Private Affairs

by Judith Michael

  He told them about it, describing the Indian Christmas dance with colorful phrases and descriptions that reminded everyone of Elizabeth's writing. He was going to be a fine writer, Matt reflected, watching his son, proud of him but suddenly wondering how well he knew him. He had changed in the past weeks; more unpredictable than ever, swinging from moodiness to a strange radiance, but at the same time more withdrawn, secretive, pulling away from them. Matt thought it was probably a girl—

  Maya, whom he'd brought to dinner?—and that in the past few months, while he'd been preoccupied, Peter had left boyhood behind.

  Elizabeth stepped in again as soon as Peter began to slow down. Skillfully leading the conversation so that no one had a chance to criticize Matt, she led Spencer to tell them about his woodworking, and Heather to talk about her job as assistant editor at the Chieftain, and Saul to describe their plans for special coverage of the Bach festival in February.

  "That's new," said Matt.

  "We just decided," Elizabeth said quickly. "I was going to tell you, but there are so many things I haven't told you yet. ..."

  "We're going to sell out at the Ski Basin," Saul announced. "Can't miss. We're calling it Ski Bach-wards."

  "Oh, no," groaned Peter.

  "Fear not; it won't happen. Elizabeth vetoed it."

  "And," Heather added, "she also vetoed We're Hopi-ng you've Bean to the Dance, for the Hopi Bean Dance in February, and There are Deerec-tions to get there ... for the Deer dance at San Ildefonso in January—"

  "Not to mention," Elizabeth added with dancing eyes, "Dawn't Forget the San Ildefonso Procession which, in case anyone doubts it, takes place at—"

  "Dawn!" exclaimed Peter and Holly in unison, and burst out laughing.

  "It seems I've missed some lively debates," said Matt. The laughter faded away.

  "You should be here," Heather said somberly.

  "I think you're right," Matt replied.

  In the awkward silence, Heather said, "I have an announcement."

  Lydia searched her face. "Oh, how wonderful," she said.

  "What?" asked Spencer, then, looking at Saul and Heather, he said, "Oh. Well, that's very good."

  "Let Heather say it!" cried Holly.

  "I guess I don't need to," Heather said. "I mean, it looks like I'm the last to know."

  Saul put his arm around her and kissed her. "You were the first to know I love you and want to marry you. You were the first to know you felt the same way. You were the first to know you'd risk it. What else matters?"

  "Nothing, really. But I did want to surprise everyone."

  "You surprised me," said Matt. "But then I haven't been around to watch love's progress, as people keep reminding me."

  "Can I sing at your wedding?" Holly asked. "When is it?"

  "Tomorrow," said Saul.

  "We haven't decided," said Heather. "But yes we want you to sing. We wouldn't have anyone else."

  "Well, make it before I go to college," Peter said, "so I don't miss it."

  "Good God!" Saul exclaimed. "You're not leaving until next August! Eight months! Is this a Victorian engagement or a modern romance where the hero and heroine get out of bed long enough for the marriage ceremony and get back in as soon as the guests go home?"

  "Saul!" protested Heather.

  "I apologize," Saul said. "But my darling Heather, we're talking about getting married, not getting engaged."

  "I know," she murmured.

  Saul sighed. "One step at a time. As for the big date, we'll let everyone know it as soon as we negotiate it ourselves. Is there a dessert to this fabulous feast? And are we soon to exchange gifts?"

  "Yes and yes," Elizabeth said. "Which do you want first?"

  Matt had been watching her and had seen her gaze at Heather and Saul with a look both wistful and a little curious, as if she were trying to remember how it felt to be in love and planning to get married. Well, it's been a long time, he thought: almost nineteen years. But it isn't really forgotten; we're just under too much pressure. By June, when we're together in Houston, we'll be starting again; it will be exactly the way it was when we bought the Chieftain.

  "Dad?" asked Peter impatiently.

  "Yes," Matt said. "I was thinking."

  "We're having presents first and then dessert. Okay?"

  "Good idea. Let dinner settle."

  Saul pushed back his chair. "About now I could use my New York apartment; I used to jog up and down the stairs after a meal like this. Kept me trim."

  "You can jog up the hill to your apartment at Fort Marcy," said Heather as they went into the living room. "All the way to the top."

  Matt followed them. If I hadn't stood and stretched after that meal I wouldn *t have been able to get up for a month.

  His life in Houston rushed back: noise, speed, highways; automobile exhausts and humidity blurring the skyscrapers; Rourke's home in tapestries, marble, and glass; Nicole's luxurious ranch house where he'd strode the length of a playroom to work off a rich dinner; his quiet office where he made proposals and decisions that affected four states and millions of people. . . .

  The brightest star in Keegan Rourke's galaxy.

  No wonder Santa Fe seemed backward whenever he returned. It was. And for a long time now it had been too small and quiet for him.

  "Do you want to go first, Matt?" Elizabeth asked.

  He shook his head as he sat beside her. "I'd rather watch everyone else."

  It was the first year Matt and Elizabeth had had enough money for a lavish Christmas. They had shopped together on one of his weekends home, in November, and now they watched the others exclaim in delight over gifts they had always wanted: for Lydia an antique rocking chair for the bookshop, for Spencer a set of chisels from England, for Heather a silver and coral bracelet by Richard Chavez, for Saul a Joseph Lonewolf etching he had admired when they were browsing at the Eagle Dancer Gallery, for Holly her own stereo, and for Peter—"Christmas and graduation," said Matt, giving Peter a tiny box. "Because we're very proud of you."

  As Peter turned the box in his hands, Matt and Elizabeth exchanged a smile, knowing he was trying to hide his disappointment, knowing why he felt disappointed, and knowing what was in the box. That shared smile eased the tension from dinner and swept away thoughts of Houston. Matt put his arm around his wife, holding her against him. "He doesn't even guess."

  Elizabeth shook her head, smiling, and they watched Peter open the box, slowly unfold a piece of tissue paper, and then let out a whoop as he took out a pair of car keys on a ring. "You did get me one! You did guess what I wanted—!" He stopped as laughter drowned out his voice. "Well, I did hint a little, I guess. Which one did you get? I mean, where is it? I mean, can I see it today or—?"

  "You might try looking in the driveway," Matt said.

  Peter made a dash for the front door, followed by Holly and then Saul, and the three of them stood in the chill air, gazing at the gleaming Wagoneer four-wheel-drive that would take Peter up any mountain road in any weather, or to any pueblo, or all the way to Stanford in August. He let out a long, ecstatic sigh. "That is a spectacular sight." He started outside, stopped, and came back to put his arms around Matt and Elizabeth. "Thank you, thank you, how can I thank you enough? You're ter= rific; I love you; I can't tell you how much I thank you—"

  "You've told us," said Matt. "Just drive it carefully."

  Elizabeth laughed. "I was afraid I'd be the one to say that. How good of you to beat me to it."

  "Can I try it out?" Peter asked. "No, it's okay, I'll wait until everybody's had presents."

  "And dessert," said Saul. "Then maybe you'll give me a ride."

  "Well, actually ..." Peter said, and hesitated.

  "Actually," said Holly, "Peter thought he'd drive up to Nuevo. Right?"

  "I did think about it"

  "Terrific place for a test drive," Saul observed. "Tell me all about it when you get back."

  "I will. Thanks, Saul. What about your presents?" Peter asked his
parents. "You haven't given each other anything."

  "We're going to do it later," Matt answered. "You'll have to forgive us; we decided to wait till we're alone."

  They waited until everyone had left before exchanging their gifts in their bedroom: a robe of burgundy satin embroidered in ivory for Elizabeth, a robe of midnight blue cashmere for Matt. Elizabeth looked from one robe to the other. "What are the chances of two people choosing the same gifts, do you suppose?"

  "Evidently pretty good, when you've been married long enough."

  "Do you think so?" She took off her terry cloth robe and put on the new one, the satin a cool caress on her skin. "I wonder."

  "Why?" Matt was pulling on his robe. "Do you know that this is the sexiest robe I've ever had?"

  "Because even though we've been married a long time, we're not as close as we were. That's why we're surprised that we chose the same gifts."

  "Well, why don't we try for some closeness now?" Matt asked, reaching for her.

  "We used to talk when something was bothering us," Elizabeth said.

  "Not always. Sometimes we waited for a better time."

  "This seems like a good time to me."

  "It doesn't to me. Let it go, Elizabeth. It's Christmas, we've had a family dinner, everyone had a wonderful time, and we have a whole week ahead of us. Let's really spend some time together; can you take a couple of days off from your writing? We'll do the town like tourists, eat out, unwind . . . and talk."

  "All right," she said after a moment. He reached for her again and when she opened her mouth beneath his kiss they both knew they were trying to lose themselves in their lovemaking. Their bodies moved in remembered ways because they knew each other so well; they knew how to arouse and enjoy and satisfy, and they reached their climax in familiar rhythms that peaked together, and together slowly subsided.

  But it was not all familiar. Instead of the murmurs and talk that usu-

  ally ran through their lovemaking, they were silent, and they were silent as they lay beside each other, resting. Finally, Matt said, "Pm sorry."

  "So am I," said Elizabeth, and they knew it was because the intimacy and passion of that golden time when they worked together on the Chieftain and took a vacation in Aspen, was gone.

  But they put off talking about it, though they spent their time together, as Matt had suggested. The first two days they went to the Chieftain and the Daily News, but both papers were doing well and, though Saul and the managing editor in Albuquerque both made a point of asking Matt's advice about schedules for the next six months, he felt superfluous; after a few hours he couldn't wait to get away.

  So they wandered about their favorite parts of Santa Fe, browsing in art galleries, eating lunch at Josie's and dinner at The Haven on Canyon Road after visiting Lydia in the bookshop a few doors away and being given a tour of Spencer's woodworking shop in the garage. And for the first time in years they spent a morning at the Wheelwright Museum, where Peter had first discovered Indian art.

  The town was quiet. Skiers were there, but compared to the summer hordes the streets seemed almost empty. The most crowded was Cerillos Road where high school students, with school closed for the holiday, cruised up and down in their cars, looking for action. "Why don't they go skiing?" Matt asked. "Preferably in Switzerland."

  "They can't afford it," Elizabeth said, smiling.

  "Have you heard from Tony Rourke lately?"

  Surprised, she said, "What made you think of him?"

  "Switzerland. Didn't he once say he bought a villa there?"

  "Italy, I think. Amalfi. He calls now and then."

  "And stops by?"

  "No. I would have told you if he had."

  Matt nodded and changed the subject before Elizabeth could say she and Tony were just friends and didn't he have any friends in Houston?

  They stopped for a drink at La Fonda, walking through the crowded hotel lobby that was the town's central meeting place to reach the cavernous dimly-lit bar. At a small corner table, with a frosty pitcher of mar-garitas and two salt-rimmed glasses, they talked about all the little events of their lives they never seemed to get to in telephone calls or Matt's visits. "You told me you were going to Roswell to talk to someone named Graham," Elizabeth said. "Did that work out?"

  "Yes," he said.

  She was puzzled. "And?"

  "There wasn't much to it. He needed money—he and his son were in

  pretty deep from gambling—and it was just a question of agreeing on a price."

  "So he didn't drive a hard bargain."

  "No."

  "Keegan must have been pleased."

  "He was. It's a good package: a television and radio station and eight papers. Everything's small-scale, but there's room for growth, especially if there's development in that part of the state."

  She nodded. "Why weren't you pleased, then?"

  "What makes you think I wasn't?"

  "Your voice. It sounds as if something about it bothered you."

  "You're wrong," he said. "Everything went exactly as it was supposed to go. What you're probably hearing is lack of interest: I'm more concerned about negotiations in Phoenix and Tucson. Those are major papers and if we get them I may stop buying for a while and concentrate on running the chain. I've spent so much time on business I've almost forgotten how to be a publisher. Tell me about your column; Keegan's secretary tells me she sends you stacks of mail."

  "She does. It's amazing how it's gone up since I started writing three times a week. And something new: a lot of the writers send photographs of themselves, with their life stories. So I can write about them."

  "And do you?"

  "Sometimes. It's risky. When people put themselves forward like that, they're usually so anxious to make an impression that truth gets mangled along the way."

  "That's very clever," Matt said. "It's not always easy to see. So you still go out and find your own people."

  She nodded. "Private ones, who don't advertise themselves. My favorite kind, for friends as well as for 'Private Affairs.' "

  Matt started to ask why she liked Tony, if that were true, then let it go. "What else do they send you besides photographs?"

  "That's all. But I do get phone calls from people asking for advice. It's very strange; readers seem to think I'm a psychologist or a marriage counselor or an expert on disputes with landlords or office politics . . . I've put together a list of advisers to recommend for every problem imaginable; I don't want to get sued for practicing psychology without a license. The hardest part is convincing people I don't have answers."

  "That's because they trust you. Every word you write tells them you like people, you try to understand them, you don't pass judgement, and you're honest. What more could anyone look for in a counselor?"

  "Thank you," Elizabeth said. "That's a high compliment."

  They were as formal as casual acquaintances, Matt thought. What was it that kept them so far apart?

  "Then there's a new assistant pressman at the Chieftain," Elizabeth said. "Young and eager and a bit of a problem. I'm afraid he thinks I'm a damsel in distress."

  "What kind of distress? Danger?"

  She shook her head. "Deserted." She was pouring from the pitcher and missed the expression on Matt's face as she said it. "Of course he hasn't been around this week, with you home, but he's been coming over at least once a day to see if we need help, which of course infuriates Peter. I'll have to talk to him, but he's so earnest I've put it off; I don't want to hurt him."

  "Better now than later," Matt said briefly.

  "Is it?" Elizabeth asked. "Then why do we put off talking about things important to us? You haven't talked about Keegan all week."

  "What about him?"

  "How you feel about him. Do you like him, Matt? Now that you know him better?"

  "It isn't important whether I like him or not. I like what he offers me."

  "But it's important to me, so I can understand what's happening inside you. Do you
like him?"

  "He's very impressive."

  "That means you admire him."

  "I admire what he's done. He has goals and he achieves them; he knows what he's doing and doesn't let others stop him. He knows what he wants."

  "What does he want?"

  "Among other things, a chain of newspapers across the southwest."

  "Why?"

  "To make money, I assume; I haven't asked him. He also owns oil wells and two ski resorts and a couple of hotels; I haven't asked him why he owns them either. Probably because he likes owning them and it's smart to spread investments around. That doesn't satisfy you?"

  "I don't know. I've never felt simple explanations fit him."

  "You've made that very clear."

  "You want me to keep it to myself, is that it? Or pretend I think he's a dear little man who simply likes to play with his money and be a benefactor to unknown small-town journalists."

  "I want you to see him as a hard-headed businessman who's making it big in a tough world," Matt said evenly. "Unlike my own father, who never got anywhere, or your father, who worked at a dull job only until

  he could retire, and then dumped a shop on his wife so he could disappear into a cozy little hobby and get his excitement from wooden bowls."

  "Matt!" Elizabeth stared at him. Their waitress, coming to see if they wanted refills, changed direction and went to another table; she wasn't one to get caught in somebody's crossfire. "You've never talked like that about Zachary or my father."

  He shrugged slightly. "You make it hard for me. Keegan and I work together and it doesn't help when you talk as if I've sold out to the devil. It's hard enough for me as it is, traveling back and forth between Houston and Santa Fe; sometimes I feel like a stranger here—"

  "You've made that very clear."

  "—and sometimes I feel like a stranger there, but at least when I'm there I can count on sympathetic—" He stopped.

  "Oh," Elizabeth said. "Who is she?"

  "I'm talking about men who work with me and people I meet. They know what I'm doing; they admire it. I need that as much as you need praise for 'Private Affairs.' "

  She nodded. "Matt, the other night I said we're not as close as we were and you said we'd talk about it. Are we going to?"