"It's their goddamn precious paper."
"I know." Holly sighed. "I guess it makes them happy, though. Like when I'm singing, that's when I'm really happy."
"If you had kids, you'd be happy spending time with them."
"I know, but right now they really love the paper—"
"They ought to love us! That's what I meant!"
"They do love us! We just don't need taking care of like the paper. That's their baby; we're grown up."
"That's a dumb thing to say."
"It's not dumb. It's the truth."
"Hah!"
"They're at home now," Holly said.
"Working," Peter retorted.
"Well. . . ." She sighed again. "I guess I should be, too; I have homework."
"Me too. Holly?"
"What?"
"Do you think we're normal?"
"Who? Our family?"
"I guess. Or ... I don't know ... do you ever feel alone? Like you don't belong anywhere? See ... I do. Except with Maya, and this one guy I met who's okay . . . But nobody else is like that; they all have friends and . . . groups. And I don't. That's not normal, is it?"
"I don't know. I feel like that a lot, too, except when I'm singing."
"But the rest of the time—?"
Holly shrugged. "I don't think teenagers are supposed to be happy."
"Well, I want to be."
"We're too young," said Holly sadly.
"For what?"
"Almost everything." She spread the damp towel on a rack. "I guess I'd better go do my homework."
"Me too. Homework I wish the next ten years would just disappear."
"Well, maybe just the next five. . . ." Holly said, drifting off to her room.
Elizabeth saw her pass the living room arch and wondered what she and Peter had talked about to make her look so mournful. "Isn't this supposed to be the best time of their lives?" she asked Matt.
He looked up. "Was high school the best time for you?"
"No; that's true, it wasn't. I was never sure what I was supposed to be or how I was supposed to act."
He smiled at her. "You've learned. Tell Holly there's hope."
"I'll try. She may not believe me."
"Tell her if she's like her mother she'll be the best there is."
Elizabeth laughed, an intimate laugh that embraced the two of them as they sat in deep armchairs on either side of the round corner fireplace. Then Matt turned back to the stack of applications that had poured in when he advertised for a managing editor and Elizabeth picked up her pencil and the story she was writing. A family at home, she mused. Only Zachary was missing. Everything else was perfect. How long can it last? She shook her head, annoyed at herself. Forever. Why not? And she bent to her work.
Crossing out lines, changing words, she felt herself knotting up inside. There is nothing to worry about, she said silently, repeating everything Matt had said the night she wrote her first column. But still she worried.
Six "Private Affairs" columns had been printed after that first, magical day, but only two letters had come in. It was as if her stories were stuffed into bottles and tossed into the ocean—and sank immediately to the bottom: unseen and unread.
Controversial subjects that get attention, Herb Kirkpatrick had said. Elizabeth kept trying to find others, and waited for the mail. Barney told her to relax; most columns get no response until they're established, he said; the one on Ortega was a fluke. But she didn't want flukes; she wanted success. "You're trying too hard," Matt said. "Write about someone who reminds people of their sons or daughters or neighbors; isn't that the real idea of 'Private Affairs'?"
And soon after that she found Heather Farrell, who had just begun working for Spencer and Lydia at their shop on Canyon Road. The daughter of wealthy, indulgent parents in St. Paul, Heather had lived a sheltered life until she decided to marry a man her parents called a fortune hunter. When she argued, they cut off her weekly allowance. So, for the first time Heather defied them. She left Minnesota and followed her lover to Santa Fe—and found him happily ensconced with an oil heiress amid all the comforts he had not found in St. Paul.
Alone in a strange town, Heather sat on a bench in the Plaza, watching families and lovers parade by. She couldn't go home and admit she'd been wrong, but she couldn't stay, either, unless she found a job. Which was why, the next day, she stood tentatively in the Evans Bookshop and said to Lydia, all in a rush, "I can't do very much of anything, but I love books and paintings and I love your shop—it looks like somebody's living room—and I'll do anything you say if you'll let me work for you."
Lydia offered her coffee and at that small touch of mothering, Heather broke down in a torrent of confidences: her lover, her rejection, her dwindling money, and her awful aloneness—the first in her twenty-two protected years.
Lydia hired her on the spot, though, as she told Elizabeth on the telephone, she wasn't sure what they would do with her since November was hardly a tourist month.
"Can you keep her for a while?" Elizabeth asked. "We'll be hiring another secretary as soon as we can afford one. Can she type?"
"I have no idea. I doubt it. She wraps packages beautifully."
Elizabeth smiled. "That's not in the job description for a secretary. But I'd like to meet her. I'll be over this afternoon."
When Lydia introduced them, Heather sighed. "I thought maybe Lydia was exaggerating, like all mothers, but she wasn't. You're as beautiful as she said. Did she tell you anything about me?"
Elizabeth studied her. Small, fine-boned, with heavy-lidded green eyes and wildly frizzled brown hair, she stood there hoping for approval. Elizabeth smiled, liking her lively face, her openness, and the stubborn set of her chin. "She didn't tell me why you don't go home to your family and let them take care of you."
The stubborn chin thrust forward. "I don't want anybody to take care of me but me."
That was when Elizabeth knew she wanted Heather in her next column. Matt would approve: Heather Farrell was like so many daughters and sons, struggling for independence and self-esteem and discovering that life was a lot more complicated and difficult than they'd thought.
She interviewed her for a whole evening, then wrote and rewrote her story a dozen times, trying to bring Heather to life in a way that both parents and their children would understand. Then they might call or write to tell her so; just a few, she thought; so I'll know someone is out there, reading what I write.
She heard the telephone ring; then Holly came dancing down the hall. "Tony Rourke is on the telephone; he wants to visit us tomorrow. I told him it sounded fine. It is, isn't it?"
Matt had looked up, then quickly down again, but Elizabeth knew he was listening. She hesitated. Only a few months ago she'd enjoyed the excitement Tony brought; now she had no time for him.
"He's your friend," Holly declared. "And mine, too, and he hasn't been here for ages and he wants to hear about my singing—my career, he called it!—and he'D only have a few hours between planes, so can't he come? Mother, he's waiting on the telephone!"
"I'd better say hello, then." Elizabeth stood up. "But we can't invite him here, Holly. Tomorrow is Thursday and we won't have a minute until the paper goes to press. And then we like to have the evening with you and Peter. Maybe he can come some other time . . . we'll see." Still holding her clipboard, she went down the hall to their bedroom and picked up the telephone.
"Dear Elizabeth, it's been five months," Tony said, his voice deep and close. "Much too long. I'm on my way to New York tomorrow and I can be with you . . . or did HoDy tell you all this?"
"Yes. I'm sorry, Tony. . . ." She told him about the newspaper. "Everything has changed," she said. "We're doing all of it together. I even have my own column; remember I told you I wanted one?"
"You told me that when you were seventeen."
While we lay in your bed. And you don't want me to forget. But that was so long ago; I'm a different person now.
Knowing he'd made a mist
ake, he said warmly, "Tell me about the column. How wonderful you must feel—and scared? At least a little bit?"
"Yes." She was surprised he knew that. "More than a little bit. But sometimes I begin to think I'm really a writer."
"I never doubted it; I've always believed in you. Will you read me something you wrote? If you won't let me see you, at least let me hear what you're doing."
Elizabeth found herself liking him; his voice was honest, and he seemed more interested in her than in himself. "I was just finishing a piece for tomorrow's paper," she said, looking at her clipboard. "Do you really want to hear it?"
"Very much."
"It's about a young woman who works for my parents. It ends this way:
Not long ago, Heather Farrell dreamed of romance; now she's been awakened by a bucket of cold reality. "The world isn't as neat as I thought; as a matter of fact, it's kind of messy, when you think about it." But as she says that, Heather Farrell's stubborn chin lifts and she gives a small, shivery smile of pleasure. She's discovering that kind of messy means life has more possibilities than she ever dreamed of, and she can't wait to go after them, messiness and all.
Tony was silent. "No comment?" Elizabeth asked nervously.
"It's damned good," he said. "More sophisticated than I expected. You always surprise me. You know, I can see your Heather: she probably used to follow like a nice little girl; now I'll bet she walks ahead of everybody."
"How do you know that?"
"I told you: I can see her. You got her, Elizabeth: pinned like a butter-fly to a board. You're terrific. You want a job?"
"I've got a job."
"Not a very big one. How would you like a national audience? I need a new writer for my show. Five grand a week and an audience of millions. It's yours if you want it."
The words rang in her head. Forcibly, she silenced them. It's a fairy tale. It has nothing to do with me. With us. "Tony, Matt and I own a newspaper together. We work together. I'm very flattered, but—"
"You won't take it. I didn't think you would. The offer stands, though,
dear Elizabeth; keep it in mind. Is it all right if I call you now and then, even though everything is changed?"
"If you'd like."
"Obviously not as much as seeing you . . . but we mustn't talk about that. Will you send me a copy of your Heather story?"
"Of course."
"Will you send me all your columns? Better yet, I'll subscribe to the— what's it called? The Warrior?"
"Chieftain, and you know it. But you don't have to subscribe, Tony; I'll be glad to send you my columns."
"No, I want to see the whole paper, every week. Of course I'm always traveling, but when I get home I'll find them waiting, and that way I'll know what you and Matt are up to. And I'll call again soon. Be well, dear Elizabeth. Oh, and give my love to your family."
She hung up and sat unmoving on the edge of the bed. In spite of everything, he still could make her world seem small and slow. He'd been so pleasant, and then he dangled before her an audience of millions and a salary that made anything she could earn sound like pocket money, no matter how big the Chieftain ever got.
Stop it. She looked about the small bedroom, its corners and low ceiling in shadow. She and Matt had bought the blue and black Indian rug at the Crownpoint auction; they'd found the early American wedding ring quilt at an antique shop up the Hudson on a trip to New York state; they'd chosen the Spanish bed on a visit to Mexico City. Everything in the bedroom, everything in the house, they'd chosen together.
And we've chosen our life together now. They worked for no one but themselves and they loved it. And they loved each other. And Tony, with his grandiose offers, had no part in any of that.
Turning out the lamp, Elizabeth decided she wouldn't talk to him again, after all. Even at his nicest, there was something destructive about him. She didn't like the way Holly was beginning to idolize him, either. Next time I'll tell him not to call any more, she thought. I suppose I'll have the Chieftain sent to him; there's no harm in that. But nothing else. We're better off without his play-acting; he can find another audience. He already has millions; he told me so himself.
An audience of millions. But he didn't really mean it, she told herself. He wasn't serious. And even if he meant every word, it would be impossible. I'm doing what I want, and I'm doing it with Matt. And I believe in us.
And she walked back through the shadowed hallway to the lights of the living room, where Matt was waiting.
H A P T E R
♦-•■
s
aul Milgrim was lanky and loose-limbed, with a melancholy face that was transformed when it crinkled into laughter. A street-wise New Yorker and prize-winning investigative reporter, he had been offered jobs by every major newspaper in the country, but all he wanted now, he told Matt and Elizabeth as he lounged in Matt's office, was to work on a small paper in a small town. "I am your perfect managing editor," he told them seriously. "I know everything there is to know about newspapers, but I've had enough of the big time. I want to get back to basics—poke my nose into every part of the operation. Like quitting Macy's to run a small-town general store."
"What happens when you start missing the big time?" asked Matt.
"Won't happen. I've had enough of it for a lifetime: too many of my peers trying to beat me out, too many women, too much booze . . . Good Lord, it's time I slowed down, even settled down." {Heather, Elizabeth thought involuntarily.) "I'm almost thirty-five, getting old—" He saw Matt and Elizabeth exchange a smile. "Did I say something funny?"
"We're forty," Elizabeth smiled. "So thirty-five hardly seems 'old' to us."
Saul contemplated her. "Nobody'd guess." He leaned forward and his
voice lost its casual drawl. "Look, I've been on a fast track since I was thirteen: odd jobs after school until I was old enough to be copy boy on a newspaper; worked my way through college driving a cab and bartending and was editor of the school paper at the same time; worked for six major papers since I graduated, racing after the big stories to beat out everybody else and see my name on the front page; won a few prizes, too. You know all this from my application. Well, I'm tired of racing around. I was married, by the way, for a few months; it fell apart because my fast track had room for sex and chit-chat but not for tender care and a future. What I want now is to relax, think about the world and what I want to do with the rest of my life. And do it on a newspaper in a town that's small but sophisticated enough to get international visitors." He leaned back again. "I like you two; I like your ideas for the paper; I like Santa Fe. It's quiet; it doesn't shout the way New York does. I drove around before coming here; know what I liked best? Narrow streets, laid-back shopkeepers, people who keep their affairs private behind adobe walls instead of flaunting their wealth. And dust."
"Dust?" echoed Elizabeth.
"Good clean desert dust. Has a nice feel when you've been breathing city grit all your life. I figure it'll take ten years for my lungs to clean out and by then I'll know what I want to do with myself. My guess is I'll be so content I'll stay put, rocking on my porch and publishing the Santa Fe Chieftain."
Matt's eyebrows went up. "After you've knocked off the current publisher?"
"Won't be necessary. You'll be long gone; you want bigger and better things than a small town weekly. I recognize the signs." Once again he saw Elizabeth and Matt exchange a look. "None of my business, however; all I want right now is to be managing editor of your paper. Shall I remove myself so you can discuss me in private?"
Elizabeth smiled, liking him so much she was afraid she might wake up and find she'd dreamed him. "Matt pretty much decided from your application, and he was right. So were you when you said you were our perfect managing editor." She stood up and held out her hand. "Welcome to the Chieftain."
Saul stood, his face lighting in a broad smile as he took her hand. "We're going to be friends. What luck. It doesn't always work that way. Must be rough for the two of you—working
together and being married."
"Occasionally," Matt said briefly. "But it's what we want." He stood with them and shook Saul's hand. "We're glad to have you with us.
Elizabeth will introduce you to everyone and then we'll have lunch. I'll see you at one. We'll introduce you to blue corn tortillas at The Shed."
"Blue—" Saul shook his head dubiously. "Sounds like an initiation. If I pass, will you give me some ideas about places to rent? And maybe some congenial female friends—?"
"I've already thought of that," Elizabeth said, and led the way to the newsroom.
With Saul's arrival, everything seemed to fall into place. Because he relieved them of so many little details, Elizabeth and Matt could spend more time together, working and relaxing. One Thursday, after the paper went to press, they went for a leisurely drive out the old Taos Highway to browse in ancient churches and have dinner at Rancho de Chimayo, at long last having the anniversary dinner they'd planned the night of Matt's accident. In February they took Holly and Peter skiing at Taos for a weekend, and on other weekends drove into the mountains to Nuevo as they had done so often before, to visit Cesar Aragon and his daughter Isabel and Isabel's daughter Luz.
"I never see you enough!" Luz bubbled to Holly. "Tell me about Santa Fe High and your singing and everything about the boys you're dating!" They sat crosslegged on the floor near the fireplace, carving X's in chestnuts, Luz's dark red curls close to Holly's straight ash blond hair as they both talked at once.
Isabel, tall and large-boned, with black eyes above high cheekbones, put her hands on Elizabeth's shoulders and searched her face. "You look good. A little pale maybe, but it's been so long I'm not sure."
"Isabel," Elizabeth said reproachfully. "We've talked on the telephone; you know how busy we've been."
"Four months without a visit."
Elizabeth put her arms around her. "I'm sorry."
"Well so am I," Isabel said, suddenly brisk. She returned Elizabeth's hug. "Mainly for whining. I'm just jealous because I sit in my little ghost of a valley and make pottery while you're out there having all that excitement. And of course I missed you. There aren't so many good friends around that I can afford to lose one."
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