. Your reputation within the avant fashion elite will be a boon to Horizon.”
“And Hutton?”
Myra frowned. “Amy has your plane reservations on her desk.”
“Isn’t Hutton showing in Manhattan?”
“No, no. His preview showing will be in the same place where his vision first came. A place called Xanadu. Rather like the Native Americans and their vision quests.”
“Did the Indians smoke opium?” Christy asked.
“What?”
“Coleridge did.”
Myra gave Christy a blank look and returned to her own agenda. “I expect you to generate copy and coordinate with photographers for a package that will be due here in Manhattan in thirteen—no, twelve and a half days.”
“That’s not much time to research a story of this magnitude.”
“You’ll find a research file with your tickets. If you read quickly, you should be fully briefed by the time your plane leaves tomorrow. If not, there’s always the plane trip itself. Coach class is so boring.” She smiled brightly. “Do keep in touch, darling. It’s so annoying to track you down like some kind of international rock star. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have so much to do. Howard let everything slide, poor dear.”
Myra picked up a stack of glossy color photos and began sorting through them.
Christy left the office without a word.
As soon as she closed the door behind her, Christy stood and tried to control the shaking of her hands. After several slow, deep breaths, she headed for her office, mentally revising her résumé and drawing up a list of job prospects.
The list was frighteningly short. Jobs like hers were made by an editor/mentor. She didn’t have one anymore. It would take time to find a new one. If she could. People with Howard’s rapier mind and unerring taste were rare.
But she couldn’t worry about that now. First on her worry list was Jo-Jo and Xanadu.
And the fear in her sister’s voice.
Chapter 3
La Guardia Airport
Friday night
Christy waited in the airport with her bag at her feet. Every few seconds she glanced at her watch and looked in the window of her cell phone. Not that Nick would call her. To him the cell phone was sacred for business. The rest of life could be reached over landlines.
“Come on, Nick,” she muttered. “If you aren’t through customs real soon, we’ll barely have time to say hello before I hav
e to run for my own plane.”
It wouldn’t be the first time. Nick Warren was an international investment banker whose one real passion was making deals. He’d spent the past three weeks in London, negotiating yet another addition to his bank account.
A glance at her watch told Christy that she had eleven minutes before she had to run. The window of opportunity between Nick’s arrival and her departure was closing. There wouldn’t be time to say hello, much less to talk about something as personal as a secret sister.
The first-class passengers filed slowly in from customs, then past the secure area to the terminal where Christy waited. Nick was the third person off the plane. Normally a stylish man, at the moment he resembled a street person. His pima cotton shirt was rumpled from neck to tail. His trouser legs looked like broken accordions.
He smiled wearily at her. “You look as tired as I feel, Christa. Don’t tell me you were awake all night too?”
She forced herself to smile. Nick’s greeting was so like him, civilized and dispassionate, disdaining the use of her nickname no matter how many times she told him that she preferred being called Christy.
She gave him a quick, light kiss. He brushed a kiss over her forehead in return.
“Hi,” she said. “Other than that, how was your trip?”
“Worth every bit of your temper when I missed your vacation,” he said with satisfaction.
Her smile slipped, but she didn’t say anything about Nick’s broken promise to spend a couple quiet weeks with her. She’d hoped the time would lead to the next step in their relationship.
And it had. It just hadn’t been in the direction she’d thought.
“I heard about Howard in London,” Nick said. “I’m sorry.”
“Myra isn’t. She’s the boss now.”
“Too bad. This isn’t a good time to be looking for another job. Everyone is cutting back and playing safe.”
“I’ve noticed. Come on, I’ll walk you as far as the security checkpoint.”
For the first time Nick saw the carry-on bag at Christy’s feet.
“Going somewhere?” he asked.
“New assignment. Colorado. Rush job.”
He frowned. “But I haven’t seen you for weeks.”
The Secret Sister Page 2
