Private Affairs

by Judith Michael

  "Because they're the future of the sun belt. High-tech industries will move into some of them as living costs in California get too high; others are future retirement cities; others will be major resorts. Populations will grow, businesses and shopping malls will follow, transportation will boom. As a whole, it will be a nice power base for someone who gets in early and gives all those people and businesses modern, savvy newspapers." Elizabeth caught the odd word, sticking out like a small thorn in Rourke's suave speech, as if he wanted to make sure he had their attention.

  Well, he has mine, she thought. The enormity of his dream—and he made it sound so simple!—had caught her imagination, and she knew from the pitch of Matt's body, leaning forward as if to follow wherever Rourke led, it had caught his, too. She thought of their little empire. It had been swallowed up in Rourke's dream. And if we're here, doesn't that mean he wants us as part of it?

  The waitress put Matt's dinner before him and he stared at it. "What did I order?" he asked Elizabeth.

  "Venison," she said quietly, loving him, knowing he probably had leaped ahead and was already planning how they would run the whole—

  The thought came to an abrupt stop. How they would run it? Who had said anything about they?

  She thought back over the past hour. Rourke had talked to her twice: about traveling to Europe and about how lovely she looked. As lovely as Tony said. He and Tony had been talking about her. And about Matt. And he'd been reading the Chieftain. And he'd called Santa Fe looking for Matt.

  He wanted Matt, but what about her? He was dangling the bait of a newspaper chain in front of Matt, but where did Matt's wife come into it?

  This is our dream he's playing with. Our life.

  No; he'd gone beyond that. Keegan Rourke was talking not about their shared plans, but about Matt's ambition.

  "Power base for what?" Matt asked Rourke.

  "There are always uses for power." Rourke sliced into his buffalo steak. "Must it be limited with specifics at the outset?"

  That seductive vagueness, again, Elizabeth thought. "What's wrong with being specific?" she asked.

  Rourke smiled at her. "Nothing—at the proper time."

  "It seems to me," she said, "that it's always good to be specific about information, unless you're hiding something."

  "Ah." He nodded. "That may be. But the easiest way to hide something is to give the wrong information." He waited for Elizabeth to re-spond, but she was silent.

  Rourke took a deliberate bite of buffalo, sipped his wine, then with a small smile in Elizabeth's direction, turned again to Matt. "Let's play a little game. I'm interested in buying newspapers. I have in my wallet two hundred million dollars. I want to spend it and increase it through profits. I ask your advice. What would you suggest?"

  Get a bigger wallet, thought Elizabeth wildly, and a small laugh broke from her. But no one laughed with her. Nicole slid her glance briefly to Elizabeth, then back to the men. Rourke smiled once again, courteously. Matt gave her a quick glance, too preoccupied to ask why she laughed, then answered Rourke.

  "I'd buy newspapers and television stations in key cities, and tie them together. Special sections and programs each week on local events—put fifty people on those alone, move them to different cities as I needed them. I'd run contests that could be entered only by families—no individuals. I'd run a weekly full page of cartoons on local and national issues and do an animated version of them on television one night a week, for adults, not kids, combined with some kind of no-holds-barred debate on the cartoons plus editorials and features from that week's papers. I'd organize town meetings, televise them, and print excerpts to give to schools for classes in government and politics. . . ."

  He talked and Rourke listened. Nicole watched, her amber eyes never leaving Matt's face. Elizabeth sat unmoving and incredulous. Matt had never mentioned most of these ideas to her, yet they were clear in his mind: expensive, fanciful, many of them impractical, but thought out.

  Matt had stopped talking. The waitress appeared and asked about des-sert. "Coffee," said Rourke. "Then we'll decide."

  Finally, giving in again, Matt spoke first. "I've emptied your wallet. We've played your game. What would you like to do now?"

  "Bring you in as my publisher." Rourke divided the last of the wine among their glasses. "I watched you make up your mind on dinner the instant you read the menu; I make up my mind the same way. You're the man I want. I'd about decided before I came here; your pipe dreams just settled it." Once more he turned a smile in Elizabeth's direction, ignoring the growing anger in her eyes. "About a year ago, Tony sent me some of Elizabeth's columns—brilliant pieces; I'd want them in all our papers. Since then I've subscribed to the Chieftain and watched it change. Saul Milgrim is the best there is; if he's working for you, he believes in you. You're intelligent and aggressive, you know publishing, you get along with businessmen, you have enough ideas to fuel a newspaper chain for years. And ambition is eating you up inside. Which, as you have guessed by now, is exactly what I'm looking for."

  Something overwhelming was happening to Matt. He and Rourke were talking to each other, understanding each other, almost as if they were father and son. But this was not a father pleading with Matt to take care of him; this was a father offering him the world. Exhilaration swept through Matt: he understood this man; this man understood him. They wanted the same thing and they would go after it. A power base. With no limitations. An open-ended dream.

  He became aware of a hand on his, beneath the table. "Hey, partner," Elizabeth said softly. "Are we still in business?"

  Slowly her words got through to him. Fighting against the tendrils of Rourke's web, Matt took her hand and said, "You've been talking about me. Elizabeth and I are partners."

  "We'll want Elizabeth's columns," Rourke responded. "I meant what I said: they're brilliant, with enormous appeal. And if you want to be features editor of the chain, you can try it," he said to Elizabeth. "Though I should think you'd rather write than spread yourself thin on jobs that less talented people can handle. However, we'll leave that up to you; it's separate from my other offer." He looked at Matt. "I am not in the market for a husband and wife team. I'm looking for a publisher. One voice. One spokesman. One authority."

  In the silence, he gestured to the waitress. "Courvoisier. And more coffee." He drained his cup. "The wallet is full," he said to Matt. "Two hundred million is what I'm prepared to invest as a start. Of course, as we said, you and I are always starting; we'll find something new around every corner. But that's your wallet at the beginning. You'll take over as editor-in-chief of the Albuquerque Daily News, at eighty thousand a year; if Elizabeth wants features editor, it pays thirty thousand. In a year, or as soon as the paper stops losing money and begins to show a profit, you'll

  move up to publisher of Rourke Enterprises at double or triple your salary depending on how well you've done, plus shares in the corporation. You and I will decide which papers to buy, in what order, on what sched= ule, but you're the one who will run them. It will be your show. Of course, I expect you to make a significant profit."

  Numbly, Matt put his hands on the table and stared at them. Once I was frustrated because there was so much I couldn't do. With a start, he realized he'd left Elizabeth's hand empty. He turned to look at her. But he didn't really see her: his eyes were shining as if he had emerged sud-denly from shadows into brilliant sunlight and was momentarily blinded.

  Without waiting, he turned back to Rourke. "When do we start?" he asked.

 
  H A P T E R

  E

  lizabeth slipped away from the meeting and went to her office to call Isabel. "We can't make dinner after all; I'm sorry, I wanted so much to come, but we're running late."

  "Come late. I'll keep dinner warm."

  "Isabel, it's such a long drive from Albuquerque, we couldn't get there until after ten. I'm sorry," she repeated. "I don't know what I expected when we took over a newspaper five times as big as the
Chieftain, but whatever I thought, I underestimated it. There's just too much to do and not enough time. At least, not this weekend. I wish we could make it, but we just can't."

  "I wish you could, too. Your kids are already here."

  "In Nuevo? They were supposed to be with my parents. How did they get there?"

  "Saul and Heather brought them. Then they went mooning off to discover nature together. Or something."

  "Who went off?"

  "Well, actually, Saul and Heather in one direction and Peter and Maya in another. Lots of sweet nothings being whispered in the valley this evening."

  "And Holly?"

  "With Luz, as usual. Two sixteen-year-olds bemoaning the lack of sensitive men in the world. She's getting to be a real beauty, Elizabeth. Looks like you. And to hear her sing! She'll make you prouder than your star-struck husband."

  "Star-struck," Elizabeth repeated. "What an extraordinary thing to say."

  "Good? Bad? I didn't mean to be insulting."

  "You weren't; you just described him better than I could."

  "But I got it from you, when you told me he was hung up on this macho Texan with all the money. He still is, I suppose; it's only been four months. Less."

  "The stakes are high," Elizabeth said briefly, suddenly reluctant to talk-about Matt, even with Isabel. "Let's make a new dinner date." She looked at her calendar. "A week from today? Next Saturday? We have a meeting in the morning, but we can be in Nuevo by five."

  "If you're sure."

  Elizabeth heard the plea in her voice. "What's wrong, Isabel?"

  "I don't know; maybe nothing. But something's going on in the valley and I'd like to talk to you and Matt about it."

  "I promise we'll be there."

  The meeting had ended by the time Elizabeth returned to Matt's office. "Long phone call," he said, writing a note on his calendar.

  "I thought we'd finished with my part. Did you need me?"

  "I don't like people leaving a meeting in the middle."

  "Oh. I'm sorry. It won't happen again. Sir."

  He looked up and saw the hurt in her gray eyes. "I'm the one who should apologize. I'm sorry, my sweet. There was a problem after you left and I needed you to back me up and help me keep my temper."

  "A problem?"

  "Nothing serious; I handled it."

  "But what happened?"

  "Chet showed up. Whenever he comes in from Houston he sits in a corner like an innocent schoolboy and stares at me. Trying to make me believe Keegan sent him to check up on me."

  "Like an owl"

  "What?"

  "His round eyes and round glasses and round cheeks. He looks like an owl, puffed up to convince others how important he is."

  Matt laughed. "That helps. I told you I need you. I think I'll send him packing."

  "Are you sure he'll go?"

  "He'll do what I tell him."

  "Even if Keegan did send him?"

  "He didn't. He wouldn't do that; he trusts me. I know you don't believe it, but I do and I don't want to argue about him."

  "Chet or Keegan?"

  "Either one. Now let's talk about 'Private Affairs.' Do you have a list of the people you're going to be writing about?"

  She looked at him in surprise. "No."

  "How far ahead are you working?"

  "Two weeks. Three if I have time."

  "I need the names of people you'll write about through October."

  "Why?"

  "For long-range planning."

  "I thought we do that together."

  "We do. But I'm going to Houston next weekend and I want to be able to talk to Keegan about our plans."

  After a moment, Elizabeth said, "You didn't tell me you were going to Houston."

  "He called just before the meeting; we decided then."

  "You're going alone."

  "I've gone twice; it's not different from the other times."

  "The other times we talked about it and decided together that I should stay home with Peter and Holly."

  "And since we'd talked about it twice I didn't think we needed to talk about it again."

  "I see." There was a pause. "I made a date with Isabel for dinner next Saturday."

  "Well, you can go, with Peter and Holly. You don't need me."

  "But you need me, when you want me, to back you up and help you hold your temper. . . ."

  "Oh, for Christ's sake—!"

  Stop whining like a neglected wife. "Matt, we decided to run this paper together. A new town, a daily instead of a weekly, a staff of ninety-five instead of the Chieftain's fifteen, six months to show a profit, which didn't give us much time: only until October—" She stopped. A list of people through October. "You're going to Houston to plan what happens after October. You and Keegan."

  "Since we're halfway through August, we'd better be talking about it, don't you think?"

  "Yes. I wondered why we hadn't."

  "We've been busy turning this paper around. And we're doing it, Elizabeth; the figures for July came in last night; I've been going over them. Listen to this. . . ."He took a computer printout from a drawer and began to read totals for circulation, classified and display advertising, and advertising rates. "And something else: more than half our advertisers say they want their ad on the same page as 'Private Affairs.'" When Eliza= beth made no response, he said, "I thought that would please you."

  "It does. It's going to be a crowded page."

  He flung his pencil on the desk. "I can't force him to ask both of us to come to Houston."

  "I understand that. But he knows we run the paper together."

  "That wasn't the way he intended it."

  "I know that, too. But he didn't object when we told him what we'd decided. He could invite me to Houston as a courtesy."

  Matt shrugged. "Whatever he does, you don't like him. I thought you'd gotten over that; you don't talk about him as much as you did when we got back from Aspen."

  "I've been holding my tongue. It isn't that I don't like him, Matt; I don't know what he's after."

  "He's told you. You don't believe him?"

  "Not as easily as you do."

  "On what grounds?"

  "None. Instinct."

  "Not good enough."

  "Reporters have gotten scoops because they listened to their instincts."

  "And followed up with research, interviews, digging for facts, and hours of writing to make sure everything fits together."

  "I know. That's why I haven't talked about it. But, Matt, remember, on our way home from Aspen I asked you, Why us? Why us, Matt? I love you and I think you're wonderful, but Keegan doesn't love you and all he knew about us when he came to Aspen was that we were two small-town editors with practically no experience. There are cities all over the country with editors who have credentials a mile long. Why us?"

  "He told us. He liked the way we turned the Chieftain around, and he liked the ideas I had when we talked in Aspen."

  "He liked your ambition."

  "There is nothing wrong with ambition. You have it, too."

  "Yes, but not enough to keep me from asking questions when somebody hands me the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow."

  "All right," Matt said after a moment. "Why did he choose us?"

  "I don't know. But instinct says maybe he was looking for small-town, inexperienced people because those are the kind he can manipulate."

  "For what purpose?"

  "I don't know. If I did, I wouldn't be worried. I'd either be going along with him or quitting."

  Thoughtfully, Matt rolled a pencil along his desk. Finally, he said, "I think you should stop worrying. We may be small town, but we're not inexperienced, not after the past year and a half; and we're not stupid. If Keegan Rourke thinks he can use us, he'll find he can't. I don't believe that's what he's after, though; there's been no sign of it in the past four months. I think he wants someone he can count on—"

  "He has a staff. And he has Chet Colfax. You said yourself
you thought he might have been sent here—"

  "I also said I didn't believe it. Rourke knew your family; he read the Chieftain for a year before calling me; he likes what he knows about me so far. We talk on the telephone three or four times a week and he's comfortable with me. That's enough for me. And I wish to hell it was enough for you, because I'm tired of this endless speculating about a man I like and trust."

  The small office was silent. Elizabeth opened one of the folders she was holding. "I'd like to talk about my proposals for new weekly columns. One on new books for the Bookmobiles, one on flower arranging, which the Ikebana Club has agreed to write, and one written by members of the Leads Club on organizing women's networks."

  "I'd like an answer. Is that enough for you or do you still think he's some kind of devil in disguise?"

  "It isn't important. I work for him and I'll do the best I can. Matt, I have a lot to do, including the list of names you wanted for 'Private Affairs.' Can we get started?"

  He hesitated, then gave a short nod. Elizabeth spread some sample pages on his desk and they bent over them. But the atmosphere that had been so warm when he laughed at her comparison of Chet Colfax to an owl had become chilly; they were brisk and business-like, and within half an hour Elizabeth was back at her desk and Matt had left to have lunch with a group of local businessmen.

  You can go with Peter and Holly. You don't need me.

  Who says?

  The trouble was, she couldn't fight him, at least not now. All Matt could see at the moment was the vision of the newspaper empire Rourke had dangled before him, and Elizabeth couldn't stand in his way. Every-

  thing we've built together, she thought, depends on my staying with him, helping him, backing him up.

  And maybe our marriage depends on it, too.

  "Well, I don't believe that for a minute," Lydia said the next evening when Elizabeth came to pick up Peter and Holly, who had spent Sunday with their grandparents. "Matt wouldn't let your marriage suffer over a few newspapers. Come sit in the courtyard for a few minutes. Have some iced tea and relax; you look exhausted. Have you had dinner?"