Private Affairs

by Judith Michael

  "Your wife hiding your jeans impresses me more," Matt said with a smile. "She sounds like a woman of determination."

  "That's her in a nutshell. Fine woman. Not always easy to live with, but I never doubt she has my best interests at heart and we've had forty good years together, which is a kind of record, I guess, with divorce as common as tumbleweed these days. Here we are."

  They faced each other in a booth in a small diner on the main street of town. Graham drew small circles on the Formica table with the salt shaker. "I've been thinking, Matt, since you were here last; I'm not sure I made myself clear. I'm kinda tired of working, is the truth, and so is the

  missus; we've been at it a long time. We figure, you only go around once and we want some time to relax before we're too old to enjoy it. Or before we die; people do, all of sudden, you know: they get sick, hit by a car, whatever. So we want to grab this chance while we have it. What I'm saying is, if you're here to talk business, I'll come down twenty percent. That ain't hay; brings it down to eight million. You'd be getting a steal; me and the missus would get our relaxing; everybody's happy."

  Matt shook his head. "I'm sorry, Jim, but it's stiU more than I had in mind. We should be talking about—"

  "Wait, now! Just a minute!"

  The waitress brought beer in thick glass mugs. Matt wondered if it was Graham's standing order. "I'm not really hungry—"

  "Got to eat! Got to have some lunch! Best way to talk! Chile," Graham said to the waitress.

  "All right," Matt agreed. "That sounds fine."

  "More than you had in mind?" Graham asked. "Eight million? Now I know you're a young man and new at this, but I did think we got along fine, Matt, last time we talked. I thought we agreed on what it is I've got for sale here, the value of it and all."

  "We didn't come to any agreement the last time I was here; I wasn't authorized to make one. I am now. And what I'm offering—"

  "Wait!" Graham cried again, trying to put off the moment when Matt named a figure, trying to get him to think higher before he said it aloud and they had to argue about it. "I'm trying to tell you I've been around a long time and I know what we've got going for us, what it's worth, that is, and I'm telling you to give a listen because there's lots you and your people in Houston don't know. They send a young fella like you—bird dog, sniffing around—and you act real pleasant first time around, but when things get down to bare ass, talking dollars and all, you get cocky. And you shouldn't, that's no way to do business, which you'd know if you'd been around long as I have, if you wasn't so raw, not knowing anything about—"

  "Now you wait, Jim." Matt's voice whipped across the table and Graham's stomach sank. He'd said all the wrong things; his wife would tell him so when he recounted the conversation to her, and she'd be right. She'd wanted to come today, to do the negotiating, and he'd said no, but he should have let her; he was so mad inside he'd gone off the deep end, saying the wrong things, and now Matt Lovell, who'd seemed like a nice, simple guy, easy to handle, was furious and Jim Graham knew it was his own fault.

  "I'm not here to talk about myself," Matt said. "I came to make an

  offer for some properties you're trying to sell. If you want to talk about more personal subjects, we can discuss your son."

  Graham's head shot up. "Jim Bob? What about him?" Matt was silent. "Well. News sure travels. Well, he'll find a job or something; he's a big boy now, have to make his own way. Like I said, you only go around once and it's me and the missus I worry about; we can't wait on Jim Bob to figure out his life. We can't wait, Matt. I mean, well, it's not like we're desperate, but the missus doesn't want to wait; she's always hockin' at me; your wife probably does the same; women are like that. So that's it. Twenty percent. Two million less."

  "It's not enough, Jim."

  "Dammit, I came down two million dollars!"

  "I'll say it again: it's not enough. You're losing money on every operation. If we paid eight million dollars we couldn't turn the group around and make it profitable."

  Graham downed his beer and signaled the waitress by pointing at his glass. "You most definitely can. It might take longer—"

  "Jim, I can't sell this deal to my boss by telling him it will take longer than he expected."

  A fresh mug of beer materialized on the table and Graham gripped it with both hands. "How long does he expect?"

  "We're not talking about that; we're talking about price."

  Graham slammed his fist on the table. "All right! What price are we talking about? I don't like games, mister! What price?"

  "Three and a half million."

  Graham stared at him, his eyes protruding. "You are out of your mind."

  Matt shook his head.

  "Three and a half?" Graham's voice went up. "Three and a half? You fucking bastard, do you think I'm some hick you can push around? You vultures from Texas come in here trying to ruin people—"

  "I'm not from Texas." Matt wondered why he was defending himself; why he cared if Graham hated him. "I'm from New Mexico, just like you. Santa Fe. I work for a man who lives in Texas and he says he'll pay three and a half million."

  "Santa Fe. Artsy-fartsy place, doesn't have anything to do with the rest of us. We work for a living; you fancy boys sit around and get rich licking tourists' asses."

  Remembering what he and Elizabeth had gone through to keep the Chieftain alive, Matt burst out laughing. "Jim, you don't know the first thing about it. Are we going to talk business or not?"

  "Shit," Graham muttered. "Seven million."

  The waitress brought huge bowls of chile and a basket of flour tortillas. "Anything else?"

  "More beer," said Graham.

  The waitress looked at Matt, who shook his head. When she left, he said, "It's too high, Jim."

  "Too—! Goddammit, this is eight newspapers we're talking about, television, radio, people, capital equipment, physical plant ..." When Matt was silent, he said, "Maybe six and a half. Okay. Six and a half. Shit, Matt, I thought you'd be easier on a guy. But I have my own prob— I have my own affairs to settle, plus the missus to satisfy, and that's as far as I go. Six and a half. If you're smart you'll take it and be grateful I didn't kick you out earlier and send you back to your vulture friends empty-handed. I'm helping you out, see, even though you're acting like a vulture yourself. But I did like you so I'll help you out and if you have a grain of sense in that stupid head of— Shit, forget I said that; sometimes I go too far. But I truly am helping you." He began eating his chile, breathing loudly. "Six and a half. Take it or leave it."

  Matt ran his finger down the moisture on his beer mug. Whatever happens, he'll hate me. And so what? Keegan Rourke didn 't get where he is because people liked him. "What happens if your demand notes are called?" he asked casually.

  Graham froze, spoon in one hand, beer mug in the other. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

  "Otis Kearney, Fred Lepatta, Calvin Sherl, Ordrey Wayland—"

  "Jesus Christ, you rattlesnaking son of a bitch, smiling and drinking beer with me and all the time your little spies out there looking under rocks . . . Well it doesn't matter, you hear? Those are my friends, they loaned me money and they'll be paid back when I sell my properties and they know it. They're not gonna call those notes and I am not gonna worry about it. If you're trying to scare me, mister, you have another think coming. Six million. Newspapers, TV, radio. That's it. You know about the loans, you know why I want it. Six million. If you say no, there's people who'll say yes. My friends won't call those notes, so I don't have to be in a hurry."

  "But ycu are in a hurry; you told me you couldn't wait." Matt pulled a folded paper from his inside jacket pocket. "This is a list of names and telephone numbers. I talked to Ordrey Wayland this morning. He's heard of the man I work for; he knows his insurance business could double or triple if we steered clients his way."

  "You told him that?" Graham demanded.

  "He knew it. I reminded him."

  "You didn't tell him you'd
double or triple his business if he called my note?"

  "Why would I tell him that?" Matt asked.

  "No, 'course you wouldn't. You wouldn't have to." Graham shoved aside his chile. "You talk to any of the others?"

  "No."

  "You mean, not yet."

  "I haven't talked to any of the others."

  "But you would." Graham nodded to himself. "Five million would do it. It's worth—"

  "Four."

  "Now look, dammit, I've dropped from ten to five; you've come up one puny half-million. That is not good-faith negotiating."

  "Four, Jim."

  "Four and a half."

  Matt pulled a typed letter from his briefcase and put it on the table, turning it around so Graham could read it. The only sound in the small diner was the tapping of the salt shaker in Graham's hand. "Shit. All ready and everything. Pretty fucking sure of yourselves. Borrow your pen?"

  "You should read it before you sign."

  "Do I know what it says?"

  "Probably."

  "Four and a half million for all capital equipment, subscription lists, advertising contracts, supplies, the works. Contract to be signed at such and such a date."

  "Yes. But I'd like you to read it."

  "Shit." Graham skimmed the letter. "Pen." Matt handed him one and he scrawled his name. "Congratulations," he said heavily. "Just got yourself a hell of a deal. Your boss promise you a bonus? A mink coat for your missus? A lady for your spare time?"

  Matt put the letter away and stood up. "You'll be hearing from us." He hesitated. "I hope you get everything straightened out with your son."

  "Bullshit, mister. You don't give a flying fuck what happens to me or my son." Turning his back, Graham drained his beer mug.

  Matt waited a moment, then walked to the cash register, paid for their chiles and beer, and left the diner.

  / have never done anything like that in my life.

  And the fact that James Graham had made his own mess, and then insulted the only buyer who'd shown up in ten months of frantic search-

  ing, didn't change the reality that Matt didn't like himself at that moment; he wasn't even sure he recognized Matt Loveil—whom I've known intimately, he reflected wryly, for forty-two years.

  He stood in front of the diner, realizing he had no way back to the airport. No taxis were in sight; he couldn't ask Graham. Well, he'd walk; he remembered the way they'd come. He started up the road. It was only a few miles; he had three hours before his plane, and a walk was just what he needed. He could work off some nervous energy, think about what he'd done—maybe even get acquainted with a Matt Lovell he'd never known before.

  Nicole Renard was married and divorced before she was twenty-three; at twenty-four she met Keegan Rourke while skiing in Aspen; a month later she bought a sprawling ranch-style home in River Oaks, a few blocks from Rourke's; and by the time she was twenty-six her parties were as well-known there as in New York, where she owned an apartment in Trump Tower, and Aspen, where she stayed in Rourke's house on Red Mountain, across the valley from the ski slopes.

  Six years later, when she invited Matt Lovell to her annual pre-Christ-mas party, she and Rourke had evolved gradually from lovers to friends. Occasionally they spent the night together, because they liked each other and it was relaxing to spend an undemanding evening with someone familiar—"Like an old bathrobe," Nicole would say, stretching lazily in bed. "We fit well and we haven't worn each other out"—but they didn't waste time on possessiveness or jealousy when Rourke had other women and Nicole other men. Still, the two of them, though thirty-eight years apart in age, had the special intimacy that comes from sharing identical ideas about getting and using the things of the world, and it endured even when they kept in touch only by phone.

  So Nicole was the first outside Rourke Enterprises to know how well Matt had handled the Graham purchase. And Rourke was the first to know that Nicole planned to invite Matt to her December party. "He may not come," Rourke said. "As far as I know, he doesn't socialize here at all, except for business dinners."

  "Perhaps he'll make an exception," Nicole said, and the first week in December she called Matt at Rourke's headquarters. "Pre-Christmas; my own tradition," she said in her husky voice. "I don't compete with office parties or cozy family gatherings; I give one glorious fete at the precise moment when everyone is dying for a party but dreading the official ones. Do say you'll come. I hear about you all the time, but we've never talked. Keegan monopolized you in Aspen, and I couldn't spring you from all the

  politicos at that awful party at his house, though I certainly did my best, as you may have noticed. And I'm told my parties are memorable. You will come, won't you? My reputation as a hostess might depend on it. And I am so looking forward to really getting to know you. Please, Matt, do say yes."

  "I'd like to," said Matt, intrigued by the contrast between her sultry voice and ingenuous outpouring of words. "I'm not sure I'll be in town."

  "Keegan said you didn't socialize in Houston, but just this once I hoped you would. After all, there aren't many pre-Christmases in a year. It's a special occasion for me; it might be one for you, too. And Keegan will be here, in case you're worried about not knowing anyone."

  "I'm not worried," Matt replied. "I know you."

  "You'll know me better after the twenty-first."

  As it turned out, Matt knew a few other guests, but most of those who crowded into the three wings of Nicole's ranch house were like a tossed salad of professions, ages, and life-styles Matt had not expected to find. Television actors, actresses, and newscasters, jazz musicians, stockbrokers, European couturiers, interior designers, and songwriters mingled with oilmen, real estate developers, bankers, resort owners, Olympic swimming medalists, and a magazine publisher who flew in from New York for the party.

  They shouted greetings and introductions and wove in and out like dancers, drifting into one pattern and then another. Champagne and hot spiced wine were served in all three wings that extended from the central living and dining room that curved around a swimming pool beneath a domed skylight. Nicole had converted one wing to a huge playroom where guests found games of jacks, marbles, hopscotch, dominoes, pinning a beard on a life-size cardboard politician—a new one every month, Matt learned—a Ping-Pong table, ring toss, and a full swing set. "It's the most popular place in the house," Nicole told Matt when she showed him around. "People tend to scoff, then they sneak up here and have the best time they've had in years."

  Everyone had heard of Matt. Word had gotten around that Rourke Enterprises had a new executive and that Nicole—"wouldn't you just know Nicole would be the one to do it?"—was the first to get him to come to a Houston party, so when she introduced him he was met with open curiosity and appraisal. The women approved his looks, the men approved his starting out at the top, and they all offered congratulations and urged him to call them if he needed anything.

  "Which means they'll call you," Nicole laughed. "They like to think

  men like Keegan and those close to him can do anything, get around laws and ordinances, swing votes. ..."

  "I can't," Matt said.

  "But if they want to think it, why stop them?"

  By the time they were in the living room again, and she had left him to greet new arrivals, Matt stood alone, wondering about her guests, and her house. It was one of the most beautiful he had ever seen, furnished with elegant sophistication instead of the hard masculinity of Rourke's office.

  "She's very good," Rourke said at Matt's elbow.

  Matt turned. "I didn't see you come in."

  "You were in the playroom. Superb house, isn't it?"

  Matt nodded. "Where does she get her money?"

  "Real estate."

  "In Houston?"

  Rourke chuckled. "In the course of three generations, her family has bought several blocks near the Place Vendome in Paris, a good part of Gray's Inn Road in London, scattered buildings around Columbus Circle in New York, and in downtown Per
th and Sidney, Australia. And Nicole is a shrewd investor; she manages her money well. The chandelier, by the way, is a Waterford; the stained glass lamps are Tiffany, and the ones with glass shades painted in country scenes are Handel. Good investments."

  Someone called Rourke and he excused himself. Matt contemplated the room, remembering the others in the house. No personality, Elizabeth had said. But that had been the Nicole who decorated Rourke's office. This Nicole had used soft textures and bright colors that glowed beneath a sparkling chandelier and glass lamps. Extremely beautiful. And good investments.

  The evening was chilly—a cold wave, Houstonians called it, since the temperature had dipped below forty—and fires burned in the living room and dining room and the guest rooms and Nicole's bedroom and study in another wing. Guests sat on silk hassocks, velvet couches, and crewel-worked armchairs. Their voices carried through the house. Matt walked through the rooms, stopped by guests who had heard of him and wanted to meet him, to find out what he was doing for Rourke, and what Rourke was involved in these days. He was invited to speak to three business groups, to join a luncheon club, and to appear as a guest on a television talk show. When someone finally praised "Private Affairs," he felt relieved, as if at last he was sharing something with Elizabeth.

  A few minutes later dinner was served at ten round tables, with ten people to a table, and Matt found his place card beside Nicole's. He knew none of the others at the table so he listened to the talk about sports and

  politics, ski resorts and real estate, European fashions and American designers. Nicole watched over it, heading off disputes, introducing a new subject before the current one flagged, now and then leaving her chair to check on the conversations at the other tables. In the foyer between the living and dining rooms, musicians played waltzes and show tunes; waiters glided in and out refilling wine glasses and bread and butter plates.

  Everything was done with a perfection that came from experience and attention to detail. From the pheasant pate with brandied apples to the white chocolate mousse and espresso, each course was presented on a different pattern of china, each wine in a different pattern of crystal. Where does a woman put six hundred place settings of china and glassware? Matt asked himself. Then he noticed round cut-glass can-dleholders, four to each table, with candles flickering deep within them; a round cut-glass vase beside each candleholder, with miniature sprays of balsam and red berries, one beside each candleholder, and gold-handled fruit knives at each place. Behind the fruit knives were the place cards: curls of white bark from aspen trees, with guests' names written in a bold script.