Fortune's Hand

by Belva Plain

  “And how is Julie? I still feel as though I know her, although I probably haven’t seen her more than six times through all these years.”

  “Oh, do I talk about her that much?”

  “Not really. It’s not so much what you say that explains her to me, but the way your face is; yours and Robb’s are illumined when you speak of her.”

  “I suppose the—the difference—has most to do with the way we see her. And yet—well, she is such a sensitive, plucky child, such a joy. It can’t be easy for her in our house, and yet she thrives. Perhaps you would like to visit us sometime? Some Sunday, to spend a family Sunday with us? This one coming, perhaps?” she asked as they separated.

  “That sounds very nice. Thank you, I will.”

  “I’ll check with Robb and let you know first. I’m never sure what he’s doing until he gets home at night and tells me.”

  “Of course I’ve no objection,” Robb said. “He’s a very decent person, Phil Lawson, and interesting company, too, I imagine.”

  “Philip. He likes to be called Philip. Penn calls him that.”

  “Okay. But we can’t make it this Sunday. Eddy’s got somebody he wants us to meet. It’s a luncheon, at a country club.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Eddy. Unless he’s recently gotten a serious relationship and wants to introduce her.”

  Robb laughed. “No, not Eddy. Nothing like that. It’s his boss, Devlin. Dick Devlin, the powerhouse. He wants me to meet him.”

  “Can’t you get out of it? From Eddy’s description of the man, he doesn’t sound all that interesting. I’d much rather have Philip here.”

  “No, really, it’s for my benefit. A good connection. By the way, Eddy says it’s fancy. You should dress accordingly.”

  Ellen was amused. “Meaning what? Any suggestions?”

  “Good Lord, how do I know? Whatever women wear at fancy luncheons.”

  “I haven’t been at a luncheon, fancy or unfancy, for the last umpteen years.”

  “Well, wear anything. You’ll be the most beautiful woman there no matter what you wear.”

  She wore, on Sunday, brown linen, very plain, pinning to it her grandmother’s gold-and-emerald brooch, which was definitely not plain. Not willing to depend upon Eddy’s judgment, she was having it both ways.

  “Your grandmother must have known there’d be a green-eyed girl in the family someday,” Robb said. “Come look at yourself.”

  Together, they stood in front of the pier glass. She studied the picture they made. She was still young, and had scarcely changed. Her ebony hair, which curved into large, plump waves, was longer now than it had been years before when Robb had likened her curly head to the picture of a Greek athlete in one of his textbooks. It had never been frizzy; her mother had been so worried that it would be! Her face was too long, and her chin, she believed, was too sharp seen in profile, but the total effect was rather nice nevertheless. Anyway, Robb thought so.

  As for him, she was seeing now in the clear moonlight a man whose “country boy” quality had vanished without a trace. This new man was a concentration of energy, a runner on the starting line. She saw it in his eyes and his stance; she could almost hear it in his voice.

  “Maybe I’m looking too far ahead, but I’ll tell you what I’m after. I want to get a part of Devlin’s business thrown our way. Only a part would be a bonanza for the firm, and for me. I’d be a rainmaker.”

  “ ‘Rainmaker’! ‘Bonanza’!” she mocked affectionately.

  “Don’t laugh. I’m laying a foundation for us.”

  “Darling, I never laugh at you. I’m just remembering the boy I married, and I’m feeling tender.”

  “Let’s go. It’s not far. We’ll be home early and have a long night to make the most of. I’ve been so darn busy that—”

  Their nights had been short all week, and as a matter of fact, for several weeks before that. They had been too short for what Robb meant: leisurely, loving hours together in their big, old bed.

  “Tonight,” she said. “I want to.”

  The road was a winding tunnel between dark walls of expensive shrubbery. Then suddenly it veered upon a broad spread of lawn with old specimen trees, and in mid-distance, an imposing brick house with two lower wings on either side of a fine entrance and a porte cochere.

  “Here we are. Glen Eyre Club. It used to be the Armstrong mansion. He was the governor forty-five years ago before he went to the Senate. Half the politicians in the state belong to the club now.”

  These were not the people the Grants knew. Grants would never belong here any more than they would have voted for Armstrong or would vote for his current equivalent. These were a pushy, ostentatious lot. Then she corrected herself: Reverse snobbishness, the patched elbow stuff, the ten-year-old suit, are as bad as ostentation, Ellen. So she put on a cordial smile and walked inside.

  The rooms, as expected, were spacious, with portraits, mirrors, a good deal of comfortable leather furniture and autumn flowers, chrysanthemums and dahlias everywhere. Eddy, the accomplished pilot, steered them onto the terrace where buffet tables had been set up beneath awnings, and stewards in white moved about with trays of drinks. On his search for Dick Devlin, Eddy, with Ellen and Robb behind him, was stopped after every few steps for greetings. The sun flashed over pastel silks and pearls; Eddy had rightly used the word “fancy.” With longing, Ellen looked toward the trees, where it would be comfortable to sit down in the shade.

  They came upon Devlin surrounded by eager faces at the bar, where Eddy, making his way past them all, made the introductions.

  “Well, I finally got him here. My best friend, Robb MacDaniel. We went to law school together, remember? He’s with Fowler, Harte and Fowler.”

  “I don’t forget,” Devlin said.

  “And Mrs. MacDaniel. Ellen.”

  She was measured. Devlin’s shriveled eyes were as hard as black olives, or as the stones within them. They moved down her length and returned to her face. She gave him back in full measure, missing nothing: the cheeks flat and white as a slab of uncooked pork, the big red ham hands, the whole beefy body. Meat.

  “My missus,” he said. “Olivia.”

  She looked down at a very small woman in violent red-and-black checks. Her shoulder-length hair was colored a yellow never seen on any living creature except a canary. Her cheeks were a vivid pink, as in peony, Ellen thought with some amazement.

  She put out her hand. “How do you do?”

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  “What about lunch?” Devlin said. “I’ve got a table where they’ll bring stuff to us. I hate standing in line at a buffet. Reminds me of a soup kitchen. Eddy, I hope you didn’t slip up about that table in the shade. Better check on it.”

  With his followers, he moved toward the shade, confiding as they went that Eddy Morse was “his man,” a great lawyer and a great friend. He welcomed the MacDaniels today because any friend of Eddy’s was a friend of his.

  Although in the usual fashion men and women alternated at the table, it was also usual for conversations to crisscross in the air, men talking to men and women to women. All these people apparently were well acquainted, the men being involved in various businesses and politics, while the women, only secondarily involved with them, had their own interests. Few of them were working women in the usual sense of “earner,” but they seemed to work hard at child-rearing, entertaining, charity fund-raisers, and country club life. And in a subtle way, they all seemed to be deferring to Olivia Devlin.

  Ellen observed them with interest. Olivia was definitely not the one whom anybody would identify as a leader in this group. Every other woman present was much prettier—many were exceedingly pretty and fashionable—than this bizarrely costumed person who was either fairly old but looking younger, or fairly young but looking older. Every other woman was better spoken than she was. And Ellen came to the conclusion: Eddy had not exaggerated. Devlin must indeed be fabulously rich.

  As if to confirm thi
s conclusion, Olivia was speaking with assurance. “Yes, we saw it last month and Dick said I might buy it. They’re holding it for us, but only till the end of the week. I don’t know—of course, it’s a Matisse and the colors are so nice, this one has a lot of pink in it, but our library’s just been done over, and all the old book bindings are so dark, I can’t make up my mind whether—”

  A general discussion of the subject followed. Ellen turned to the chicken salad, made with fresh pineapple and was delicious. She was hungry. The food was well worth the hour’s journey.

  In a moment’s lull, she heard Robb speaking her name. “That’s Ellen there, in brown. She’s a writer, had a very fine book published a while back. She’s an artist, too. She does her own illustrations.”

  Ellen flinched. A while back? Only eight years ago and nothing since! She wished he wouldn’t talk like that. But he was so proud of her one small accomplishment … She ought to be grateful.

  Her right-hand neighbor had caught his words. “You’re a writer? Under what name?”

  “My own. Ellen MacDaniel.”

  “I can’t place it. And I keep up with all the bestseller lists.”

  “It wasn’t on any list. It was a little book for children.”

  “Oh.” Interest had vanished.

  The left-hand neighbor inquired whether she was a new member here.

  “No, we’re guests today. Eddy Morse’s guests.”

  “Oh, I know Eddy. He’s a personality, isn’t he? A great friend of the Devlins, of course. You’re planning to join, aren’t you?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “I heard wrong, then. Somebody said you were.”

  She must make the denial sound more friendly. “We have two young children and my husband’s home so little that we like to spend all his free time with them.”

  “Just as well,” the woman said, to Ellen’s surprise. “I wouldn’t recommend it to any attractive young couple. A woman has to keep an eye on her husband in this place. Especially a stunning one like yours,” she added.

  “I suppose,” Ellen replied, being expected to reply, “that’s pretty true everywhere these days.”

  “Yes, but in clubs like this it’s worse. It’s so intimate, the same people week after week. It gets too warm and cozy, you know, like a hothouse. Things flower. And then, with the bar right there, you can imagine.”

  When someone interrupted, Ellen was relieved. The subject was not one for a fine afternoon in the country. Yet there were many people who would only find it titillating. And I, she thought, felt awful over Robb’s breakup with that girl when they weren’t even married!

  Her “stunning” husband was in animated conversation, holding his hearers’ attention. Needless to say, he was vastly more dignified than Eddy could ever be, and still he had acquired some aspect of Eddy’s expansiveness and affability. This was not unattractive, perhaps it was even very attractive. It was just different, and unlike him. Different.

  The new job and the new income were plainly the cause. Thinking then of her father, now aging by the hour, she felt a few minutes of sadness. But people do grow and change, don’t they? In the thirties a man isn’t what he was in his twenties. That was life. That was marriage, moving along and growing old together.… As long as love stayed the same. And of course it would. Ellen and Robb would live as their parents had done, in full faith until death.

  “What did you think?” Robb asked after Eddy had taken them home.

  “Of what?”

  “The whole day. The place.”

  “The day was relaxing. The setting reminded me in some ways of that place where you and I met.”

  “The imitation Versailles? I didn’t see any resemblance.”

  “Not the architecture, but the dressed-up bustle and all the name-dropping are what I meant.”

  “They don’t bother me too much. They’re the world.”

  “Not every world.”

  “Well, enough worlds to matter. They were saying again that Devlin’s going to run for the Senate. Not this term, or maybe not even the next, but eventually. There must be something to the rumor, since you keep hearing it so much.”

  “State or federal?”

  “Federal. Devlin aims high.”

  “I didn’t like him, did you?”

  Robb laughed. “He’s certainly not my idea of a best friend, but very certainly my idea of a superb contact.”

  “Because Eddy told you so?” she asked curiously.

  “What? I have no judgment of my own?” Robb was undressing. He ripped off his tie and shoved his shoes into the closet. “What have you got against Eddy, anyway?”

  Ellen was brushing her hair. In the mirror she saw his frown. He was annoyed.

  “I’ve nothing against him. He’s your friend. But he seems to have a kind of fly-by-night life, no wife or family, never home—”

  Robb interrupted. “For Pete’s sake, he has a job that keeps him traveling! And as for wife and family, if he doesn’t want any, that’s his privilege, isn’t it?”

  Laying the brush down, she turned from the mirror and answered quietly, “It’s simply that I’m not sure he’s being the best influence on you right now. Those people today—they’re not for you.”

  “He is not influencing me, Ellen. Not! I don’t need influencing.”

  “Don’t be so angry, Robb. Haven’t I a right to my opinion?”

  “Yes, of course you have. But it’s not like you to be so critical. You’re the one who tries to look for the best in people. You always tell me to do it, don’t you?”

  He means my father, she thought, and said nothing.

  “As for those people, I know Devlin’s a rough diamond, but if I can befriend him—oh hell, I’ve told you this before, so why repeat it. And maybe he’s not as rough as he seems. They collect art. Just bought a Matisse, he said.”

  Still she said nothing. She was remembering the remark about joining Glen Eyre.

  “Olivia Devlin’s a decorator, just as a hobby. She does houses for their friends. In spite of her appearance, you might get to like her, Ellen. You both know art, and you’re an artist yourself.”

  “I am not an artist. I’m an illustrator, or rather I was once.”

  “You sound so bitter.”

  “I didn’t mean to. I was only stating a fact.”

  “All right, I won’t quibble.”

  “A woman said something about our joining the club. You’re not possibly considering it?”

  “Eddy proposed us and Devlin seconded it. That’s all.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because it’s no sure thing.”

  “You know it is, Robb. It’s sure if Devlin’s involved. And I think it’s a horrible idea. We don’t fit there.”

  “You don’t have to love everybody in the place. It will be great for tennis and swimming. Great for Julie.”

  “If a club for that is what you want, why not join Harte’s club? At least we know people there. We’d feel more comfortable. It’s simple. And you know as well as I do what I’m talking about. And Harte’s being a member would be nice for you, even though they are a lot older than we are.”

  “Why do you keep failing to understand that it’s the contact with Devlin I’m looking for? I already have one with Harte; I see him every day.”

  “Perhaps I don’t think you should have the contact with Devlin.”

  “You may not, but are you a judge?”

  “No, but I have an instinct. I sense something.”

  “I sense something, too. Business. The man’s a phenomenon. He buys land, builds a mall, and a town grows up around it. Well, not exactly, but Eddy’s shown me figures that would astound you.”

  “Oh, Eddy and his advice again! Why in heaven’s name is he so concerned about you?”

  “He isn’t ‘concerned,’ Ellen. He’s just a nice guy, very kind to us, too, in case you forgot. He likes to seem important. I understand him. He’s no intellect, but he’s clever.
And I’m clever enough to see the difference, that’s all.”

  She was thinking that they were being drawn into the unknown. Her mind—her ‘writer’s mind,’ she mocked—had flashed a picture: They were driving a car inch by inch through a suddenly risen fog; there might be a clear road ahead, or there might be a sharp curve at a cliff.

  “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “I just don’t know. I never thought of you as being particularly ‘clever.’ ”

  “Spoken by a loving wife! I’ll be damned,” he cried.

  “You think that’s an insult? I just gave you a compliment, Robb.”

  “All you’ve done is find fault from the minute I suggested going there today.”

  “That’s not true. I was perfectly nice to everybody.”

  “You were finding fault all the time. Internally, you were. You know what? You’ve taken all my pleasure, all my enthusiasm out of the day.”

  Standing there, even in his loose pajamas, he was indeed a “stunning” man. She had planned to give him the woman’s compliment and watch his masculine attempt to hide his pleasure. Then they would laugh together, and she would put her arms around him.

  “I’m tired,” he said. “I’m ready for some sleep.”

  This was to have been their long, sweet night of love. Most probably she could, if she were to make the effort, smooth away his cross resentment, and they would have their long, sweet night. Perhaps she ought to do that. But she, too, was tired now, and ready for sleep.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  1987

  After the first of the year, the poinsettias in the corridor were being replaced with azaleas in full hothouse bloom. A small container of them had even been put at Robb’s window.

  “Nice room you’ve got here,” remarked Devlin. “Classy. The Lenihan offices can’t hold a candle to it.”

  Robb smiled. “Very fine firm, all the same.”

  “Spoken like a gentleman. Oh, I’m not taking any of my stuff away from them. Don’t get me wrong. I split my business. And of course I have Eddy to keep an eye on everybody.”

  At the idea of Eddy, or anybody, “keeping an eye” on Will Fowler, Rob had to restrain a smile.